Chapter 406

The village of Xaxt was a place hidden far up in the mountains, away from the reach of most travelers. The jagged peaks formed a wall that kept the world out, and the only thing that connected it to the outside was the single path that snaked through the rocks, barely visible under the weight of the ever-present fog.

The air always smelled like pine and wet stone, but there was something else too. Something sharp, like decay.

At first glance, Xaxt looked normal, just like any other place where people worked hard and lived simple lives. But it wasn't. They fought with marbles.

The game was simple in principle. Each person had their set of marbles, shiny and smooth like little eyes, and they'd flick them at each other.

The rules were basic, but the stakes were high. Whoever lost—whoever couldn't keep their marbles intact—was sacrificed. The sacrifice, it was said, kept the god that protected Xaxt happy, ensured good harvests and safety from the things that lurked in the mountains.

The people accepted this, even embraced it. Every year, the town would gather, the elders would pick the matchups, and the loser's marbles would be tossed into the mouth of the cave deep in the mountain. The ritual was necessary, or so they believed. For peace. For survival.

No one ever questioned it. Until Arlo came.

Arlo wasn't like the others. He had come from the city, a place filled with noise, lights, and distractions. He was just passing through, seeking refuge for a night, but once he stepped into the village, something changed.

There was a strange pull, a curiosity that dug into him and made him stay longer than he intended. He told himself it was just for the night, but as the sun dipped low, casting the mountain in a dim purple light, he started hearing murmurs.

He didn't understand at first. He thought they were just playing some childhood game, a tradition like any other.

The people of Xaxt were small, quiet, their faces hidden beneath the heavy hoods of their coats, eyes too dark to catch in the dim light. No one spoke to him directly, but there was always someone watching. And he didn't like it. Not one bit.

But there was something else too. Something about their eyes. Those eyes… they were tired. Hollow. Dead, almost. They looked like people who'd seen too much, and still, they played on.

Arlo didn't know the first thing about marbles, but he was intrigued by the spectacle of it all. The quiet reverence that the villagers had when they played. The way they stared at the smooth marbles as if they held the key to something far greater than just a game. It was eerie, but he couldn't tear his eyes away.

At first, he thought it was all part of some strange ritual. But after watching for a few days, he started to realize something. There were no winners. No one ever truly won the game. And that's when he understood the price of losing.

It was the children who explained it to him, though they didn't say much. They simply watched, eyes wide and serious, their fingers twitching toward their marbles. Arlo overheard them one evening, huddled around a fire, speaking in whispers like it was some terrible secret. But their words were clear.

"The one who loses," said one, a young girl with dirt under her nails, "gets chosen."

"Chosen for what?" Arlo had asked. His voice felt too loud in the silence of the mountain.

They didn't respond at first. But one of them—the smallest boy, with sharp, bright eyes—looked up at him. "To feed the god."

The weight of that sentence sat heavily in his chest. He didn't ask any more questions. He just watched.

The games continued every evening, and each one played out like the last. Each person flicked their marbles, and when the game was over, the marbles of the loser were tossed into the cave. They didn't scream, they didn't beg. They simply went, their eyes empty as if they had accepted their fate. It didn't matter who lost, they would always be offered to the god.

Then came the day when Arlo was chosen.

It was a day like any other, the sky overcast with clouds that seemed to press down on the village like a heavy weight.

The game had started early that day, the air already thick with tension. It was Arlo's turn, and he was supposed to play. He didn't want to. He didn't know how to play. But there were no refusals in Xaxt. No one ever said no.

The marbles were placed before him, gleaming in the dim light. He picked one up, felt its smooth surface, the coldness of it. He flicked it in the air, and it soared off, too quickly, too wild, and he knew he had lost the moment it left his fingers.

It was over. He knew it before they even told him. The villagers had already gathered, their eyes on him, their faces unreadable. He saw the girl again, the one who had spoken to him before. She looked at him with a mixture of pity and resignation.

He didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.

The elders stepped forward. Their faces were worn, their movements slow and deliberate. The smallest boy stepped forward too, his hands shaking. He held a marble in his palm. One of the villagers, the oldest woman there, came over and gently closed his hand around it. Then she turned to Arlo.

"You will go to the cave now," she said. Her voice was low, like the sound of a distant storm. "You will give yourself to the god."

The cave. He had heard about it. The god. He had heard the rumors. Some said the god was an ancient being, older than the mountains themselves. Others said it was something much worse, a creature that had demanded sacrifices for centuries. But none of it mattered. Not anymore.

Arlo didn't resist. He couldn't. He stood, feeling his legs shake beneath him, and he walked with the elders toward the cave.

It wasn't far. The path was narrow, winding through thick trees that pressed in from both sides, their branches hanging like skeletons in the gloom. When they reached the entrance to the cave, it was like stepping into a black pit.

The air inside was heavy with the scent of earth and rot, and the darkness swallowed them whole. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the walls, but there was nothing else. No voice. No words. Only silence.

They stopped in the middle of the cave, and the elders made a circle around him. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. They simply watched.

The boy with the marble stepped forward again. He looked up at Arlo, his eyes wide, trembling, and placed the marble on the ground at Arlo's feet.

"The god will take what it needs," the elder said. "This is how it must be."

Arlo didn't move. He couldn't. He wasn't sure if it was fear or something else entirely, but the weight of their gazes made him want to scream. But he didn't. Instead, he sank to his knees, his hand reaching for the marble.

He wasn't sure what he expected to happen. Maybe he thought the god would come, some great and terrible thing with eyes that burned, or a creature with too many limbs, reaching for him from the dark. But nothing came. The marble was cold in his hand, heavier than it had ever felt before. The silence stretched on, longer and longer.

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Arlo placed the marble in his mouth.

It wasn't supposed to end this way. He had lost, and the game was over. But it didn't feel like a game anymore. The marble sat like a stone in his throat, and he could feel something inside him breaking. The cave seemed to close in, its darkness pressing against him, filling his chest, suffocating him.

He tried to scream. He couldn't.

The last thing Arlo remembered was the sound of the marble cracking in his mouth, the taste of blood, and the coldness of the stone beneath him. The villagers never moved. They never said anything. They just watched as the life drained from him, the god's demand fulfilled, and another sacrifice was made.