The crowd swayed—joints creaking, eyes glazed—puppets strung on the god's breath.
Zephyros' pulse thrummed in his teeth. This isn't worship, he realized. It's digestion. They were being devoured, limb by willing limb, and cheering as the teeth closed in.
We're like animals, Zephyros thought, his eyes darting across the scene. Compared to the rituals in the district, this was more theatrical, more... hollow.
His palm cracked against his cheek—again, again—until the sting drowned out the chants. Father's voice slithered through the bruise: Weakness must be purged. But the ritual's stink clung thicker: myrrh and rotting lilies, the same as Mother's funeral.
The air was thick with the scent of incense and sweat, a cloying mixture that made his stomach churn. The rhythmic pounding of drums reverberated through his chest, each beat a reminder of the suffocating expectations pressing down on him.
He stumbled slightly, his foot catching on the uneven stone. For a moment, he thought he saw something—an eye, protruding from god, watching him. He blinked, and it was gone. Just another trick of the light, he told himself, though the unease lingered.
Celeste moved beside him, her presence like an angel amidst the chaos. She swayed alongside the countless guests, all here for one singular purpose: to praise "god." But her movements were different—sharp, deliberate, almost mocking. Zephyros couldn't tear his eyes away from her.
I can't get the look off my face, he thought. Their eyes don't see praise; they see obligation. Zephyros moved about, his clothes swirling around him like a storm. Each step felt slower, as if the weight of their expectations was pressing him into the ground.
His gaze was drawn to the large fence-like cage at the center of the room. Behind it, the being of pure light seemed to watch him. But no one else seemed to notice. Why can I see it? Why should I be able to see? Why can I see god here? Is he trapped, or am I?
"Praise the lord for such a wonderful ceremony!" a squidi screamed, its voice echoing through the dark, cavernous space.
The creature's form was a shifting mass of spiky blue shadows, its silhouette pulsating unnaturally as the crowd prostrated themselves, their faces pressed to the cold stone floor. The squidi's voice was a grating blend of reverence and mockery, as if it were laughing at them even as it demanded their worship.
"God demands sacrifice!" it declared, its tone dripping with false piety. "A being of unequal beauty! A soul untouched by the taint of doubt!" The squidi's shadow stretched across the dark gray ground, its spindly limbs pointing toward the fence. Behind the bars, the being of pure light flickered, its gaze—if it could be called that—seeming to fixate on Zephyros.
Zephyros' eyes flicked to his father, who stood among the gathered family members. Every known relative was here, their bloodlines meticulously traced to ensure their place in this farce. Bastards, Zephyros thought. Every last one of them.
He lay on the ground, his body stiff with resistance. Celeste knelt beside him, her movements fluid, almost mocking. But as the squidi's voice rose again, she stood abruptly, spitting on the floor. The gesture was small, but it burned in Zephyros' mind like a spark.
My legs refused to move. Everyone was watching, waiting for me to kneel, to pray. But the thought of bowing to that thing made my stomach gnarl. Why should I kneel? Why should any of us?
The Squidi turned, its gaze sweeping the crowd. "We die and die and die," it began, its voice rising in a crescendo that seemed to vibrate through the very stones. "People come to me daily, asking about the reason for living. 'What is our purpose?' they cry. 'Why do we suffer?' And here I tell them: life has meaning. That meaning stands before you all, here and now. God is our reason for life. Without him, we are nothing but dust and shadows. But with him, we are eternal."
The squidi paused, its form rippling like a mirage. "Yet, even in our devotion, we falter. We question. We doubt. And for that, god demands... recompense." Its voice dropped to a whisper, yet it carried through the room like a blade. "A sacrifice. A soul pure enough to bridge the gap between our world and his. Who among you will offer themselves? Who among you is worthy?"
God is a he, Zephyros thought bitterly. You would think he would be an 'it,' but then again, why would you classify a being as an 'it'? That means god is a woman too. I'll have to read about this.
His thoughts spiraled, a chaotic mix of anger and confusion. The squidi's words rang hollow. He's talking about sitting back and rotting, and here my father is, doing the exact same thing. Zephyros cursed under his breath.
Celeste turned to him, her towering frame casting a long shadow. Despite her age, she moved with a strength that belied her years. She reached down, picking him up with one hand as if he weighed nothing. Zephyros dusted himself off, his knees trembling as the squidi continued its speech.
Zephyros looked around, his eyes narrowing. They had prayed, but not the recommended prayer. No, not even the compulsory two-minute prayer. Hypocrites. All of them.
What if I didn't just reject their god? What if I replaced him?
"The son of the king, Zephyros!" the Squidi declared, its voice echoing through the cavernous space. Every head turned toward Zephyros, their hollow eyes gleaming with a mix of expectation and hunger.
