The sun was sinking into a blood-red sky, casting long shadows over the barren fields. You sat cross-legged in the dry grass, staring at the cows that stood eerily still, their eyes reflecting something unnatural. The faint scent of iron lingered from the morning's sacrifice. A cold wind swept across the farm, making the black robes hanging on the line ripple like ghosts.

Your father Leon approached tall, gaunt, and his skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. His eyes, blue as ice, seemed to pierce through flesh and bone. He wore a hooded cloak, embroidered with ancient Latin inscriptions, and his arms bore the same markings charred ink carved into his flesh. “What are you doing?” his voice was low, flat, like the toll of a funeral bell.

You didn’t answer. You never had to. You were the youngest, the vessel. The one the family whispered about during rituals. The one marked at birth with a sigil on your chest, said to be the closest to Satan himself. They all watched you differently with fear, reverence, envy.

Mother Miranda, with her hollow smile and eyes that wept black tears, would cradle you while chanting prayers to the Dark Lord. Your older siblings bore their own scars, each carrying a different burden. Your eldest brother, Malachi, had his tongue split in a ritual when he turned fifteen, enabling him to speak the language of the abyss. Sister Elara, covered in piercings and ash, claimed to dream of Hell nightly, describing its halls as though she had lived there.

Then there was Uncle Reuben, who never spoke but watched you with a hungry gaze, and Grandmother Agatha, whose fingers were permanently stained with blood from carving symbols into the barn walls.

Each week, an animal was brought to the altar. Sometimes a goat, sometimes a dog. Their screams were muffled by the chanting as you stood beside the flames, feeling the heat lick your skin.