"You can't do this to me… You can't leave me out when I'm this close!" Victoria spat, crawling forward, her hands scraping the cold stone.
"It's the rules. You were voted out. It's the best way to avoid confusion. Please… accept it," Leir said, his tone steady.
His words cut through her like ice. She understood them differently. To her, giving up this chance was surrendering her pursuit of magic, abandoning her revenge, ignoring her father's death, Benedict's sacrifice, and the fate of Auronis. Her chest heaved; the world felt like it had shattered.
"Accept it!? Accept what!? This is my life we are speaking of—my kingdom! Greater than me, greater than you, greater than any of this! Do you know what I endured to get here!? Do you know what I sacrificed!? I will never accept this! Never! Never! Never!" Her scream echoed through the vast chamber of affliction, burning with fury, her eyes dark as molten obsidian.
Even the group was taken aback; such raw, unbridled rage was expected from few, but she surpassed them all.
Haltor stepped forward, moving with calm authority, and bent to her level, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder. In her gaze, he saw the same unquenched thirst for vengeance that had once consumed him, the same fire he had struggled to master.
"Poor woman… I see the injustice that gnaws at you, the pain that devours your soul. But the rules are the rules. No one's place can be exchanged for yours. Respect them, and accept your fate," Haltor spoke, his voice soft but unwavering.
Victoria lifted her eyes to meet his, fierce and unbroken. "Fate is not imposed. It is chosen. And I do not remember choosing this one." Her gaze held his without falter, a steel-edged defiance burning in every word.
I see…" Haltor murmured, closing his eyes. She won't give up, no matter what we say. If she resists, she'll hinder our passage. Her frame is frail—I must be careful… the neck, that's the safest.
"Forgive me," he whispered to Victoria, a fleeting sadness flickering in his gaze. Then, with practiced precision, he knocked her out.
Sigrid, Eliane, and Eliakim looked away, unable to watch. Levor, on the other hand, laughed outright.
"Good for her! What a burden!" he jeered.
Haltor's head snapped back, and his glare froze Levor in place—a look so chilling it needed no words. The message was clear.
"Shut the hell up!" his eyes seemed to say.
"Let's move," Haltor finally commanded, turning toward the tower.
The group approached the looming structure and stood before the respective doorways. At Leir's signal, they stepped forward. The entrance swallowed them like the sea, as if they were diving into the ocean's depths.
As Leir advanced, his gaze lingered on one of the guarding statues. He had deciphered its meaning long ago but had chosen not to share it. These praying figures, common in archaic magical libraries, symbolized mercy.
Mercy… why mercy, of all things? He wondered silently, lost in thought, until the doorway finally claimed him and the other ten non-mages.
Meanwhile, Victoria lay unconscious on the cold floor of the otherworldly chamber, her breath shallow, isolated in the eerie silence.
***
Outside, in front of the cave, the moonlight danced across the desolate forest.
A member of the Agape cult had stepped aside into the bushes, relieving himself.
"This feels so good that I could… oh!" he exclaimed, his tongue lolling, perverse delight.
"That's disgusting, Lestrude. You behave like a pig," a woman, Nolin, replied from not far away, her expression twisted in disgust as she continued her knitting.
"Ah, is honesty a sin nowadays? At least I'm honest about it," Lestrude retorted, laughing. "Not like Nolin, who had a threesome just a few days ago, and then went preaching in the name of the goddess the next morning!"
The other cult members laughed along, having removed their cloaks, drinking and gambling together under the moonlight.
Nolin raised her middle finger at Lestrude, her expression one of sharp, amusing disdain, silently replying to his vulgar joke.
Dolores and Pritish had observed the group ever since the non-mages had entered the cave. What they witnessed was behaviour so contradictory to that of a normal religious group.
"Pritish… something feels off here, don't you think?" she asked, unease tightening her voice.
"What do you mean? We were told to stay put and get paid tomorrow. So, stop acting like a little princess until dawn," Pritish said, counting the small coins in her hand with casual nonchalance.
"No, it's more than that… I don't think we're in good hands."
Before Pritish could answer—before they could even blink—Lestrude moved like a whispered rumour, slipping behind them. In one swift motion, his hands delivered two precise strikes to their napes, paralyzing them temporarily.
"What…" Pritish thought, confusion stiffening her mind.
"I… I can't move!" Dolores shared the same disbelief, her body frozen.
"Why do you think you're not in good hands?" Lestrude asked, his smile gentle yet evilly distorted.
"But don't worry," he continued, his voice mockingly soothing, "it's only natural to question everything when you're new… after all, you've served barely two weeks. Tell me, did you expect our cult to be a lovey-dovey band?"
He pressed closer, violating their personal space, his hands roaming over their bodies while he licked his lips. The women, paralyzed, could only tremble in helpless fear, their eyes darting for someone to intervene—but no one did. The other cult members continued gambling and cheering as if nothing were amiss.