No, no, no. Not me. Choose anyone else for your lonely, lie-based game. Anyone but me. Anyone.
"Care to offer anything to god?" the Squidi repeated slowly, its voice dripping with mock reverence.
Celeste stepped forward, her movements deliberate, and placed a golden chalice in Zephyros' hands. The weight of it felt alien, its amber embroidery glinting in the dim light.
"Give it," Celeste whispered into his ear, her breath cold against his skin. A shiver ran down his spine as he turned toward his father, who sat on a throne shrouded in shadow. You don't bring joy if you live in such a dark place, Zephyros thought bitterly.
He held the chalice tightly, its beauty almost mocking. Sacrificing such an item to a god who supposedly created everything? The absurdity of it made his stomach churn. Around him, the crowd began to murmur, their voices a low, insidious hum.
Blasted legs, he thought, his body refusing to move. Finally, he forced himself forward, each step heavier than the last.
The squidi's smile widened, its unnerving grin stretching across its spiky blue form. What creature is it mimicking anyway? Zephyros wondered. Squids always seem to mimic something common, but this one... it's like a dragon. I hate the color blue, though. Red is soothing.
As he approached, the Squidi gestured toward the large opening in the fence. "You do it," it murmured, its voice a sharp whisper that seemed to crawl into his ear and burrow into his mind.
Zephyros hesitated, his gaze flicking to his father. The king's hollow eyes stared back, empty and unyielding.
Zephyros took a deep breath, a single tear slipping down his cheek. The chalice evaporated—no flash, no sound. Ashes without fire. This is what we are, Zephyros understood. Dust pretending to be gold. His prayer wasn't for the god, but for himself: Let me mean something. Even if it's a lie.
He bowed hastily, muttering a quick, unnecessary prayer. "If you're truly god, who will be the sacrifice?"
"Go read," the creature replied, its voice a sharp, stinging sensation in his mind. Zephyros flinched, turning away hastily. The words lingered, echoing in his skull like a curse.
Zephyros walked with Celeste, his steps heavy, his mind a whirlwind of anger and confusion. Tears streamed down his face, though he tried to hide them, wiping them away with the back of his hand.
His father turned briefly. The king's gaze slid through him—through him—to some fixed point beyond. Zephyros' gut clenched. That's my face in forty years, he realized. Hollowed. Hungry. A fossil waiting to be filled by whatever crawls into the crown next.
He turned back to the squidi, who had begun its rant about the thousand rules they must follow to appease their god. The crowd nodded in unison, their faces blank, their minds empty.
Hypocrites, Zephyros thought bitterly. Every last one of them.
He reached the elevator, slamming his fist against the wall with a loud thud before stepping inside. Celeste followed, her movements graceful yet deliberate. She watched him from the corner of her eye, her expression unreadable.
"How do you feel about all this?" she asked slowly, her voice soft but probing.
"Forget him," Zephyros replied, his voice sharp and bitter. He pressed his hand over his face, trying to stifle the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
"I hate them," Zephyros hissed, nails carving half-moons into his palms. Liar, whispered the blood. What he hated was the itch in his wrists—the urge to grab Celeste's dagger and peel until he found the rot beneath his own skin.
Celeste nodded, her gaze distant. She began to pace slowly, her hands clasped behind her back.
"I'm from the Below Sky District," she said, her voice carrying a hint of nostalgia.
"I know," Zephyros replied, sighing heavily. Is she about to go on a long monologue? he wondered. I have so much on my mind right now. First, I need to find a book—anything and everything about the supposed origin of this lie. A lie can't be repeated twice without leaving faint traces. And I will find them.
"It's known the sages are about to switch in about fourteen years, per se in RH 9840," Celeste continued, her tone casual but her words loaded with meaning.
Ah, yes, the sages, Zephyros thought. I wonder how they view the people who worship their own gods or believe they are the gods. Do they even care? They don't classify themselves as gods, just beings of immense, uncontrolled power. But it doesn't matter. Their worshipers don't praise the five sages, like how the church does. They mimic their sage.
"I am from the Stem, one of the nineteen heads, actually. The de Meaux line. It's been centuries now, long gone." She paused, tilting her head as if recalling a distant memory.
"The Bibliotheca's archives reek of dead memories and hallucinations," Celeste murmured. "Your ancestors burned a thousand Lives to forge one pretty lie. You'll find your god there—skinned and stuffed between a person's memory." Her smile faltered. "I helped them do it."
The Grand Bibliotheca... Zephyros' mind raced. A repository of all knowledge, given and shared. If there's anything about this supposed god, it has to be there. This entity has been in the family since the birth of the Central District. It has to be there.