CHAPTER I: VIRGIN SACRIFICE

He remembered the Virgin before him… her eyes were green.

He never fully understood what it meant to be a Virgin. He only knew it was something sacred, something important. He had no name, not even the title "Virgin" to call his own. He was simply known as the Boy… as tradition dictated.

I: NIGHTMARE

The Boy awakens to the smell of burning ashes in the morning air. Small particles of soot creep into his nose even before his eyes open. Sunlight glints off his mother's burned remains. Her bones are twisted and blackened, lying over the floor like kindling that was thrown away.

He bolts upright, chest pounding, breath ragged. His blue eyes dart across the wreckage of his home. Scorched walls sag in defeat; the floor is soot and ruin, remnants of a house reduced to mere cinder. His heart thuds, a drumbeat in his chest———

Selene. Where is she?

“Selene!” he calls out, desperation seizing his throat.

His footsteps echo through the desolate abode, his panic growing with each breath. He dashes to Selene’s room, throwing the door open with shaking hands.

“Please, answer me!” His voice cracks. 

The room is empty… nothing but cold, black wood, and silence. Panicked, he sprints to the front door. He pushes it open with all his strength.

The sky above is a swirling mass of thick, black smoke. It darkens the once-bright village. The inferno rages with wild, untamed fury. Flames in orange and red dance, consuming everything they touch.

Bones and debris litter the streets. Buildings collapse with thunderous crashes. Stone and wood splinter all around. The ground shakes with each fall. The smell of burning wood chokes the air. A sharp, rancid odor of charred flesh hangs heavy. Each breath is a struggle against the stench.

The smoke fills his eyes and throat. He struggles to breathe. The fires scorch the soles of his feet. The buildings are too hot to touch. Flames lick the walls. Radiant heat ripples through the air with primal ferocity. The Boy steps back, feeling the burn through his delicate skin. Buildings break down as fiery haze swallows their foundations.

“Selene!” the Boy yells desperately, his voice lost to the flames.

His heart drops as he scans the destruction. Through the smoke and flames, a dark figure looms… its red eyes locked onto him. Time freezes. The figure vanishes.

II: A GENTLE MORNING

⁤Soft morning light spills through the velvet curtains, meekly swaying in the breeze. ⁤⁤The Boy opens his blue eyes. ⁤⁤He awakens… for real this time. ⁤⁤He squints against the feeble glow. ⁤⁤His gaze wanders the room, his breath shallow and uneven. ⁤⁤His fingers tighten around the white blanket. ⁤⁤His chest rises with a faint, suppressed tremor. 

The air hums clear… still.

The terracotta walls paint soothing shades of pale blanched almond. Wooden shelves hold cherished trinkets on the left side. Porcelain dolls perch on stacked leather books. The old brass clock ticks relentlessly. Time’s hands stuck at midnight. Tick, tick, tick———forever frozen.

Antique mirror, brass frame carved with secrets. Reflective glass shimmering patterns across the floor. A pink armchair in the corner beckons with its deep, comfortable cushions. An oak dresser stands sturdy and smooth. A slender china vase holding a fresh bouquet of white lilies sits on the bare hardwood top. Some of the lily petals, crisp and delicate, slowly drift down the furniture.

The mellow padding of footsteps draws closer——a bronze spoon clinks against a ceramic plate. The old hinges creek as the door swings open. The swish of soft cloth accompanies the lavender fragrance sweeping into the room. His mother steps inside. The aroma of breakfast follows her, rich and delightful.

She balances a tray steady in her hands, ceramic plates and metal cups on top, wobbling as she moves.  Her lips make a loving little smile.  The sunshine catches her and makes the room brighter.

The weight of his nightmare fades. He breathes in the familiar smells of fresh milk and warm, syrup-drizzled toast.

The Boy's eyes open wide. He sits up straighter in bed, looking for his breakfast. His mother sets the tray on the bedside table. His pale hands reach out to take a piece of toast, his fingertips grazing the ridges of crunch on the edge. He takes a big, sloppy bite. Syrup, sweet and thickened with honey, oozes down his lips. He smiles as the taste spreads across his tongue.

He raises the silver cup to his lips. The metal feels cold, almost too cold, against his fingertips. He tips his head back and the milk slides over his tongue. He pauses, savoring the creamy flavor. The cool liquid eases down his throat and into his belly. A small sigh escapes him as he swallows. 

His mind drifts to Sophia… the girl with the coquettish smile and eyes like fresh spring leaves. The memory stirs a pang of longing; the laughter and pleasant memories of play now silent since her final days as the Virgin——

A crackling flame cuts through the comfort. Soot mingled with the stench of burning flesh. A dark figure looms, and the Boy’s breath catches in his throat. His heart pounds, the sound of every beat echoing in his ears. A charred skeleton replaces his mother. Its bones, blackened and twisting, barely cling to the shape of something human.

“Son? What’s wrong?” A voice cuts through the nightmare, laced with worry.

The vision is gone. The flames were never there, and the bones were never real. Was it all a trick of the mind?

Emily, his mother, stands before him… kind and alluring.

Her loving auburn gaze meets the Boy’s ocean blue eyes, making him feel safe… as if everything will be okay. Her delicately arched cheeks are as beautiful as sun-dappled leaves——— or a serene sunset over the ocean. Her chestnut hair falls in supple waves around her face, compassionate and welcoming. 

“I had a nightmare, Mother,” the Boy murmurs, placing the cup back on the tray.

Emily brushes her fair, tender hands through his blonde hair. She feels her fingers run over each silky strand.

“Don’t worry, Sweetheart,” she says with a bright, sure smile. “Nightmares aren’t real. Just say a prayer, and you’ll be fine.”

Selene tiptoes from the hallway. Her white robes rustle with each muffled step. She pauses, her fingers brushing the doorframe as she leans casually, her gaze steady and calm. Her garments flow to the floor.

“I’ve got the bath ready, Mother,” Selene says with a charming smile.

“Why don’t you go join your sister?” Emily suggests lovingly. “It’s time to start your day.”

