Story 1132: Sacrament of the Stag

They came at dusk, barefoot and blindfolded, clothed in linen stained with sap and blood. Twelve villagers from Dagger’s Hollow, led into the heart of Moonwood by an old tradition no one remembered the origin of—only that it was followed, year after year, or the Stag would come hungry.

They called it the Sacrament. But it was no offering of peace.

It was penance.

At the front of the procession walked High Matron Durell, eyes bound like the rest. Her staff was carved from alder and adorned with bones of prey animals. She guided them past the old stones, each etched with a different sigil: sunken eyes, fractured spirals, blooming antlers.

All around them, the forest exhaled fog.

None dared speak. The hush wasn’t sacred—it was enforced. The woods listened. The Stag listened.

When they reached the Glade of Antlers, they formed the circle.