"Please, Sister Millarca, I can't pray today," a skinny, pale boy pleaded, tugging at the robes of an older woman.
She was tall and stern, red hair like fire, with a countenance that made arguing impossible.
"There are no excuses to be given to God," she said.
"But Sister Millarca!" the boy protested. "My knees are sore from kneeling. Here—feel my fever." He pressed her hand to his forehead. "See? It's burning—"
"Enough," Sister Millarca snapped, pulling her hand back. "You will be present in today's prayers. No arguments."
The boy grumbled, trudging away, but she caught his shoulder.
"Forget not, Malachai," she said sharply, "why you are here. Your mother died giving birth to you. She wanted you to praise God and live in this temple. You should honor her wishes."
Malachai lowered his head. "Yes… yes, you have told me."
"Say it louder."
He straightened, trembling but resolute. "Yes, Sister Millarca! You have told me. I will diligently participate in all prayers and gatherings!"
Sister Millarca sighed. "Off you go, then."
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Days at the temple were grueling, made harsher under Sister Millarca's watchful eyes.
She ensured every follower took part in prayers, praising the Blood God with every ounce of heart and soul.
The Temple of the Blood God housed over 2,000 people. Their faith was hated, scorned, feared. Hidden in the grasslands, they waited for the day their God would descend.
"The stories of the Blood God endure, even after a thousand years," Sister Millarca said, standing tall on the dais, robes flowing like molten fire. "The scriptures say the Blood God will come. When that day arrives, we must praise Him with our hearts and souls. If He demands our lives, we shall give them."
All the people rose, chanting in unison:
"HAIL THE BLOOD GOD! HAIL THE BLOOD GOD!"
Malachai weaved through the crowd, eyes fixed on Sister Millarca. Reverence filled him—but doubt flickered in the back of his mind.
Our God doesn't seem to listen… so why do we pray with such faith?
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Later, walking across the grasslands, he finally asked.
"Sister Millarca… may I ask something?"
She stopped. "What is it?"
"Why do we pray so devoutly? The Blood God doesn't answer."
A faint smile touched her lips. "Why do you think the Blood God doesn't appear to us?"
Malachai hesitated. "I… I don't know."
She gazed at the drifting clouds. "The followers of the Blood God pray with such devotion. They would give their lives if He asked. Perhaps… that is why He stays away."
Malachai frowned. "That makes no sense."
"It doesn't need to," she said. "I believe we shouldn't die for the Blood God."
Malachai froze. "We shouldn't?"
She looked away, as if hiding something. "Imagine descending from the heavens as a God, only to see your followers die before you. How unsightly. To die before the Blood God is… unsightly. To die before others… all those deaths I've seen… horrific. I would rather forget them. I would rather live and die quietly, unseen."
Malachai's heart thudded. He had never heard her speak like this outside sermons.
"And how would you like to die, Sister Millarca?" he asked softly.
A grim smile curved her lips. "Away from prying eyes. That way, I am at peace. And so is the world."
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Malachai couldn't sleep for nights.
It is unsightly to die before the Blood God…
The words haunted him.
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And then the day came. Sister Millarca had to die.
It was the curse of every Head Priest of the Blood God—they died young, struck by a disease of the blood.
Malachai watched her fade: strength draining, color pale, until she could no longer give sermons. He held her hand at her bedside.
"I do not want to die," she whispered. "I do not want to die so early."
Malachai fought back tears. "Then why did you pray so much?"
She smiled faintly. "Our Mother wanted me to. I hope she is happy."
Malachai froze. "Our… Mother?"
She nodded. "She gave birth to me first, then you. She was a true believer."
Tears streamed down Malachai's face. "I… I don't want to lose you. Please… don't go—"
Sister Millarca shushed him gently. "Hush, child. We all go someday. Just promise me… when you meet our God, tell Him to remove the curse. Love us all, as He wishes."
Her hand went limp in his. The truest believer of the Blood God was gone.
Malachai closed his eyes as she exhaled her last, as was her deepest wish.
But I'm not at peace, he thought. You may be… but what about me?
In that quiet grief, he chose to take her place.