III: A SECRET NAME

The Boy wipes his mouth clean with the white sleeve of his nightgown, and in doing so misses a spot, leaving behind a smear of yellow honey. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, the springs groaning under him. He yawns, arching his back and raising his arms. He pats his tummy and lets out a burp.

Selene smiles at the Boy and exits the room. Her white robes catch the light. The fabric brushes the floor as they trail behind her.

He walks behind her down the hallway, catching whiffs of aloe vera in the air. Their footsteps mutely resonate against the polished ebony floor. Sunshine streams through the open windows. It throws serrated patterns of gold and shadow that dance with every step. Vivid tapestries drape the walls, woven in rich threads of cobalt and scarlet. They portray mythical creatures and legends from long ago.

Selene leads him through a marble arch which opens into an expansive, airy chamber bathed in a natural, aqua glow. The room fills with a peaceful hush, broken only by the mild splashing of water.

The Boy’s eyes fill with a familiar wonder as he enters the room. Elegant columns and blooming flowers frame a large shimmering pool. Steam curls up from the water with a bewitching blend of fresh herbs and citrus. Plush lounges and soft cushions arrange the space. It invites him to sink into its serene, restful atmosphere.

“Here we are,” Selene gestures to the water with eagerly bright eyes. 

Slowly, the Boy moves closer to the basin. Steam swirls upwards around him. He unties the sash holding his white robe together. The fabric slips from his shoulders, revealing a network of intricate, abstract tattoos etched on his back. 

Jagged crimson lines snake across his spine, spreading out to his shoulder blades like earthen cracks or lightning strikes frozen in time. The sharp and crude tattoos seem less like an intentional design and more like the aftermath of a violent, mystical storm… alive and permanent.

The boy feels the heat seep into his muscles as he sinks into the water. The tattoo on his skin pulses with a life of its own. He leans back on the edge of the basin, relaxing. Selene elegantly kneels behind him, placing a basket of glass bottles and greenery. She uncorks a shiny golden bottle of oil and pours some into her hand.

“Now, don’t squirm,” she teases, her tender voice murmuring.

Selene presses her fingertips gently into the Boy’s scalp. Her touch spreads the fragrant oil over his hair. A hint of sandalwood surrounds them like a misty cloak. A playful tug makes The Boy flinch.

“Hey! You’re pulling my hair!” He exclaims.

Selene's friendly laugh softens the room.  The air seems lighter when she giggles. Selene reaches for some leafy green plants, squeezing them over the Boy's head. Their raw, earthy smell bursts out as she presses them, dripping onto his hair like summer rain.

“Hold still, will you?” she chides playfully. “If you keep wriggling around, the high priest will think you're a mess and it'll be my fault!”

The Boy groans, tipping his head back as she massages oil into his scalp. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one getting your head yanked around!”

Selene smirks, flicking droplets of water at him. The boy flinches, blinking as the cold water splashes his face. His attempt to stay serious crumbles———first a twitch of his lips, then a chuckle, and finally a wide grin he can't hold back.

“Oh please,” she says. “If I don't do it right, your hair is going to stick up in all sorts of directions. You want the High Priest to think you've been dragged through the woods?”

The Boy’s shoulders slump in defeat and sighs, “So what? They only care about the rituals.”

“Please,” Selene chuckled, rolling her eyes. “You’re supposed to look dignified, not like a savage.”

“I thought I was supposed to look holy.” The Boy stifles a snicker.

“Same thing,” she jests, smoothing his hair. “Dignified, holy, not a mess. You’ll thank me later.”

He pouts for a moment, his playful tone fades just a little as he mutters between gritted teeth, “I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s not like they ever call me anything.”

Selene rests her hands on his scalp. “What do you mean?”

An aching sorrow clouds the Boy’s narrowing eyes. “They don’t even call me by a name. Just ‘the Boy’ or ‘the Virgin’. Like I’m not even a person.”

Virgin. He hated that word.

Selene’s eyes twinkle with a secret. “That’s not true.”

The Boy looks at her, baffled. "What are you talking about?”

She placed her hands firmly on his shoulders and said, “Mother didn’t name you, but I did.”

His eyes widened with curiosity. "You... you did?"

Selene gently nods. “I’ve called you by it in my heart for years.”

“What is it?” The Boy asks, frowning over his brow.

Selene leans into him, her breath warm against his ear. She whispers… her words lost to the rushing water.

“Wait… really?” The Boy’s mouth hangs agape. 

His heart stutters as something swells inside him. His chest feels like it might burst if he doesn’t smile.

“Yeah,” Selene replies, her tone whimsical and reassuring. "I thought it was a pretty nice name."

…

“After all these years,” he asks, “why are you telling me this now?”

Selene’s hands falter, pausing mid-air. Her eyes lose their usual sparkle, becoming cold. She bites her lip, her gaze subdued, and a slow sigh escapes her. 

Her smile fades into a brief, thoughtful frown. She blinks, shaking her head as if to clear away the memory, then forces her lips to return into a cordial grin.

“It doesn't feel right,” she says, steadying her voice. She reaches for the soap. “A boy should not live without a name.”

Selene takes a deep breath and simpers slightly. “Come on, we need to finish up. The high priest won't be happy if you're late.”

Selene resumes her task. Her movements regain their fluid grace. A caring focus, replacing the sadness in her eyes, lasts a moment.

IV: PRAYERS OF STONE AND SILENCE

He’s been doing this for several years, ever since he learned to speak. Yet, as he approaches his eleventh year, he still forgets his verses.

The Boy tugs the sash around his waist, almost pulling too hard. His shoulders slump under the weight of his snug tunic. He looks around the room. Then, his eyes linger on the dim candle flickering on the table next to him. It was quiet. Too quiet. Each time he dresses for the ritual, the room feels colder, the robes heavier, and the silence thicker… like he is doing something he does not understand.

Someone is knocking at the back door. The Boy’s chest tightens slightly. He knows who’s waiting. It’s always the monks.

The door creaks open. The musty scent of old books pervades the room. Three figures stand in the shadows. Their faces were hidden beneath the hoods of their robes. Their attire is detailed and ornate but in shades of deep slate and earthy browns. 

