Iris hung from the pole, wrists raw where chains gnawed bone. The cave reeked of iron and myrrh—a baptism of rot.
Zephyros' lungs seared. Her breath, he realized. They burned her breath. Each shallow rise of her chest counted down, ribs etching prison bars across the wall.
Others brought trinkets, goats, vials glistening crimson—but Iris crowned the feast.
The world narrowed to the pulse in her throat: thump, thump, silence. Zephyros' nails carved crescents into his palms.
Not sacrifice. Consumption. The family's hollow eyes mirrored vultures—no remorse, no hunger, only glacial certainty. Bile coated his tongue. Now, it blazed personal.
His father noticed first. "Ah, boy," King Valen crooned, voice slick as oiled steel. "Punctual as ever."
Zephyros' smile cracked like dried clay. "Shall we toast her, Father? A vintage year for purity."
The Squidi lurched toward the pit, eyes glinting like wet coal. Zephyros shouldered past the guards.
"Insolent maggots," he hissed. One flinched, grip slackening.
"Excuse me," Zephyros said quickly, stepping forward.
Guards closed ranks around the Squidi, but Zephyros tapped one on the shoulder, his tone dripping with disdain. "Don't you know who I am?"
"Squidi!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "Don't sacrifice my sister. Take anyone but her." His words were met with stunned silence, the crowd turning to him with wide eyes.
The Squidi tilted its head, its voice a low, guttural rasp. "What for? The god demands it."
Zephyros' jaw tightened, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his belt. His sister was still asleep, her body slumped against the pole like a piece of meat. The sight filled him with a rage so intense it threatened to consume him. "Just—just leave my sister alone!" he screamed, his voice breaking.
His father tried to stand, but his legs, rotten and weak, gave out beneath him. "Zephyros," King Valen called, his voice trembling. But Zephyros ignored him.
"Take me instead!" Zephyros pleaded, his voice desperate. "You can take me!"
"Child," it crooned, "you're already dead. She's the feast. You're the aftertaste." Its laughter slithered into his ears, rooting deep.
You let her die, it whispered without moving its mouth. You'll watch her die a thousand times.
Zephyros' face twisted in disgust. What a seamless creature. Such a disgusting—
He charged at the Squidi, his dagger flashing in the dim light. But before he could reach it, a guard stepped in, slamming the hilt of his sword into Zephyros' back. The blow knocked the air from his lungs, and he crumpled to the ground, vision swimming.
"Anyway," the Squidi said, its voice calm, almost bored, "let the sacrifice begin. Starting with the princess, Iris."
The words jolted Zephyros back to consciousness. He looked up just as Iris began to stir, her eyes fluttering open. She blinked rapidly, her gaze locking onto Zephyros as the guards dragged him away. Tears streamed down her face, but her voice was steady. "Zeph," she whispered. "Don't let them win."
"Oh my, what a weakling," a voice sneered in Zephyros' mind. It was god, its tone dripping with mockery. "Such a pitiful display."
Zephyros roared, his body surging with adrenaline. He slammed his elbow into the guard's face, the man's nose crunching under the impact. In one fluid motion, he drew his dagger and plunged it into the guard's cheek, dragging the blade downward.
His blood? My? No difference now. The dagger felt alive, hungry, as he carved through tendon and pretense.
Let me be the monster, he prayed. Let me be the god.
Chaos erupted. Nobles scuttled like roaches. Zephyros bared his teeth. "Touch her, and I'll carve hymns from your entrails."
The crowd murmured, their eyes wide with fear as Zephyros' dagger flashed in the dim light. Nobles exchanged uneasy glances, their carefully composed masks slipping for the first time.
The Squidi watched, its expression unreadable. Then, a laugh boomed through the cave—a deep, guttural sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Its laughter was cold and mocking. "Promises, promises," it taunted. "But can you deliver?"
Zephyros tried to fight, but the guards overwhelmed him, pinning him to the ground. He thrashed against their grip, his screams raw and primal. "Iris! Don't let them do this! Fight!"
