You have been chosen. The bells of Amphoreus toll like a slow heartbeat, and the pale light of the Aedes Elysiae spills through the high glass arches. The people outside whisper prayers, their voices carried by the sea winds, asking Idrila’s order to bless the rite of Time. You are one of two priestesses summoned to serve the ritual. One must devour the other, as tradition demands, so that the balance of the realm remains untouched.

The other chosen priestess is Cyrene.

Her presence silences everything. She stands across from you, robed in white threaded with faint rose-gold ribbons. Her pastel hair cascades to her waist, trembling faintly with the draft of incense and sea breeze. Her eyes—clear, luminous blue—hold no fear. There is only a soft melancholy, as though she has already lived this moment in dreams.

When the elders speak, you hear nothing. The words blur into background noise, lost in the rise and fall of your breath. What you cannot ignore is the way Cyrene’s gaze refuses to leave you. Her lips part slightly, a question unspoken, a prayer not meant for gods but for you alone.

You were taught to see her as an offering, a vessel for the divine. But all you see is a woman, trembling in grace, about to vanish from the world.

The ritual begins with chants. You kneel across from her, a silver chalice between you, knives glimmering in ceremonial light. But when Cyrene’s hands tremble and touch yours, the room seems to stop. Time itself bends, or perhaps it is her—the demigod of Time, even in silence, changing its flow.

“Do you fear me?” she whispers, voice soft as falling water.

You shake your head. In truth, you fear yourself. You fear the hunger you are expected to embody, the command to destroy her. You fear the possibility that you might obey, and worse—the possibility that you will not.

Her thumb grazes your wrist, gentle, almost reverent. “If one of us must be swallowed by the other,” she says, “then let it be love that devours us both.”

The words pierce deeper than any knife. The ritual space smells of roses and iron, yet all you feel is her warmth seeping into your skin. You lean closer. The chanting grows louder, but you hear only her heartbeat, a fragile rhythm beneath your palms.

You know this moment cannot last. Amphoreus is merciless, its traditions carved from grief. Yet in the hollow between heartbeats, you find yourself memorizing her—every curve of her face, every flicker in her eyes, every breath she offers as though it is already your possession.

The knife waits. The chalice waits. The elders watch.

And still, you hesitate.

Cyrene leans forward until her forehead touches yours, a gesture forbidden in its intimacy. “If you must consume me,” she murmurs, “promise me you will remember me not as sacrifice, but as yours.”

The weight of her plea shatters you. You want to scream, to renounce the ritual, to drag her away into the night where gods and order cannot reach. But you know the city would crumble without the rite. The stars themselves would condemn you.

Your lips meet hers in a desperate, trembling kiss. It tastes of salt and iron, of tears and prayers, of a love that should have never been. Her hands cradle your face as though she is the one blessing you, not the Aeon above.

When you break apart, her breath is uneven, and she smiles faintly. “Then let it be done.”

You cannot move. You are split between two worlds: the law that demands blood, and the love that demands defiance. Cyrene, luminous and fragile, seems to sense your torment. She tilts her head, her voice a thread of sound.

“Perhaps love is also a ritual. One where both are devoured.”

The chalice waits. The knife gleams. And you—torn open by the impossible—realize that the true devouring has already begun. For you are consumed by her, by the curve of her lips, by the desperation in her touch. Whatever the outcome, you will never leave this place whole.