Without a word, they motion for him to follow.

As the Boy exits the back door, cold air brushes against his freshly washed skin. He shudders, pulling his robes tighter around him. The village lies quiet beyond the walls, but he won’t be seeing any of it today. Just like every day, they always take him through the hidden passage.

He glances back over the concrete walls, knowing that the village is behind them. A yearning flickers in his eyes as he hears the muffled sounds of laughter and chatter. 

He is kept apart, paraded out only for the grand festivals and ceremonies. People don’t see him as one of them. They don’t even see him at all, except when it is time to be shown off like a living relic.

His thoughts drift back to the last festival.

---

He remembers the faces, the way the villagers would look at him——eyes wide, filled with awe, fear, and something else he can’t quite place. They’d cheer or chant as they parade him through the streets on the back of Colossus, a huge elephant. 

But when the festivals end, when the streets empty once more, he disappears back into the shadows of the temple, unseen until the next ceremony. No one ever speaks to him directly, not unless they are priests or monks… or his family. No one ever looks at him as a person, just as a vessel, a symbol.

---

A chill wind snaps the Boy back to the present.

The monks silently lead him toward the entrance of an underground pathway. It is an unassuming wooden door hidden behind the storeroom, one he has walked through many times. The monks open the door and the faint scent of damp granite hits him. They descend the petrified stairway into darkness. The Boy shivers slightly, feeling the air crawling on his spine.

Shadows dance and flicker in the torchlight, yellow flames swaying with every gust of wind. They walk through a vast and seemingly endless tunnel. The Boy runs his finger along the walls of rough grey tiles and green moss-covered brick. His footsteps echo against the timeworn masonry as it mingles with the distant drip of water. The Boy kicks up dust, the smell of old bones and molten grime causes him to sneeze.

At long last, they finally reach a heavy double door. The polished brass gleams in the feeble light and iron glyphs curl intricately across ceramic patterns. The Boy can almost see his distorted reflection.

The monks come to a halt. Taking a deep breath, one of them extends his arm and pushes the great doors open.

The Boy follows and steps inside the sacred space.

The aged scent of incense pours forth as the walls themselves breathe the prayers of centuries past. His eyes draw upwards to a ceiling that rises like the Vault of Heaven. Arch after arch soars with the ambition of eternity, majestic pillars of stone that defy the very earth they stand on, towering and graceful, daring gravity to challenge the divine. In their presence, he is small.

Giant statues convey the silent hymns of an ancient story. A marble deity stands tall and proud above the sculptures… imposing and perpetual. The primordial waters below swirl in his presence. Droplets suspended in time crystallize into massive continents across the fathomless ocean. In another tableau, the god’s hand, immense and mighty, plunges into the churning waves, molding them into form. From his grasp, life springs forth… a creation of oceans teeming with creatures, the sea itself breathing with his touch, alive and eternal. 

From a bird’s eye view, the Boy and the monks look like ants when compared to the massive halls. There’s a dome above painted in deep blues and silvers, with celestial constellations so vivid it’s like they captured a slice of the night sky itself and pinned it to the curved interior. Under the shimmering heavens, the High Priest stands in the center. Her vestments are a strong shade of deep purple, richly embroidered in gold, glinting in the candle flames.

“Welcome… Virgin,” The High Priest’s voice echoes off the enormous walls as she turns to greet the Boy.

The title “Virgin” is too holy to be spoken by anyone who isn’t the High Priest. Therefore, tradition forbids the commoners and even the Virgin himself from saying such a sacred word.

“Don’t call me that,” A silent protest forms in the Boy’s mind.

"Are you prepared for your daily prayers?" The High Priest's tone is sharp and commanding… as if the question is merely a formality, not expecting a response.

The Boy forces himself to meet the High Priest’s gaze, his back straightening instinctively. His hands clenched into tight little fists.

The weight of the title ——Virgin——. It bites him like the cold air.

But still, he replied. “Yes, Master,” he said, his voice steady but hollow.

The High Priest gave a brief nod, her thin lips curling into something that resembled satisfaction.

"Good," she says, glancing toward the monks. "Bring the books. And the prayer beads!"

The monks move silently. One lays a mat on the floor, the fabric soft and worn. Another sets out thick books, the pages yellowed with age. They place a string of prayer beads over the Boy's neck. It feels like the frost of a winter grave.

 The Boy kneels, his knees pressing into the mat. The smoke of incense swirls around him. The monks arrange themselves in a circle, holding sacred texts of their own. Their voices are low, whispering cryptic words.

These senseless prayers drown him. Their voices creep like centipedes, gnawing into the spiral inside his ears. He shuts his eyes and his memories pull him back… back to Sophia.

V: MEMORIES OF SOPHIA

"Do you miss me?" Her silky soft voice sounds like velvet and he can smell her familiar scent of cinnamon mint, her beautiful emerald eyes looking right through him, as though the answer on the tip of his lips has already been said.

“Oh boy! Do I?” he replies, his heart raising with glee.

The Boy is small again, barely reaching Sophia’s waist. She’s laughing, her voice like music, and there’s that playful twinkle in her eyes.

He can smell the earth beneath his feet and feel the sun’s warmth on his skin. In his mind, the temple walls fade away.

“Emily!” Sophia calls out, her voice bright and cheerful, cutting through the stillness of the late morning.

The door of a modest house creaks open. Emily steps outside and wipes her hands on a worn apron. Her cheeks are red from working near the hearth. Loose strands of hair fall from the bun on her head. She raises a hand to block the sun and squints at the yard. A playful smile lights up her face when she sees Sophia and the Boy.

“Looks like my little troublemaker’s found you again,” Emily says, shaking her head with mock exasperation. 

She leans against the doorframe for a moment, then steps down onto the dusty path, her bare feet kicking up tiny clouds of dirt.

“Oh no, quite the opposite!” Sophia replies, laughing as she shifts the Boy on her back. Her voice has that effortless charm that makes everyone around her feel lighter. “I offered him a piggyback ride! We’re off to the market; I’ll bring back something sweet, promise!”

