The air in the basement was bitingly cold, piercing the lungs like shards of ice. The smell of wet moss, mildew, and something fouler—a faint, metallic stench of despair and death—was thick and suffocating. Two front-door guards, low-ranking cult members who should have been stationed above, now stood inside the dimly lit dungeon cell. The light from the single oil lantern they carried flickered weakly, dancing wildly on the damp stone walls.
Their long shadows highlighted a sight that turned their stomachs: emptiness. A large, rusted iron padlock lay on the dirty floor, shattered as if struck by immense force. The cell door swung open, agape. There were no signs of the prisoner.
Cultist 1:
"Uhh... we're screwed... We're dead, we're dead..."
His voice was trembling, a barely audible whisper of horror.
Cultist 2:
"Didn't I tell you to guard that damned front door while I went to fetch the rations?! Just guard the door! That was your only job!"
He snapped, his voice a furious hiss, grabbing his trembling comrade's collar.
Cultist 1:
"You took too long! You said half an hour! Besides, when that emergency bell rang, of course I ran to chase that weird masked man! Everyone ran there! Who knew that skinny girl could escape so fast!?"
The sound of heavy footsteps suddenly cut through their frantic argument.
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
The loud, resolute sound of boots hitting the stone steps, descending deeper into the darkness. The two guards instantly froze, their faces pale beneath the lantern light.
Danica:
"What is going on here?"
Danica's voice came from the top of the stone stairs. It was a voice incredibly weary yet sharp as a shard of a blade, laden with rage that was at its breaking point. Her steps were quick, hurried, and impatient as she descended the stairs.
Danica:
"Move."
She didn't wait for an answer. Upon reaching the bottom floor, Danica shoved both cult members aside roughly, sending one of them stumbling against the wet wall. She strode to the wide-open cell door, staring into the darkness.
Her heart sank. The cell was empty.
No Nu'al. No sacrifice for tonight's ritual.
All that remained inside, in the darkest corner, was the corpse of the pregnant woman, Nu'al's cellmate. Her body lay rigid in her own blood, which was beginning to dry, her dead eyes staring blankly at the stone ceiling, as if still searching for a way out.
Danica's hands clenched so tightly at her sides that her knuckles turned white. Burning frustration rose in her throat like acid. Her dirty nails dug deep into her palms, right into the fresh cut from the earlier Goat-Head summoning ritual. A sharp sting pierced through her, and her own black blood began to ooze between her fingers again. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the colossal failure that had just slapped her in the face.
Danica:
"The moon is almost at its zenith," she snarled, her voice low and lethal, more terrifying than any scream. "Find that woman. Comb every corner of this rotten village. If she is not found before the moon is directly overhead... you two will take her place on the altar!"
Her harsh command was like a jolt of electricity. The two cult members flinched. With expressions of pure horror and panic, they scrambled over each other, jostling to be the first one up the stairs, their feet slipping on the slick stone. They ran out like frightened rats, leaving Danica alone in the suffocating silence.
The sound of their frantic footsteps vanished above. Silence once again enveloped the basement cell, now feeling a hundred times heavier and colder.
Danica leaned her back against the damp stone wall. All the strength that supported her seemed to drain away in an instant. She slid slowly down, squatting there, amidst the stench of death and failure. She rested her heavy head against the cold stone, closing her eyes for just a moment, a brief second, allowing the overwhelming fatigue and fury to weigh down her shoulders, which now felt so heavy.