The square was built for this.
Stone slabs spread wide and bare beneath the night sky, worn smooth by centuries of knees, blood, and prayer. Ash clung to every groove and crack, ground so deeply into the stone that no rain had ever washed it away. Iron rings were set at measured distances along the perimeter—unused tonight, but not forgotten. They were reminders. Of restraint. Of precedent.
Torches burned in disciplined lines, their flames steady and low, casting light that refused to grow warm. Smoke drifted upward in slow coils, heavy with resin and old incense, stinging the eyes and throat. The air tasted of iron.
Iruen Ashkel stood at the center.
Rope bound his wrists behind his back, rough fibers biting into skin already numbed by cold. His feet were bare against the stone, toes curled slightly for balance, not comfort. The night pressed against his exposed body, sharp and unyielding. He did not shiver. He did not bow his head.
Around him, the crowd formed a wide, careful circle.
Priests in layered ceremonial robes stood closest, faces half-hidden beneath cowls darkened by soot and age. Their hands clutched staffs etched with symbols worn thin by repetition. Behind them waited soldiers, armor dulled to avoid reflection, eyes fixed anywhere but the center of the square. Farther back were the townspeople—called here, compelled to witness the price of survival.
No one spoke.
This was not an execution.
Executions ended.
This was an offering.
Symbols marked Iruen's chest, painted in ash mixed with blood not his own. The lines were precise, intersecting, deliberate. They converged over his heart, forming the outline of a seal not yet complete. It sat there like an open wound that had not decided whether to bleed.
The crowd shifted.
A priest stepped forward, the butt of his staff striking the stone once. The sound echoed too loudly, ricocheting off the walls and returning sharper than before. Several people flinched.
"Begin," the priest said.
The chanting rose slowly.
It was layered, voices overlapping in a rhythm that resisted memory. The language scraped against the ears, harsh and unfamiliar, not meant to be understood. It was meant to be heard. Meant to be carried. Meant to reach something that listened without mercy.
Iruen stared ahead, past the torches, past the watching faces, eyes unfocused but steady. His breathing was controlled—measured in through the nose, out through the mouth. Not calm. Never calm. But restrained.
Fear pressed against him like a tide. Not his own.
He felt it in the way the soldiers stood too stiffly. In the way the priests' chanting faltered at the edges before correcting itself. In the way no one dared blink too long.
This was his defiance.
Stillness.
Refusing to give them the satisfaction of tears. Refusing to beg. Refusing to make the ritual easier for them by breaking early.
The chant deepened.
Time stretched, the words looping again and again, the same phrases returning with slight variations. Minutes passed. Then more. Sweat gathered beneath the priests' robes despite the cold. One wiped his brow with a shaking hand and did not notice the smear of ash left behind.
Someone in the crowd sobbed.
It was quickly muffled.
The sound of it lingered longer than it should have.
A second circle was drawn around Iruen's feet, powdered bone scattered carefully along the stone. The line was thin, imperfect in places, corrected by hurried fingers. No one wanted to be the one who made a mistake.
"This seal will bind," the lead priest intoned, voice strained but steady. "This flesh will endure."
The words fell heavy into the square.
A pause followed—longer than necessary.
"And the world will be spared."
The final sentence was quieter.
It always was.
Iruen swallowed once. His jaw tightened. Still, he did not look down at the markings on his chest. Acknowledging them felt too close to acceptance.
The chanting changed.
Lower now. Slower. The rhythm shifted, dragging, as if each syllable weighed more than the last. The sound crawled along Iruen's spine and settled there, not painful, not yet—just present. Insistent.
The unfinished seal felt warm.
Not burning. Not reacting.
Listening.
Fear rippled outward through the circle. This time, it was unmistakable. A soldier's grip tightened on his spear. Another glanced toward the edge of the square as if calculating the distance to escape.
Someone whispered.
Not part of the chant.
Not part of the ritual.
A voice, thin with dread.
"Kaelith…"
The name struck the stone like a dropped blade.
Another voice followed, barely louder. "Kaelith Vorr."
The chanting faltered for half a breath.
The priests recovered quickly, raising their voices, forcing volume and rhythm back into place. Desperation crept into the sound. As if loudness could substitute for protection.
Iruen's heart thudded once—hard enough to make him aware of it.
Then steadied.
So this was the one.
The Demon Lord they fed humans to.
The markings on his chest darkened slightly, lines sharpening, no longer just pigment but intention. The ritual crossed its first true threshold. There would be no stopping it now.
The torches flickered.
Not violently. Not dramatically.
As if something unseen had passed between them.
The pressure in the square deepened. Breathing became effort. Sound felt distant, stretched thin, as though the world itself were being pulled taut. A low hum settled beneath everything, too deep to be sound, too constant to ignore.
The priests dropped to one knee.
Not in unison.
Not by command.
By instinct.
Silence spread outward from the center of the square.
The chanting died mid-syllable, cut cleanly, as if the air had decided it was finished listening. No echo followed. No lingering sound.
Iruen stood alone in the quiet.
The seal at his chest remained unfinished. Dormant. Waiting.
The name lingered, heavy and dangerous.
Kaelith Vorr.
Something shifted beyond sight.
Not arrival.
Not form.
Just acknowledgment.
The ritual circle shuddered once, stone grinding softly beneath invisible weight. Dust lifted and settled again. No wind followed.
The priests did not rise.
Iruen did not move.
The final mark of the ritual burned itself into place—not with pain, not yet—but with certainty. The offering had been accepted.
And somewhere, far deeper than sound, far darker than shadow—
something answered.