The Boy clings to Sophia’s shoulders, his small hands gripping tight as if he’s afraid to let go of this moment. His face lights up with unfiltered joy, the kind that makes him forget everything else. He looks at Emily and waves excitedly, his legs kicking against Sophia’s sides.

Emily puts her hands on her hips, a playful glint in her eyes as she looks them over. 

“Just don’t let him talk you into buying every shiny thing in the market,” she says, tilting her head toward the Boy. “And for the love of everything decent, keep the bottles away from the milk pails this time. The smell—” She scrunches her nose, pretending to gag.

Sophia throws her head back in mock indignation, her laughter ringing out. 

“That was one time!” she protests, shifting the Boy so he doesn’t slide off.

“Uh-huh.” Emily crosses her arms, but her grin softens as she watches the two. 

There’s a glimmer of something deeper in her eyes———relief, maybe, or quiet pride. 

“You’d better bring me back a treat too,” she says, her voice teasing but affectionate.

Sophia winks. “Wouldn’t dream of forgetting you.” 

She adjusts the Boy again and turns, her steps light as they head toward the village center.

Emily stays by the doorway, watching them disappear down the path. She leans against the frame, her expression softening into something tender. For all her teasing, there’s no denying the warmth in her heart as she watches her son’s laughter fade into the distance.

Sophia walks into the market square with a light gait. Her sandals kick up small puffs of dirt at each step. The morning sun filters through scattered clouds and dapples the cobblestones in soft light. The tattoo on her back glows faintly and shifts with her movements. The Boy clings to her back. He giggles as they move through merchants hawking their deals. The market hums with voices and energy all around them.

The market buzzes with noise and movement. Shoppers crowd around stalls. Their voices are loud and eager as they haggle over vegetables. A child clutching a toy runs past. The warm and comforting smell of fresh bread drifts through the air. Bright oranges and red apples pile high on wooden carts. A vendor spots Sophia. He waves, his voice booming as he calls out to her with excitement.

“Sophia! Over here!”

She walks over to his stall with an easy smile. Her steps are steady and calm. The vendor stands tall with a thick beard and a wide grin. He holds up a basket filled with fresh fruit.

“Look at these beauties! Just picked this morning,” he says, thrusting the basket toward her. “For you, a discount———no, no, for you, half price!”

Sophia laughs, shaking her head. “That’s kind of you, but I’ll pay full price, Gregor. You have a family to feed too.”

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Gregor waves her off, his grin widening. “You’re too generous, Sophia. It’s the least I can do for someone like you.” His eyes flicker briefly to her glowing tattoo, a mix of respect and awe in his expression.

The Boy leans forward, his small finger pointing eagerly at a pile of shiny red apples. “Sophia! Look at those apples! Can I have one? Please?”

Sophia tilts her head, pretending to think it over. “Hmm… one apple, you say?”

“Yes! The red one! No, wait, that one!” He wiggles with excitement as he points to another.

She laughs and picks the brightest apple from the pile, handing Gregor a coin. “We’ll take this one. And an assortment of fruits too—whatever’s freshest.”

Gregor quickly gathers an array of colorful produce, wrapping them in a cloth bundle. As he hands it over, he winks at the Boy. “Enjoy that apple, little girl.”

The Boy takes a big bite, juice dribbling down his chin as he grins at Gregor. “It’s so good! Thank you! But I’m not a girl!”

Sophia ruffles the Boy’s hair, balancing the fruit bundle under her arm. 

“You’ve made his day,” she says to Gregor, then waves goodbye.

As they leave the bustling square, Sophia glances over her shoulder at the Boy. “Feel like taking a break somewhere quiet?”

He nods, his mouth full of apple. “Mhm!”

Sophia leads them past the edge of the village, where the cobblestones give way to soft grass. They walk through meadows dotted with wildflowers, the Boy humming a tune between bites of his apple. Ahead, a hill rises, crowned with a single tree swaying gently in the breeze.

They climb the hill, the Boy hopping off Sophia’s back to race ahead. He flops onto the soft grass under the tree, laughing as he rolls down a few feet before scrambling back up.

Sophia sits beside him, setting the fruit bundle down. She stretches her legs out and leans back on her hands, her gaze sweeping across the landscape. The hill overlooks a patchwork of green pastures stretching into the distance, but just beyond, the lush land gives way to a barren wasteland———a stark, lifeless expanse of cracked earth and twisted, blackened shrubs.

Sophia rests her chin on her knees, her voice thoughtful. “I’ve always wondered what’s out there. Past the wasteland.”

The Boy tilts his head, staring at the desolate stretch. 

“Probably more wasteland,” he says with a shrug, crunching the last bite of his apple.

She chuckles softly. “You think so? Nothing else? No hidden villages, no magical forests?”

He squints at the horizon, then shakes his head. “Nope. Just dirt. And maybe some weird bugs.”

Sophia laughs, ruffling his hair again. “Maybe you’re right. Weird bugs sound about right.”

They sit quietly for a while, the breeze rustling the leaves above them. The Boy lies back, staring at the sky, while Sophia watches the wasteland with a mix of curiosity and unease.

A bullfrog hops by Sophia. It stops to rest right by her side. She gently pats its smooth, green back.

The Boy wrinkles his nose. “Ew, gross.”

Sophia looks at him and smiles. “It’s fine. It’s just Freddy.”

“Freddy?” The Boy scrunches his face.

“Yeah, Freddy’s a friend I made. He comes by every day.”

The frog croaks, as if in agreement, before hopping away.

Soon, birds land nearby. A squirrel skitters across the grass. One by one, small animals gather around Sophia.

She points to them. “That’s Millie, the sparrow. The squirrel is Benny. And over there, that’s Leo the rabbit.”

The Boy watches, amazed. “You sure have a lot of friends.”

Sophia chuckles. “I’ve been coming here since I was young. I love feeding them. They know me.”

The Boy looks at the animals again. “I wish I had that many friends.”

Sophia pats his shoulder. “You’ve got me, don’t you?”

He grins, his eyes sparkling. “Yeah, I do.”

Sophia stands up, brushing the grass off her dress. She turns to the Boy, a mischievous smile on her face.

