In truth, Ambrose does not know what she wants. Her conviction is built on despair, her morals on tragedy. Even when she was alive, there was a niggling voice in the back of her mind dragging her down. You’ve done enough. Grinding away at her resolve. No-one will blame you for giving up. It ate, and ate, and ate like a relentless parasite, gnawing away at her sanity. Until the day that she did give out, she only had one thought. What a relief.

Yet, no relief came. Only more of the same. The foundation of belief comes from surety in something. But after everything Ambrose has seen, she has lost surety even in herself. Ambrose kneels in a daze for a long time. Eventually sleep comes, sending her crashing to the ground. A dream comes to her. A buried memory surfacing unbidden.

The stars are snuffed out. Ambrose stood tall, her back straight as she stared at the red-scorched sky. Ash covered the world, drifting endlessly onto the world as it buries it in its corpse.

“Seeker.” A man crouches behind her, his face bent down. “The Chief has asked for you.”

“He’s doing it.” Her words are bitter, empty. Broken.

“We have no choice.” The man answers. “We cannot sustain ourselves forever.” Silence returns his words. Ambrose takes one last look at the sky before turning away. She looks at the path down the mountain, not giving the man a glance as she hefts her spear and steps downward.

The journey to the bottom is short, as Ambrose’s heart grew heavier. She can hear the cries from here. Grief, pain, and resolve. The ground is scorched red, dry and cracked where lush green once stood. As Ambrose follows the trail home, she sees the tents and temporary housing along her path.

They had long been worn down, barely holding protection against the elements. The materials they have are too meager to patch them up. Too meager to protect them. As she passes the tents, a clearing opens up. A large group of people swarm it, surrounding the middle in a circle.

There Ambrose sees them. Aged and tired, they only watch as everyone looks at them. None of them struggle even knowing their fate. Ambrose steps into the clearing, and the crowd parts when they see her. Respect fills their eyes, but it only breaks her heart further.

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Ambrose makes it to the front and sees the Chief standing there. In his hand is a large sword, worn down but still sharp. His eyes seem to mirror the ones he’s watching, aged and tired. His back usually appears wide and encompassing to her, but in this moment it only seems fragile. As if it could break at any moment.

“Father.” Ambrose says bitterly as she kneels down and lowers her head. “There has to be another way.”

“There is none.” He speaks. His wavering eyes still, and determination fills them. He turns around and faces the crowd. “My people.” He calls out, the nervous crowd going quiet. “Staying here is death. But we don’t have the bounty to leave. We must make a sacrifice.”

His eyes stare at each and every one of the people in the crowd. Mothers, fathers, sons and daughters. The few dozen of them face him, hesitating. Unsure.

“It’s okay.” A tired voice escapes from the middle, all eyes turning inward as they look at the old woman at the forefront of the group. She is hunched, kneeling heavily on a broken staff. Her vision blurred as two of the old men from the group support her. “We knew.” The crowd looks at them, grief covering them like a cloud. The group of elders look out at the crowd, some of them smiling as they look at their families.

“We forgive you.” She says kindly as she looks up at the sky. Her eyes make out the streaks of red that cut across the sky, an unending meteorite looming above them. Covering the sun, leaving the world dyed in its colour. “So please, don’t feel guilty.” A sob escapes from the crowd, as tears streak down their faces.

“Mother!” One of the men cries out, his hands bleeding from how tight they are clenched. “Forgive this pathetic son.” As he speaks others in the crowd begin to cry out. Ambrose looks on, guilt breaking her heart. After a while the crowd goes quiet and a solemn atmosphere fills the area.

“Men.” The Chief says to the group by his side. He looks at Ambrose for a brief moment, but doesn’t call her. He turns to the elders and bows his head. “Thank you.” They smile at him, and slowly kneel down.

Ambrose watches them as she too kneels down, opening and then closing her mouth. Her heart is crying out to say something, but she can’t. Her rationale tells her this is necessary. The tribe cannot survive without sacrifice. But it hurts. It hurts. She slams her head against the ground, unwilling to look any further.

The Chief raises his hand, and the group beside him raise their bows. Bone-tipped arrows knocked at their edge. Each arrow points to an artery, the group in suspense as the world goes quiet. And then his hands fall, and they release.

Blood splatters. Screams cry out, and the ground bleeds red. They die quickly, and as Ambrose raises her head she sees them fall lifelessly to the ground. Time seems to still in that moment, her eyes mirroring their own dead, empty gazes.

Her mind cracks, and she lowers her head back to the ground. Every fibre of her being screams at her that what they did was wrong, that it will only bring tragedy. But it is done. She closes her eyes and cries.