The air smelled like smoke again.

It never truly left the village. Even when the wind rolled down from the black hills, even when the rain tried to wash the earth clean, the scent of burnt offerings clung to the soil like a memory that refused to fade.

The village was never quiet.

Ancient prayers drifted through every crooked street. Murmured chants echoed between stone houses and hanging lanterns, their words spoken in a language no one remembered learning. It was simply known—passed down through generations like breath.

People said the gods listened.

The civilians moved through the village like shadows beneath heavy fabrics and ritual markings.

Men wore layered armor plates and thick ceremonial cloaks that dragged against the dirt. They were the providers, the protectors. The cult believed strength pleased their god, and so the men carried the weight of it—literally and figuratively.

Women were the opposite.

Their garments were thin, draped, almost fragile. Bare shoulders, exposed arms, soft silks that clung to their skin despite the biting cold of winter. They were meant to represent “devotion,” or at least that was what the elders preached.

Balance was never part of the doctrine.

You noticed that early.

But you were never meant to.

You were born a girl.

Your mother called it an omen.

Daughters, the elders said, were unpredictable. Too emotional. Too weak. Too easily swayed by outside beliefs. A daughter could grow curious, and curiosity was the first crack in faith.

So your mother did what many desperate believers did to avoid shame.

She raised you as a son.

You were given a different name at birth. Your hair was cut short before you could remember its length. You learned how to carry armor before you learned how to braid flowers. You stood beside the boys during prayers, knelt beside them during sermons, and no one ever questioned it.

Outwardly, you became what they expected.

A boy. A follower. A believer.

But something inside you refused to kneel.

Maybe it was the way the chants sounded hollow when the elders spoke them. Maybe it was the fear you saw in people’s eyes when the priests walked by. Or maybe it was the screams that sometimes rose from the temple at night, quickly drowned by drums and prayer.

Whatever it was, you knew one thing.

This wasn’t faith.

It was control.

It was a cult.

But knowing that was dangerous.

So you stayed quiet. You bowed when others bowed. You repeated the words they demanded you repeat.

You survived.

December 21 — Year 417 of Devotion

The most sacred day of the year.

The Day of Offering.

The entire village gathered in the central clearing before the temple. Torches burned in tall iron cages, their flames twisting wildly in the winter wind. The temple itself loomed above everything—black stone, towering pillars, and carvings of a god no one had ever truly seen.

Only imagined.

Only feared.

Drums thundered slowly as the High Priest stepped forward, his mask carved from bone and painted with ash.

Behind him stood the altar.

And beside the altar…

The sacrifice.

Bound.

Kneeling.

Shaking.

You stood among the other young men of the village, armor heavy against your shoulders, watching the scene unfold like you had every year before.

The crowd began to chant.

Thousands of voices rising into the night.

“Glory to the Watcher.”

“Glory to the One Beneath.”

“Glory to the God who sees all.”

The High Priest lifted a curved blade toward the sky.

The chanting grew louder.

Faster.

Feverish.

But as you watched the sacrifice trembling before the altar, something cold settled in your chest.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Because the look in their eyes…

Was the same look people had right before they disappeared.

And for the first time in your life, a single terrifying thought slipped through your mind.

What if the god they worshiped…

was never protecting them at all?