“Tag, you’re it!” she says, darting off across the field.  

The Boy jumps to his feet, laughing. He chases after her.

She moves gracefully. Her white dress flutters behind her like a cloud. Her wavy silver hair bounces with every step. 

“Wait up!” he calls.  

But she’s already ahead, her bare feet kicking up grass. He pushes himself harder, feeling the wind against his face.  

Sophia glances back, her eyes sparkling. “Come on! You can do better than that!”  

The Boy speeds up, closing the gap. He stretches his hand, fingertips brushing her shoulder but———she spins away, laughing. Her cinnamon scent lingers in the air, even in the heat of the day.  

They run until their breath is short and their legs feel heavy. Finally, they stop, panting and grinning.

“Okay, okay, you got me,” she says, holding up her hands in defeat.  

The Boy slumps beside her, still catching his breath. “I knew I could catch you.”  

“You win this time.” Sophia chuckles.

They both sit on the grass for a moment, listening to the soft rustling of the wind and the quiet hum of nature.

Sophia turns to him, her hair messy but her smile never fading. “Ready to head home?”

The Boy nods, getting up slowly. “She’ll be happy with all this.”  

Sophia smiles as she starts walking away. “She will. And she’ll be glad we didn’t bring back any frogs this time.”  

The Boy laughs. “Yeah, she wouldn’t like that.”  

They head back to the hill to pick up the fruit bundle and start walking back toward Emily’s house. Their steps are slow and easy, the day’s play leaving them content. The sun sets in the distance, painting the sky in warm oranges and pinks.

“Virgin… are you listening? Virgin…”

VI: MEMORIES OF SACRIFICE

“Virgin… are you listening? Virgin…” the voice of the High Priest echoes.

The Boy snaps back to reality. His eyes flicker, unfocused like he’s just woken up from a long sleep. The High Priest stands in front of him, her face serious, all business. She doesn’t say anything at first, just watches him with that unreadable gaze. The silence stretches between them.

"Your body is here," the High Priest says quietly, "but your mind is elsewhere."

The Boy blinks, shaking his head. He can still see Sophia, her laughter, her white dress. “I’ve been thinking about Sophia. Why... why did we have to sacrifice her?”

The High Priest sighs, her eyes narrowing. “It was her highest privilege. Her sacrifice was for the community. It brought good harvests and calm weather. And it kept Him happy.”

The Boy’s brow furrows. “Kept Him happy?”

The High Priest’s gaze hardens. “Yes. It kept Him content, and in turn, He ensures our survival.”

The Boy shakes his head again. “But I don’t understand. She was just... she was just a girl. Why her?”

The High Priest's eyes soften, though his tone stays firm. “Sophia, the Girl, the Virgin before you, gave everything for the greater good. She brought peace to the land. It’s how things have always been. You’ll understand in time.”

The Boy bites his lip, frustration building. “It doesn’t make sense. Why does it always have to be someone else?”

The High Priest doesn't respond right away. She just watches the Boy, waiting for him to calm down.

The Boy stands, pacing the room. “I don’t think I can ever understand.”

The High Priest stands, her voice steady. “It’s alright, Virgin. There’s a time for everything. Now pack your things. Tomorrow is a big day.”

The Boy blinks, his eyes wide. “Wait, tomorrow? It’s already tomorrow?”

The High Priest nods slowly. “Yes, you have plenty of time to rest. Now, go. Escort the Virgin to his home, then return to make preparations.”

She waves her hand, and the monks instantly get to work, taking books and prayer beads away and storing them. The Boy stands there, unmoving, for a moment. His mind works a mile a minute trying to understand what is happening. He blinks several times, unsure if he should speak or just stay quiet.

“Alright,” he mutters, still feeling the weight of the words hanging in the air.

The monks glance at him, and one of them steps forward. “This way, Virgin.”

The Boy sighs, shoulders slumping, but he nods and follows them.

The Boy lies in bed, staring at the window. He can see the village below, quiet and still under the moonlight. His mind drifts back. He remembers that day.

Sophia.

She looked beautiful, her dress bright white with prayer beads and red silk flowing around her. The people gathered in the temple, watching her walk to the altar.

A shadow appears. It stands tall, dark, and fluctuating. Its eyes glow white, but for some reason, the Boy knows they’re fake. No one else can tell. He can feel it.

Sophia reaches out her hand. The shadow takes it.

And just like that, she’s gone.

The village is silent later that night. Not a single voice in the street, no laughter spilling out from the houses, not even the usual rustle of the trees. The houses look empty like they’ve been hollowed out. There’s a faint glow from inside, but the light does nothing to fight off the cold creeping in. Even the wind seems to have paused, as if afraid to disturb the deathly stillness.

Not a dog barks, not a cat meows. No birds are singing, and the usual buzz of insects is missing. The cattle, usually noisy and all over the place, have gone quiet. They've slipped into the shadows, hiding out in the stillness, like they can feel something’s off too. The earth is too still… waiting for something———something that’s bound to shatter this silence. It’s a kind of waiting, but for what, no one knows.

Every door is locked up tight, shutters closed like everyone inside is waiting for something to break the hush. Then, they hear it. A lone figure walking down the street. No one dares to look.

The Boy was fast asleep at this time.

A nightmare creeps in. 

A figure with crimson eyes. They burn, sharp, and full of rage. The Boy cries out, feeling his chest tighten. Pain rips through him, and he screams.

He wakes up, gasping, his body covered in sweat. He screams out in pain.

Emily bursts into the room, followed by Selene. They freeze when they see him.

The Boy is huddled in the corner, knees pulled to his chest. His back faces Emily, but she sees it. The tattoo, faint at first, starts to glow. Jagged, crimson lightning flickers across his skin, pulsing like it’s alive. She freezes, watching it flicker in the dim light.

The walls are covered with words… 

“He must not be named.”

Selene steps forward first. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispers, kneeling beside her brother and wrapping her arms around him.

The Boy can’t stop shaking. He doesn’t answer. He just holds on tighter to his knees, his tears falling into the dark.

