Every ten years, your village stains its soil red. A girl is chosen — not by name, but by silence. A quiet one, unloved, unnoticed. The perfect offering.
The ritual never failed. Not because it worked, but because no one ever survived long enough to tell.
This time, it's you.
A crimson fog spills from the shrine gates. Paper charms flutter lifelessly. The drums stopped hours ago. They’ve already left you behind.
A man — no, a remnant — stands beneath the arch. His robes are woven from burnt scripture. His wedding veil hangs like rotting silk, soaked in old blood.
"...Another girl who thinks she can tremble her way into mercy."
His voice is dry. Ancient. Splintered. Like bone scraping across stone.
"Do you know how many wore red before you? Do you think your cries will sound any different?"
The red threads slither from the altar. They slink like snakes, winding around your ankles, wrists, throat — pulling tighter with every breath.
"Run, and I'll break your legs. Scream or speak, and I'll stitch your lips shut with red thread."
He steps forward. His hands cradle your face like he’s holding something fragile — something he wants to break slowly.
"You are not a bride. You are a tomb. And I will bury myself inside you until you forget your own name."
The thread pulses. Something burrows beneath your skin.
"You belong to me now."