"Crimson sacrament"

February 8th, 2026

Greenland - 2:34 AM

Somewhere in the frozen, desolate wastes of Greenland, a blizzard howled across the ice as if mourning the land itself.

But buried deep beneath that cruel frost, beyond the reach of any map, a jagged fortress of ancient stone and obsidian jutted from a mountain, its spires clawing toward the heavens like fingers yearning for forbidden truths.

This was no ordinary place. This was the sanctum of The Matriarch's Promise.

A crimson glow pulsed like a heartbeat from within the fortress walls. Gargoyles with grotesque feminine faces snarled from their perches.

Their eyes, eerily lifelike, tracked the movement of cloaked figures gliding silently through the black courtyards.

Deep inside, the sanctum throbbed with unnatural warmth and dread.

In the great cathedral chamber, lit only by flaming torches and a massive blood-red symbol etched into the floor, a circle of cloaked women stood in absolute stillness.

Their ceremonial robes were stitched with ancient runes, their hands clasped in reverence, and around each of their necks hung the same necklace. The one Ray had seen. The one Angela wore. The one worn by the dead cultist in South Africa.

At the center of the circle, on her knees, was another cloaked woman, her head bowed as if in penance. But above her, on a raised platform over the glowing symbol, three men were bound.

They were gagged, stripped to the waist, and covered in cold sweat. Fear was etched onto every inch of their pale faces. Their eyes darted around the room in desperation, but there was no one here to save them.

A murmur began.

Soft at first, then rising, building like a crescendo of dread.

Latin.

A language long thought dead by scholars, now revived by women who whispered it like a spell. The sound was hypnotic, terrifying, holy and unholy all at once.

The kneeling woman stood, her movements fluid and regal.

Her hood fell.

And beneath it was her -

Risa Rourke.

Timeless. Ageless. Beautiful.

Her features had not aged a single day. Her porcelain skin gleamed like moonlight, unmarred by time. Her long sun-like blonde hair framed a face both angelic and demonic. Her once-soft silver eyes were now crimson. Not contact lenses. Not trickery. They glowed.

She stepped forward with the confidence of an empress. She did not look at the three men. Not yet. Instead, she raised her arms.

"Tonight," she spoke, her voice like honey soaked in venom, "we offer the souls of the unworthy to the great emptiness. Their flesh will nourish us. Their blood will guide us. Their terror will feed the womb of your Matriarch."

The cultists repeated her words in Latin, their voices rhythmic, synchronized, haunting.

The three men tried to scream behind their gags. Their eyes bulged. Their limbs jerked against their restraints. They knew what was coming.

Risa walked forward.

Two curved daggers appeared in her hands.

Black steel, engraved with the Matriarch's sigil. They shimmered under the crimson torchlight.

Then, without warning, Risa lunged.

The first man had no time to react. One of the daggers sank deep into his chest with a wet crunch. Risa twisted it, her crimson eyes gleaming. The man's muffled screams echoed through the cathedral. His blood sprayed across the altar, splashing onto her face.

And she smiled.

Not the smile of joy.

The smile of lust.

The second dagger found its home in the next man's throat. She carved upward, his scream turning to a sickening gurgle as blood fountained from his neck. The third man soiled himself. The cultists did not flinch.

Risa butchered them.

It was not a clean ritual.

It was an act of pure, animalistic violence.

She moved like a dancer, her daggers painting the room with gore. The men were reduced to broken meat and shattered bone. Arms severed. Ribcages torn open. Hearts exposed.

When it was done, she stood amidst their ruined bodies, breathing calmly, her body glistening with blood.

She licked her dagger slowly, sensually.

"Delicious," she whispered.

A murmur of reverence swept through the chamber.

Every cloaked woman dropped to her knees, bowing in total submission.

"Matriarch," they chanted.

Risa turned and smiled. "My daughters," she said softly. "Another offering has been accepted. We are one step closer."

Two women stepped forward from the shadows. Their hoods fell back, revealing beautiful, ageless faces twisted by fanatical devotion.

"Matriarch," one began, her voice trembling, "the Patriarch is aware. He now senses our influence in Japan."

Risa smirked. The blood on her lips made the expression more terrifying.

"My son," she whispered, touching her own cheek with a bloodstained hand. "My loving son."

"But... does he know his role?" the second woman asked carefully. "The role he was born to fulfill?"

"Not yet," Risa replied. "But he will. Soon. He is the destined one. The Patriarch to my everlasting kingdom."

Her voice was soft. Loving. Sensual. The kind of voice a mother shouldn't use. But to Risa, there was no such boundary.

"Should we initiate contact?" one follower asked.

Risa's gaze darkened.

"No. Not yet. Give him more time. Let him feel the pull. Let the world crumble around him. He will run to me. He always does."

The two women bowed.

"And hear me well," Risa continued, her voice laced with poison. "You are to watch over him. Protect him. But if he is harmed..."

She turned slowly.

"If so much as a hair on his head is touched... you will all know what incomprehensible punishment means."

The air grew still. A chill swept the chamber despite the torchlight.

"Yes, Matriarch," both women said in perfect unison, their faces pale.

Then Risa's tone changed again.

Sweet. Possessive.

"And if any woman dares get close to him -"

She looked over her shoulder, smiling.

"Kill them. No hesitation."

A final chant began, more frenzied this time. The name of the Matriarch echoed through the stone halls.

Risa walked forward. The two women followed behind her like shadows.

As she exited the blood-drenched cathedral, the camera lingered.

On the altar.

Where the three men had been.

Now reduced to parts.

One arm dangled from the edge. One head, jaw dislocated and eyes gouged out, stared blankly at the ceiling. Hearts still beat faintly on the stone floor, twitching in postmortem spasms.

Crimson mist filled the air.

And deep beneath the castle, something ancient stirred.