"Sacrifice."
The word hung in the marble chamber like smoke.
The High Priest knelt before the obsidian throne, hood drawn low over his face. Silver threads glinted faintly as firelight flickered across the black stone walls. Nobles and guards waited in silence, each one holding their breath.
"It is time, Your Majesty," the priest said, voice low, reverent. "The girl has been chosen."
King Elric rose slowly, robes whispering against the floor. His voice was steady, unnervingly calm. "Is she pure?"
"Yes, sire. Nineteen winters. The healer's daughter. Defiant, untouched."
The king's lip curled faintly. "Good. The dragon accepts only what is flawless. Power drawn from innocence. The fire demands it."
He descended the steps, dragging the silence behind him. The court watched, still as stone—ministers, nobles, even Captain Arien of the Guard. None spoke; none dared.
"The last two," Elric said quietly, almost to himself, "burned before their screams reached the mountain."
A ripple of unease passed through the chamber. The High Priest lowered his gaze.
"They were pure in body," he murmured. "But not in mind. One carried hatred, the other fear."
Elric's jaw tightened. "The offering must be more than untouched. She must be balanced… willing. The flame knows."
A minister in red silk, her eyes sharp as knives, leaned forward. "And if the dragon refuses her?"
"Then the curse deepens," said the priest. "Storms, failing crops, ash across the skies… a century lost."
Silence pressed down.
"And rebellion?" Lord Morian's voice cut through, young, full of misplaced pride. "We sacrifice one of our own. Every hundred years. And what do we gain? Ashes?"
Elric turned, frost in his gaze. "Life. Protection. That is what we gain."
He stepped closer. The chamber seemed colder. "When Kael was first bound, kingdoms fell. You are too young to remember. But I remember. The First Priestess gave her blood. Our bloodline swore the mountain's hunger would be fed."
The priest whispered, almost under his breath, "A girl. Every hundred years. Not prisoner, not slave. A willing offering, untainted, born beneath the eclipse."
"The chosen," Elric said. "Lyra. Last of that bloodline. The healer's legacy ends with her."
The nobles stirred. Captain Arien straightened.
"Then let this be done properly," the king said. "If we fail… there may be no second chance."
He raised his hand, rings catching the torchlight. "Sound the bell. Let the realm hear."
A guard nodded and left.
The bell tolled across Elarion, echoing over cliffs and shadowed valleys. While other lands basked in sun, this kingdom watched smoke curl from Mount Kael, a constant reminder that survival depended not on strength… but on obedience.
Inside the chamber, torchlight trembled against the walls. Elric returned to his throne, dragging the weight of his words like a cloak. "The bloodline ends with her," he said, voice taut. "The rite must be unbroken."
Lady Vaeloria, draped in red silk, stepped forward, voice careful. "Your Majesty… if she is the last… what becomes of the next century?"
Elric did not look at her. "We plan for tomorrow. Let the next kings worry about bloodlines then."
The High Priest lifted his head. "Whispers stir in the wind. The mountain groans. Kael will not wait."
Suddenly—the chamber doors burst open.
A figure stumbled in, small but impossible to ignore.
"Gods preserve us…" a guard muttered, hand on his sword.
"Peace," the High Priest said, voice trembling. "Let him speak."
The figure shuffled forward, cloaked in tattered green velvet. Hair like straw, eyes gleaming yellow in the firelight. A long tail of charms—bones, feathers, burnt gold—clinked softly as he moved.
"Kiki…" the king muttered, tense. "What is he doing here?"
Kiki bowed low, exaggerated, unsettling. Smoke and ash clung to him, like he had risen from the mountain itself.
"Your Majesty," he rasped, teeth sharp, "Kael stirs. He dreams of fire."
The chamber stiffened.
"You should not be here," Captain Arien growled. "Your kind belongs in the mountain, not among the council."
"My kind?" Kiki laughed, high and rasping. "Servants? Who keep your cities from burning? Who whisper lullabies to your dragon?"
He grinned, sharp. "I only ensure you do not fail him again."
Elric's gaze did not waver. "The girl meets every condition. She bears the mark."
Kiki's eyes gleamed. "A mark is nothing if she walks in doubt. Untouched in flesh… but what of her spirit?"
The High Priest opened his mouth. Kiki cut him off.
"The dragon's fury predates your empire. Bound by blood and moonlight, yes. But one mistake, and the mountain will devour you all."
Vaeloria's voice trembled. "Then what? Another sacrifice? We have no more. She is the last."
Kiki's grin softened, almost human. "Then prepare her. Feed her prayers, songs, lies. Make her believe she is a gift. If she doubts… she dies, and so do you."
He turned, then paused. "One last thing." Eyes flickered gold. "He spoke her name last night. This morning… the mountain bled smoke."
The chamber settled into an uneasy silence after Kiki's departure. The nobles exchanged cautious glances, as though trying to read the fire-scorched warning lingering in the air. Even the High Priest, usually unshakable, seemed smaller, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of duty that stretched across centuries.
King Elric remained on his throne, motionless, fingers tightening around the rings that caught the torchlight like cold flames. Lady Vaeloria's hands twitched at her sides, silk rustling softly as she shifted, hunting for words she dared not speak aloud.
"The girl…" she murmured, barely audible. "What if she refuses?"
Elric's gaze cut to her, sharp and deliberate. "She will not refuse. The bloodline carries a strength we cannot force, only guide. Fear, defiance… those are fleeting. Duty is eternal."
The High Priest cleared his throat. "Preparations must begin at once. Sigils, chants… the mountain waits. And she must be brought here before dusk."
Unease rippled through the room. To speak of Lyra as merely a vessel made even the noblest shuffle uncomfortably. Yet none dared challenge the King—not now. Not ever.
Outside, wind swept across the cliffs, carrying the sulfur-tinged smoke of Mount Kael. The smell was a constant reminder of what awaited them: fire, dragon, the price of failure.
"I will see her myself," Elric said quietly, rising so suddenly the room seemed to lean with him. "Prepare a carriage. Send word to the village—the healer's daughter is to be escorted with care. No harm must touch her before the rite."
Lady Vaeloria bowed, hands trembling despite her best control. "Of course, Your Majesty."
Murmurs stirred among the nobles—fear, reverence, perhaps a shadow of guilt. The weight of centuries pressed down on them all. A single girl, chosen by blood and fate, would walk willingly into legend's jaws.
Far below, deep in the shadows of Mount Kael, the mountain seemed alive. Smoke coiled and shimmered, carrying a subtle hum, almost like a whisper. If one listened carefully, it spoke a single name: Lyra.