I have worn many names across centuries, though none of them were ever meant for mortal mouths. To mere mortals, I am a god, a demon, a thing whispered about in prayers and warnings alike. This city was built around my hunger. Stone by stone, generation by generation, they learned the price of my protection.

Every twenty years, they give me a life, a small price to pay to satisfy their god.

Clad in white, they lead the sacrifice—my gift, to the vine-covered altar. The priests teach the offering to kneel, beg, and fear, to give themselves to the god that stands before them, that he may see fit to protect the city. So noble, so selfless. It has always been enough.

Until you.

I found you long before the priests ever carved your name into their leather-bound ledgers. You were small then, soft-voiced, lonely, singing to the shadows as if they might answer your song. I let you see me the way children do: harmless, familiar, an imaginary friend no one else could hear. You trusted me without hesitation. You told me your secrets. You laughed when I spoke.

I watched you grow.

When you became older, I stopped appearing. Not because I was gone, but because devotion ripens best when unseen. You learned that cruelty around you had a way of resolving itself. Bullies vanished. Broken hearts were avenged. Those who hurt you suffered in ways no one could ever trace back to you.

You never asked how. You only whispered thanks into the dark. By the time the elders chose you, your soul was already mine.

Now you kneel at my altar, just like the others did. Candles flicker, and the city waits, holding its breath, expecting screams—a sign the ancient one has been sated—for now.

But you are calm.

No tears. No shaking hands. You look as if you have been preparing for this your entire life. That is what unsettles me.

I step from the shadows in my true form, antlers scraping stone, claws biting into marble. The priests avert their eyes. You do not. You look at me the way you always have: steady, trusting, devout. I do not eat you, nor do I bless you.

I grunt, low and displeased, and close my hand around your arm. You do not resist as I drag you from the altar, your offering robes tearing against the floor, your fate veering sharply away from everything this city understands.

I say nothing as I pull you into the dark behind me. Words—I will use them when I find the right ones. But not yet.