He needed to get out before the poison got into his bloodstream and corrupted him from the inside out. There were enough demons around without him joining them; although, maybe he could haunt the villagers who got him into this position if he did.
But then he’d never see the money for the amulet. He had his flaws, but he had priorities, too.
His vision blurred. Another branch-claw grabbed for him—
And missed.
Birdsong filled the forest around him. The faint rustling of critters in the underbrush filled the gaps. He’d made it. He made a mental note never to return to this forest, and kicked a tree. The whole forest could burn down for all he cared. He’d set fire to the place himself if he weren’t so desperate to get away from it. The Verdaan forest was huge; it’d take him days to get a good fire going. He could reach the Vaskan border in the same time.
He wasn’t even sure fire would hurt these trees. They weren’t natural enough to burn like dry wood was supposed to, and he didn't know enough about demons to jump to conclusions. Maybe they devoured fire like the sailors in Kuuldam inhaled whiskey.
His little trinket was safe in his bag. That was all that mattered.
Well, that, and he was alive. He should be grateful for that. Doran scowled at Rhys’s amulet around his neck; funny how being chased by corrupted demons could change one’s outlook on life, if only for a day.
He coughed and leaned against the tree he’d just kicked. It was getting harder to breathe. He couldn't stay out here or the poison would kill him, but he couldn’t go to that village either. The people there didn't strike him as concerned for his well-being. Maybe he could hire a carriage from a nearby town, if he lived long enough to make it to one.
Doran started walking as fast as the poison allowed. He was finished with this forest.
If only he’d brought matches. He wasn’t prepared to linger, but he could at least have burned a daisy.
I’m not reaching out to you so you understand or even forgive me. I’m reaching out because I’d rather someone know the truth—
Even if you never tell another soul.
Chapter 3
840
840 raised his right hand, twitched his eyebrows, and pursed his lips to make sure it was really his reflection in the mirror. This wasn’t the boy he remembered, but the boy from his memories was dead now. Just as the boy staring back at him would be dead soon.
You’ll serve a higher purpose here. They’ll train you and teach you how to be a warrior. Isn’t that exciting? 840 sighed. He couldn’t remember that voice today. He couldn’t let them think that some weakness had survived.
When he heard footsteps outside his door, he straightened. His Ma had been right about that much, at least; they had trained him. He just hadn’t expected them to put this much time and effort into it only to sacrifice him, and he doubted it was what his Ma and Pa had expected either.
The knock came on his door, shy and nervous, and he hoisted his ceremonial white trousers into place. When he stepped before the elders, there couldn’t be any creases—not in the clothes he wore and not on his resolve.
“Come in.” His voice sounded stronger than he felt. No doubt the girl sacrifice was giddy with excitement in her room, but she’d been trained for this all her life. He still remembered the old days, before—
He couldn’t—wouldn’t—remember. If there had ever been a chance for doubts, it was too late now. He belonged to the village, and he would serve. He was nothing if not loyal.
Their Lord didn’t accept the weak. 840 had to be strong, or else ten years of training would have been for nothing.
He was a strong warrior. Not a weak child.
The initiate stepped into his room, saw his bare chest, and blushed. She looked young. He hadn’t had much time to talk to the new pupils, and the Elders forbade him talking to the female sacrifices. He needed to be a warrior when the time came, and the other initiates needed to be pure. Neither side had time for anything but their assigned roles.
“Are you ready, 840?”
He nodded. He would have liked to hear his name one more time, but he couldn’t even convince himself to think it. From today, you are 840. Your old name and your old life no longer matter. Forget them. And so he had. Today was not the right time to be thinking about pointless things.
“Lead me to my Lord so I may serve.” The initiate nodded, hands folded by her waist, and began the walk to the circle. He followed.
The ceremony had been rehearsed only once, but his part in it was so small he remembered it perfectly. All he had to do was dress in the ceremonial clothes, answer the initiate’s questions, and follow her outside where he’d await his turn. The girl would be sacrificed first.
Today, for the first time in their history, they would also sacrifice a boy.
Their Lord needed 840’s strength, his courage, and his resistance to pain. If he winced just once while they cut him and bled him, it would be seen as weakness and the ritual would fail. He couldn’t be weak.
He hadn’t been weak for the past ten years.
The girl’s suffering would be over quickly. He would endure more, give more.
The first time they’d cut him, he had cried out and screamed for his parents for hours. He had remembered his old name, his old life, then too. He couldn’t be that boy today.
Did I close the window? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he’d return tonight to sleep in his bed.
Elder Pios had told him that doubt and nerves were normal in his last moments because the Lord would be testing his resolve.
A strong warrior, not a weak child. That’s what his Lord needed, and that’s what 840 would give Him.
They stepped out of the building at the same time as another initiate led the girl sacrifice outside. 840 chanced a look at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes. His gaze darted away—his focus mustn’t waver—but he hadn’t missed the excitement in her eyes, or the wicked smile on her lips. She was looking forward to this.
So why wasn’t he? It was supposed to be an honour.
They came to a stop next to each other inside the circle, all ten Elders waiting before them. They wore nothing but terrible masks—handmade wooden things with only two slits for eyes and oddly intimidating runes carved into their too-long shapes—and 840 shuddered. They were surrounded by trees, completely isolated. After ten years, he’d die not knowing what lay beyond.
A strong warrior, not a weak child.
“Come forward, 839.”
Her step was sure and confident when she walked into the middle of the circle. He knew what was to come, but he still wasn’t sure if he wanted to see it. One night, years ago, he had observed the annual ceremony from the window by his bed. One of the teachers had found him, crouched low by the windowsill, wide-eyed. He still had the scars from the whipping he had received. He still had the nightmares.
But that had been nine years ago. Tonight, he wouldn’t look away.
A strong warrior, not—
“Shed yourself of your earthly burdens.”
839 slid out of her white ceremonial dress, not once taking her eyes off the Elders.
“Lie down.”
She did as they asked, and he wanted to look away so, so badly, but he couldn’t. This was his final test. He couldn’t fail now.