Story 1139: The Offering

They brought him in chains, barefoot and blindfolded, his knees scraped raw from miles of stone. The sky above Greybridge had turned the color of dried blood—no stars, no sun, only the yawning hush that came after the Choir of the Hollow Ones began their endless, voiceless hymn.

He was the Offering.

His name was Thane Weller, though none dared speak it aloud. Names gave shape, gave weight, and the Spiral wanted things unshaped.

The masked clergy of the Silent Chapel led him to the altar where once the heart of the city beat. Now, only the monolith of the Mouth That Waits pulsed in its place—bone and stone, fused together with forgotten prayers. No song was sung. No chant was made. But the pressure of silence pressed into Thane’s ears until his head rang like a cracked bell.

He was not the first offering, but he might be the last.

The Spiral had grown hungry.