The next morning, the light barely spills over the horizon as the Boy is led to the High Priest. His head feels heavy, his body stiff, like he's still trapped in the fog of last night’s nightmare. The High Priest looks at him with her unreadable eyes, her voice calm, almost detached.

“He has chosen,” she says as if that explains everything.

The monks, silent and quick, move around him. They begin explaining his new life, and his new role. They talk about following His instructions. They say he must forget his name.

“Forget your name, as He dictated,” they repeat like a chant… like it’s nothing… like it’s normal.

The Boy stands there, his mind spinning. It doesn’t make sense. He tries to hold onto something——his memories, his identity———but everything slips through his fingers.

For years after that, it’s all the same. Days blend together. He’s droned with endless hours of prayer. 

“Virgin,” they call him over and over until it doesn’t even feel like a word anymore. It feels like a part of him, like the only thing left of who he used to be.

But even that starts to fade.

The Boy sits up in his bed, staring at the dim ceiling. His thoughts are jumbled, still spinning from the flashback. Tomorrow... what will tomorrow bring? The Sacrifice Ceremony, the same people calling him Virgin. He can already feel the weight of it pressing down on him, like the days are all the same and nothing ever changes.

He shifts in bed, the sheets tangled around him. The room feels cold. He thinks about the High Priest’s words: 

"He has chosen." 

What did that even mean? Why him? Why had it to be this way?

He rolls over, trying to find a comfortable spot, but it’s no use. His mind keeps racing. He closes his eyes for a moment, but his thoughts don’t quiet down.

A sigh escapes his lips, and he pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He can hear the faint sounds from the village outside, but it all feels distant now. Tomorrow will come. It always does.

Eventually, his breathing slows, and his body relaxes. His mind begins to quiet, even if just for a moment. Tomorrow can wait.

And then, slowly, he drifts off to sleep.

VII: BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

The door creaks open slowly. A bit of light from the hallway spills into the room. The Boy stirs in bed. His eyes blink open. There she is.

Selene steps inside. Her long hair falls down her shoulders. It catches the light. Her nightgown moves with her. It’s soft and pale like moonlight. She walks quietly. Her bare feet hardly make any sound.

The Boy blinks, still half asleep, and she gives him a soft smile. She raises a finger to his lips. 

"Shh," she whispers.

The Boy doesn't say a word. He just watches as Selene moves toward the small candle on his bedside table. He hears the soft rustle of her nightgown as she reaches for it. Her fingers brush the copper frame as she picks it up carefully.

Emily walks in. She doesn’t say anything at first. But they could feel like something unsaid hangs between them. The Boy sits up, rubbing his eyes, not sure what’s going on.

"What’s going on?" he asks softly.

"I can't handle it," Emily shakes her head, her face tired, her voice strained.

Selene turns toward Emily, her eyes calm. 

"I'll do what I have to," she says softly, her voice steady, like she’s made up her mind. 

The sister looks back at her brother with glinting eyes. She puffs out the candle flame and the room is plunged into darkness.

VIII: SACRIFICIAL LAMB

People fill the streets, their voices rising with songs and chants. Dancers twirl in colorful clothes. Their feet stomp in rhythm. Bright flowers line the road. Even Colossus, the giant elephant, stomps along. His painted tusks shine in the sunlight.

The Boy stands still. His robes feel heavy. They look just like Sophia’s from before. Soft silk brushes against his arms. Beads clink softly with every step he takes. His heart beats fast as villagers look at him with wide eyes.

The High Priest’s servants arrive. They guide the Boy through the crowd. People cheer and reach out as he passes. He keeps his eyes forward. The temple gates loom ahead. Their repeating ornate patterns shaped like the Golden Ratio make him a bit queasy.

When the Boy reaches the gate, the villagers stop. They follow behind him as he steps inside. The temple smells of incense and flowers. 

The altar stands at the center of the chamber, carved from dark stone that seems to drink in the faint morning light. Its surface is smooth but uneven, as though shaped by hands that knew reverence and purpose. Deep grooves form spiraling patterns, their edges filled with dried wax and ashes from countless ceremonies.

A single chalice sits at its heart, its metal tarnished but not forgotten, catching the light in faint glints. Around it, melted candles cling to the edges, their shapes warped into strange, jagged towers. The air smells faintly of smoke and something older———like the earth after rain or the iron tang of blood.

Behind the altar, a tapestry hangs high, its fabric heavy and frayed, showing faded depictions of a god or figure too indistinct to decipher. Shadows pool in the corners, stretching long across the floor, broken only by the lines of light spilling in through the narrow windows above.

The High Priest stands tall. Her arms rise high, and her voice fills the hall.

"Today marks the beginning of a new blessing," she says. "Our Virgin stands before us, chosen to guide our village to peace and plenty."

The crowd listens. Some bow their heads. Others clap and cheer. The Boy stares at the altar. His hands tremble at his sides, hidden in the folds of his robes.

The Boy looks out at the crowd. Faces blur together, a sea of people cheering and clapping. His eyes move quickly, searching. Then he sees them. Emily and Selene stand near the back.  

Emily’s arms are crossed tight, her shoulders stiff. She stares at the ground, her face pale. Selene is next to her, hands clenched in front of her dress. Her head is low, her hair falling forward, hiding her eyes.  

The Boy frowns. They don’t look like the others. No smiles. No cheers. He feels something heavy in his chest.  

He shifts his gaze, but it’s hard not to look again. Emily’s lips press into a thin line. Selene bites her lip. Neither moves as the High Priest speaks.  

The Boy drops his eyes to the floor. His hands tighten into fists inside his robes. He can still feel their sadness, even without looking. It feels louder than the crowd.

The altar feels alive, watching, waiting as the Boy stands in front of it. His eyes stare at the faint glow spilling through the high windows. The warmth of it doesn’t reach him. His head feels like it’s full of fog. He remembers last night, every moment.

The flicker of candle flame. Selene’s soft voice. Emily’s trembling hands.

And then the dark.

Something about it was different. It wasn’t just night. It was deeper, thicker… organic. He felt it creeping over him, pressing down on him.

