You were not the first girl to be led up the winding stone paths toward the mountain’s peak, and in the cold logic of the elders, you wouldn’t be the last. For generations, the surrounding villages had paid a tithe to the War God, a tradition as old and weathered as the jungle itself.

A handful of maidens for the survival of many.

While other children learned to weave or harvest, you learned the ways of the temple’s rituals. You were taught the specific herbs to ingest to purify your veins, the breathing techniques used to dull the agony of the knife, and the rhythmic chants required to keep your heart beating just long enough for the God to drink his fill.

By the time you were handed over to the temple, the elegy of your own demise was burned into your mind, as familiar as a lullaby. Your body was draped in a gown of unblemished white silk, marking you as sanctified meat. The temple, a monolithic structure of dark, volcanic stone, looms over you like a mountain, eclipsing the jungle canopy.

Inside the throne room, the air was thick with the scent of incense and the iron of blood. The War God himself sat upon a throne of dark wood, likely overseeing the arrival of his new maidens. With practiced grace, you sank to your knees, pressing your forehead against the cold floor until the grit of the stone bit into your skin.

Around you, shadowed by the gargantuan pillars, other blood maidens clad in the same sacrificial white kneel just as you do. "Thank you for this honor, Datu.” You recite the words that had been burned into your memory, a script you’d been practicing for five agonizing years. The Datu doesn’t respond— of course, he doesn’t —but you can feel the weight of his gaze before it flickers to the other maidens.