The ritual

Laughter and music echoed through the stone walls, a sharp contrast to the cold, damp dungeon where Nana and Callan sat. The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine drifted through the air, making Nana's stomach twist painfully with hunger.

She shifted closer to a small hole in the wall, just big enough to see through. Outside, the village was alive with celebration. Torches burned brightly, casting golden light on the faces of the men who drank and danced. Plates piled high with food were passed around, and barrels of ale were opened, spilling onto the dirt as warriors clashed cups in drunken joy.

"They're celebrating," Nana muttered, bitterness coating her voice.

Callan, sitting against the opposite wall, didn't move. "Of course they are."

She glanced at him. "Why?"

His expression was a little cold, but his voice was hollow. "Because they won. Because they killed everyone we love and took whatever they wanted."

Nana swallowed hard, her hands curling into fists. She wanted to scream, to throw herself against the iron bars, to demand why they were forced to sit here, broken and hungry, while their captors feasted on the destruction of their lives.

But all she could do was watch.

Men cheered as a group of warriors lifted a massive cup in a toast. A soldier laughed loudly, throwing his arm around another as they spoke of the blood they spilled. Others danced around the fire, their shadows stretching long into the night.

Nana's chest ached. Her people were dead, her home was gone, and now, these men celebrated as if it was all just a game.

She turned away from the hole, her heart heavy with rage and sorrow. "I hate them."

Callan's voice was quiet but firm. "Good."

The moment the Devourer stepped onto the grand platform, the celebration ended instantly. Conversations died, laughter faded, and every man in the village fell silent. No one dared to speak in his presence.

He moved with a controlled grace, his dark robes flowing behind him as he took his seat on the massive throne at the center of the square. The firelight flickered against his face, casting shadows that made him look both ethereal and terrifying.

A man stepped forward—one of his trusted guards or perhaps his assistant. He unrolled a parchment with steady hands and cleared his throat before speaking.

"The Devourer has spoken," the man announced, his voice carrying through the dead silence. "It is time."

A hush fell over the crowd, as if they all knew what was coming.

The man continued reading. "The ritual will begin tonight. As it has been for years, the destruction must be completed. Every village will burn, and from the ashes, only two shall rise."

A murmur rippled through the gathered warriors, but no one dared to interrupt.

"The guards will bring out the hostages," the assistant continued, his tone never wavering. "They will serve their purpose in the ritual."

Nana felt her blood run cold.

Callan tensed beside her, his jaw clenched. "They're talking about us," he murmured.

Footsteps echoed down the stone corridor leading to their cell.

The guards were coming.

The dungeon door burst open with a crash, and before Nana or Callan could react, rough hands seized them.

"Let go!" Nana twisted, trying to break free, but the grip on her arms was like iron.

Callan fought, too, kicking and thrashing, but it was useless. The guards were stronger, trained for this. Within moments, their struggles were over, and they were being dragged through the dark corridors.

The night air hit them as they were pulled into the open square. The villagers stood in clusters, their faces illuminated by the torches burning around the grand platform.

All eyes turned to them.

Some people looked at them with pity, their gazes flickering with brief hesitation. But most of them… most of them watched with cruel satisfaction. There was no sympathy in their expressions, only hunger for the ritual, for the destruction it would bring.

Nana's stomach twisted. They didn't care that she and Callan were just children. To them, they were nothing more than pawns in a tradition soaked in blood.

On the grand platform, the Devourer sat on his throne, unmoving, watching. His presence alone was suffocating.

The guards forced Nana and Callan to their knees.

The ritual was about to begin.