His back tingles as he thinks of it. The memory of the glow, sharp and jagged like lightning, flashes in his mind. It wasn’t pain exactly, but it wasn’t something he could ignore. It crawled under his skin, pulsing, almost like it had a heartbeat.

He shivers. He’s never felt anything like it before. It was strange and wrong, but it didn’t feel distant. It felt close. Too close.

The Boy flinches. The High Priest's voice pulls him back.

"Step forward, Virgin," she says, firm but calm.

The Boy’s feet feel heavy as he moves closer to the altar. His heart thumps in his chest, loud and uneven. Eyes from the crowd burn into him, tense and expectant. The chamber feels colder now. He stops at the altar, staring at it. The dark grooves on its surface twist and turn, almost like they’re moving.

A shiver runs through him. Shadows rise from the stone, thick and slow like smoke, but darker than anything he’s seen. It pools together, swirling, growing taller and taller until it takes shape.

The figure stands there, towering and still. Its form is impossible to focus on, like mist caught in a storm. 

The Shadow has no face, only two faint, white lights where eyes should be. They bore into the Boy, cutting through the distance between them. White. Bright. Empty.

The Boy’s chest tightens. His hand trembles as he clutches his robe. He knows this shadow, even though they’ve never met. He feels it deep inside, like a string connecting them, pulling tight.

The shadow stretches out a hand, its fingers long and sharp, blacker than the space around them. It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t have to. The gesture says enough.

The Boy’s breath catches. His hands shake as he stares at the outstretched arm. Every part of him wants to back away, but something holds him there. It’s not a voice, not words, but something deeper. A hum. A pull. A connection.

He glances at the High Priest, but her face is calm. The crowd stays silent, waiting.

His hand lifts a little, trembling, but he freezes. A chill runs through his whole body, and the shadow doesn’t move. It just waits, patient and still, its hand hovering there.

“Virgin,” the High Priest’s voice cuts through, calm and commanding. “Accept what is offered.”

The Virgin Sacrifice stares at the hand, unsure if it’s an invitation or a demand. His own hand twitches at his side, caught between the urge to reach out and the instinct to run.

The Boy’s hand reaches out, slow and shaking. His fingers brush the Shadow’s hand. It feels cold. Not like ice, but like the absence of life. The Shadow’s grip tightens around his hand.

A winter touch runs up his arm. It spreads through his chest and down to his toes. He can’t move, can’t pull away. The Shadow holds on, its grip steady and strong.

Then it lets go.

The Shadow tilts its head, its white eyes piercing through him. A deep voice fills the air, heavy and echoing. 

“You failed to offer me a Virgin Sacrifice.”

IX: ESCAPE

The Shadow breaks apart like strings. The room feels heavier as it goes away.

Sacrifice denied.

The people outside gasp as they watch the crops shrivel and blacken. The apple trees that neatly line the orchards twist and wither into deathly ash. The sky fluxes from bright blue to a sickly gray. Animals collapse where they stand. Their corpses lay motionless.

The High Priest turns, her face twisted with fear and anger. 

“What did you do?! What did you do?!” She points at the Boy, her voice sharp and shaking. 

The servants rush forward. Their weapons gleam as they surround him.

The High Priest steps closer, her voice rising into a terrifying wail. “You brought this upon us! All of us!”

Selene rushes forward and grabs the Boy’s hand. Her grip is firm. She steps between him and the servants, her eyes locked on the High Priest.

“No!” Selene shouts, her voice trembling but loud. “We did this! I did this! I can’t let you kill my brother!”

The High Priest’s face twists in rage. 

“Look around you!” she screams. “Look what you’ve done!” She throws her arm toward the rotting village outside. 

A servant steps forward, raising an axe. The blade glints in the dim light. It swings toward the Boy, swift and deadly.

Selene yanks him back just in time. The axe slammed into the ground where he stood. She doesn’t wait. 

“Run!” she shouts, pulling him with her.

The Boy stumbles but keeps moving, his heart pounding in his chest. Emily appears out of nowhere, her face pale with fear. She grabs Selene’s arm and runs with them.

“After them!” the High Priest’s voice booms, full of fury.

The servants give chase, their footsteps loud and close behind. The Boy clings to Selene’s hand, her grip like a lifeline as they race to their house.

Emily waves her hand, motioning Selene and the Boy toward the back of their home. “This way!” she whispers, her voice urgent but steady.

Selene pulls the Boy along, following Emily to a trapdoor hidden under a loose rug. Emily kneels and yanks it open, revealing a dark stairway leading down.

“Hurry!” Emily urges, climbing down first.

The Boy hesitates, staring into the blackness below. Selene nudges him forward. 

“Come on,” she says, her voice firm and hurried.

They descend into the underground. The air is damp and cool, carrying the faint smell of rust. Their footsteps echo as they step into a tunnel wider than the Boy expected.

“Where are we going?” he asks, his voice small.

Emily stops in front of a metal door. It is old and heavy. Orange streaks run down where the metal has rusted. She grabs a lever on the wall and pulls. The door groans as it slides open.

The Boy steps forward and stops. His eyes go wide. The space stretches out before him, big and empty. The walls have metal bars sticking out. Cracks run along the concrete.

The ceiling is tall and covered with dangling wires and pipes. Dusty old trains sit on broken tracks. Some are covered in graffiti. The windows are shattered. Everything feels still and forgotten.

“What is this place?” the Boy whispers, his voice full of awe.

Selene steps closer, her eyes scanning the forgotten world around them. “I didn’t know this was here.”

The Boy looks at Emily. “I thought the underground just led to the temple.”

Emily shakes her head. “You’re wrong,” she says. Her voice echoes softly in the vast space. “These passages have been here long before the village. Maybe even before the temple.”

The Boy walks closer to one of the trains, running his fingers over the cold metal. The windows are shattered, and the seats inside are ripped. It feels strange, like stepping into another world.

Emily moves ahead, her footsteps firm. 

“Stay close,” she says, glancing back at them. “There’s more ahead, but it’s easy to get lost.”

Selene grabs the Boy’s hand again. 

“Don’t let go,” she says.