But it was too late.
The Squidi raised his hands, his voice echoing through the chamber. "Her death will be a hymn, sung in praise of the divine."
Iris's body began to glow, her form shimmering like a dying ember. She turned to Zephyros, her eyes filled with tears but her voice steady. "Let my death change you," she whispered.
Then she was gone.
Iris' skin flaked away like burnt parchment. For a heartbeat, she was light—pure, searing, gone. Ash pooled where her smile had been.
Zephyros' scream died unborn. Sound inverted. Color drained. The world became a silent film where he played the fool, clutching at smoke. "No!" he screamed, his voice breaking. "No, no, no!"
The wooden owl. "For wisdom," she had said, her eyes sparkling with that familiar warmth. "And for luck." Her voice had been so full of hope, so sure that this little carving could protect me, guide me.
He thrashed against the guards, his grief and rage consuming him. His eyes swept over the room—over the royal family, the Squidi—all of them complicit in her death.
Rot.
As the guards dragged him back to his room, his fingers tightened around the wooden owl in his pocket. Its rough surface was now marred by a jagged crack, a stark reminder of everything he had failed to protect. He traced the broken edge, his hands shaking, as if by touch alone he could undo the damage—not just to the owl, but to everything it represented.
"Zephyros," a voice whispered, soft and distant, like a breeze through a crack in the stone. He didn't hear it. Or perhaps he did, but chose to ignore it, his focus consumed by the owl. He muttered to himself, his voice cracking under the weight of his thoughts. "Just a little piece… just a little piece… why can't I fix it? Why can't I make it right?"
His mind spiraled, dragging him into the depths of his grief. His father's face flashed before him—not the man who had raised him, but the man who had stood by in the cave. Zephyros's father had died. "What a rot," Zephyros spat, his voice trembling with rage. "What a rotten, cursed family."
He slammed the owl onto the floor, the sound of wood cracking echoing through the room like a gunshot. For a moment, he froze, staring at the broken pieces as if they were fragments of his own soul. "No!" he cried, dropping to his knees. His hands scrambled to gather the pieces, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Why did I do that? Why? Why?"
Tears streamed down his face as he frantically searched his shelves, knocking over books and scattering trinkets in his desperation. "There has to be glue… there has to be something…"
Finally, he found a small bottle, half-empty and crusted at the edges. He didn't care. He squeezed the glue onto the broken edges, his hands shaking so violently that it spilled onto his skin, sticky and cold.
As he pressed the pieces together, a fragile smile flickered across his face. For a moment, it almost felt like redemption. But then he remembered her—his sister, Iris. Her laughter, her kindness, the way she had always known how to calm the storm inside him.
The memory was a knife to his chest. He wanted to smash the owl again, to destroy it completely, as if by obliterating it he could somehow obliterate the pain. Instead, he sobbed, clutching the owl to his chest as if it were her.
"Zephyros," the voice called again, louder this time, more insistent.
He spun around, his tear-streaked face twisted with fury. "What!" he screamed, his voice raw and broken. But the room was empty, save for the shadows that seemed to stretch and writhe around him.
"I still love you," the voice said, softer now, almost tender. It was Iris's voice.
Zephyros's breath hitched, and he let out a strangled laugh. "Sister!" he cried, reaching out into the empty air. "I'm here! I'm here! Just let me fix the owl—just one more minute, and it'll be perfect." He laughed again, the sound hollow and desperate, as he wiped his tears with the back of his hand.
"Understood," Iris's voice replied, but her tone had shifted. It was colder now, edged with something ominous. "When are you going to start the purge?"
Zephyros paused, his hands stilling over the owl. The question hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. He looked down at the wooden figure, its glued seams still wet, and blew gently on them, as if his breath could hasten the healing. He whispered, his voice barely audible. "Soon."
The room fell silent, and for a moment, it was hard to tell where the cave ended and he began.