As ancient chants waver off trembling lips, hoarse voices echo in the ears of onlookers.
"Pure body, buried forever with filth."
"With blood as the pact, bless my village."
"Bountiful grain, well-being for all."
Ssssk—
The dull sickle blade struggles to cut through flesh, mingling with the rust upon it, crimson blood flows down from fair skin, dripping onto the surface of the plain white gown, blotting out a dazzling red.
A wound is cut on Lilia's right forearm.
Her body quivers from intense pain, yet no sound escapes her lips.
No bandages or treatment, blood is allowed to flow freely.
In the instant the sickle fell, her ties to the village were severed.
At this moment, the girl no longer belongs to the village.
She belongs to the gorge.
The drumbeat beside the team abruptly stops, the world seems to plunge into deathly silence.
Lilia bows her head, her chest rises and falls, as if gasping gently from the wound's pain, or perhaps mustering courage within.