They follow Emily deeper into the station, walking through a place frozen in time. The floor is cracked. Weeds grow in the gaps. Shadows span from the towering walls. The Boy glances to see graffiti-covered stone bricks peeling and streaked with grime. Rusted beams arch above their heads, their edges jagged like teeth. Wires dangle down, swaying slightly, as if reaching for them. Strange metal boxes sit beside the tracks, their sides dented and covered in faded drawings and scribbles. The air smells like dust and old metal. Their footsteps make soft taps off the walls, and the faint drip of water breaks the silence.

The three freeze when voices echo through the tunnel.

“Spread out! They can’t have gone far!”

It’s the villagers. The High Priest’s servants are with them. The Boy’s breath catches. Emily motions for them to move. She presses a finger to her lips, her eyes sharp and serious.

They creep forward, careful with every step. The faint glow of a torch flickers down the passage. Shadows stretch across the walls. Selene grips the Boy’s arm, her hand trembling.

“I hear something,” one villager says. His voice bounces off the walls.

Emily leans close to whisper, “Stay low. Don’t make a sound.”

They slide behind an old, rusted beam, crouching low. The Boy’s heart pounds so hard it feels like it will give them away.

Then, a bark reverberates against the tunnels.

The Boy looks up, eyes wide. A dog yanks on its leash, barking louder.

“There they are!” someone yells.

“Run!” Emily shouts.

They bolt down the tunnel. The Boy’s legs burn as he tries to keep up. The barking grows louder. 

“Don’t let them get away!” Voices shout behind them.

Selene grabs the Boy’s hand, pulling him forward. The ground is rough and uneven. His foot catches on a loose pipe, but he stumbles back to his feet.

“They’re gaining on us!” Selene yells.

Emily glances back, her face grim. “Faster! Keep going!”

The torchlight grows brighter. The shadows chase them, long and clawing. The air feels heavier and colder. Their breaths come in sharp, panicked gasps as they push deeper into the darkness.

A shout comes from behind them. The Boy glances back and sees one of the villagers strike a match. The man lights something on top of a jar and throws it with a grunt.

The jar arcs through the air, spinning, then smashes against the ceiling above Emily. A deafening boom shakes the ground. Dust and smoke explode into the tunnel.

“Move!” Emily screams.

Chunks of rock rain down. The Boy ducks as a piece crashes near him, sending shards flying. He hears a repugnant crunch as debris crushes one of the villagers chasing them.

“Keep running!” Emily shouts. She shoves Selene and the Boy forward, but then a dog leaps at her, its teeth sinking into her arm.

Emily falls hard. Villagers swarm her. 

“Go!” she yells, her voice sharp. “Don’t stop! Keep running!”

“Mom!” Selene screams.

“Run!” Emily shouts again, her voice shaking.

Selene grabs the Boy’s hand. They stumble forward, dodging falling rocks. The tunnel groans as the walls crack, the ceiling splitting apart.

Selene’s grip tightens. She glances up, her face pale. 

“It’s coming down,” she says, her voice trembling.

More rocks crash around them. The Boy feels her hand shaking.

Selene looks at him, her eyes wet.

“Whatever happens, just keep running.” Her voice breaks. She takes a breath. 

“I love you… Eve.”

Before the Boy can speak, she pushes him with all her strength.

He stumbles forward, arms flailing, as the ceiling collapses behind him.

“Selene!” he screams, spinning back. But the tunnel is gone, buried under a mountain of rubble.

“Selene!” he shouts again, his voice cracking.

Nothing. No answer. Dust fills the air. His knees hit the ground. He gasps, coughing, his chest heaving.

Tears stream down his face. He curls up, gripping his head. “No… no…”

His name echoes in his mind. Eve.

But now it feels hollow. What good is a name when the people who gave it to you are gone?

X: EVE

The air wraps around him and refuses to let go. Eve’s legs shake, but he moves. One step, then another. Everything feels suffocating, broken only by the crunch of his boots on gravel. The darkness presses in, a weight he can feel on his back, but ahead there’s a faint, wavering glow.  

It pulls at him. His body feels numb, his mind even more so, but he follows the light.  

The tunnel stretches on forever, the walls scarred and pitted like the skin of something ancient. Rusted pipes run along the sides, leaking drops of black water that echo in the hollow space. Old signs hang crooked, their letters faded and peeling. 

"Safety First," one of them says, the words almost erased by time. 

Another shows a smiling face, promising some long-forgotten brand of cola. Eve doesn’t stop to read.  

He stumbles over a broken step, and catches himself on a railing so rusted it crumbles under his touch. Up ahead, soft light spills onto the rough stone floor.  

The stairs begin to rise. He grips the walls for balance, his palms scraping against jagged edges. His legs burn, each step a reminder that he’s still alive. He wishes he weren’t.  

As he climbs, the tunnel begins to change. The walls widen, and the stale air gives way to a breeze. It’s faint, but it carries a bitter tang, metallic and sharp.  

At the top of the steps, Eve sees it. The end of the tunnel.  

The light spills in brighter now, piercing and cold. He squints against it, one hand shading his eyes as he steps out.  

The world beyond steals his breath.  

A wasteland stretches out, endless and desolate. The ground is cracked and dry, splintered like shattered glass. Shards of metal rise from the earth like broken teeth, catching the pale sunlight and flinging jagged shadows. The sky hangs low and oppressive, a swirling gray blanket that churns as though alive.  

Near his feet, an old billboard lies face-up in the dirt. Its colors are long gone, the once-bold letters barely legible. 

“A Brighter Tomorrow!” it promises, the words mocking in their irony.  

He looks around. The remnants of a world long dead are scattered everywhere. Twisted beams of steel jut out of crumbled foundations. The carcasses of machines sit half-buried, their metal skeletons stripped bare by time.  

A wind blows, dry and biting, carrying with it a sound that might be laughter—or maybe just the creak of something falling apart.  

Eve takes a step forward, his feet crunching on the brittle ground. He looks back at the tunnel behind him, its darkness yawning like a mouth. He swallows hard, his throat dry.

There’s no going back.