"Why don't you resist? Is your fear of death stronger than your desire to preserve your purity? Are you inviting me to do as I wish?" Lestrude whispered perverse questions, taunting them.
But his psychotic display was abruptly halted by Nolin.
"Take your disgusting hands off them! Lord Damian personally brought them here, you fool!" she snapped.
"I was merely introducing myself… we are fellow members of the Agape Cult, after all," Lestrude said, stepping back, removing his hands from their napes as if nothing had happened, a mock-innocent smile plastered on his face.
"Tch!" Nolin chuckled, seeing straight through his act of pretence.
The two women stood there, panting and sweating, their hearts racing. Though decently dressed and covered by cloaks, they instinctively tried to shield themselves as if they were completely naked, the trauma of the encounter settling over them like a shadow.
Though he had stopped physically harassing them, Lestrude did not leave their side. Instead, he launched into a monologue, revealing the dark truth of the ceremony to Dolores and Pritish. One reason he was so widely disliked in the Agape Cult was not only his perverse tendencies but his insufferable loquacity.
"What you are witnessing is a ritual of empowerment, not some charity magic ceremony," he began, smiling as he lifted his gaze to the full moon.
"A ritual?" Dolores and Pritish thought in unison, surprise and confusion mingling in their minds.
"The purpose is to strengthen the goddess of love, not grant any worthless piece of crap magic," he continued. "The non-mages who foolishly volunteered to enter the cave, hoping their wishes would be granted, are nothing but nourishment for her. Thanks to the Lord Patriarch, everything proceeds according to plan. This will be a long and… entertaining night. Full moons are always the best!"
A crooked smile twisted his face as he mocked them, the moonlight casting an eerie glow over his figure.
"Nourishment!?" The words echoed in the minds of both women, their confusion deepening. Their reasons for joining the cult had been far removed from anything Lestrude described.
"What did we get ourselves into?" Dolores and Pritish asked themselves, a wary dread settling over them as the night stretched ahead.
Not far from them, closer to the cave entrance, Gizvhell sat alone on a rock, lost in thought. Unlike the other cult members, his face remained immobile, etched with anger and twisted by regret—something clearly gnawed at him.
"Why didn't I kill her on the spot? No… that would have scared off the other candidates and angered Lord Damian. They said he personally brought her here, that he saw some rare potential in her. Potential? What potential could he possibly see in this… thing? What are his plans for her? How did she catch his attention? Does he like her? Is she… his type? No. He likes them dead."
His thoughts tormented him, gnawing at his mind as he bit his finger in frustration—so hard that he broke a nail in the process. The sharp pain brought a twisted satisfaction, and he allowed himself a small, grim smile.
"Ah yes… I nearly forgot. I needn't worry about her anymore. She will be devoured by the goddess anyway."
A short distance away, Nolin sat cross-legged on the mossy ground, perfectly still. Her hands moved deliberately, weaving five human faces together with threads. Each stitch was precise, yet grotesque—the mouths frozen in silent screams. She hummed softly to herself, a quiet lullaby for her victims.
"In the end… I'm the only sane one here," she thought. Calm. Reasonable. Perfectly composed.
***
In the depths of the desolated forest, Damian indulged a sadistic habit tied to the ritual. Whenever the full moon reached its apex, on the night of the ceremony, right after the non-mages entered the cave, he would isolate himself in the deepest corner of the rotten woods for preparations he deemed intimate.
That night, like every other mirroring it, reinforced by a powerful protective spell, he violently uprooted and savagely devoured countless mandragoras, heedless of their cries.
He had developed this practice for these plants, which harboured special properties that boosted his libido, for rituals indulging dark magic.
Though his protective spell shielded his entire body from the plants' toxicity, side effects—nausea and temporary madness—were unavoidable. A phase he never wanted revealed to his subordinates or anyone else.
Why indulge in such acts? One may ask.
The patriarch had a secret. Since the age of six, he had been fascinated by the usefulness of non-living things. The notion that something deprived of life could bring relief to an existence filled with the breath of life had always enthralled him.
Yet deeper still, what he carved into his heart was the concept of unequivocal acceptance. As one who had never found love or acceptance from his family, he developed a twisted attraction to corpses, regardless of deformity, ever since the first time he felt comfort in the cold arms of his deceased mother, who had rejected him from birth.
"The dead don't discriminate, they don't hate, they don't betray, they don't cheat, they don't complain, they are generous, they are compassionate, they are love."
This was the conclusion Damian reached at eight years old.
The mandragora dose he consumed would fuel his body for two days straight with scarcely an ounce of rest. But thanks to his mastery over mana, he could remotely modulate its effects.
As he danced and hallucinated under the lingering side effects, he drooled at the thought of offering his love to the corpses the goddess would leave behind after her nourishment. He discriminated neither by gender nor by appearance in these heinous acts.
For Lord Patriarch Damian Ranickvol, respected across Utopia for his preaching of love, was nothing more than a notorious and passionate necrophile.