Wyndon
"And the flesh of a mortal king returns to the stomach of the gods," the priest Pale Moon proclaimed, holding his skinny arms out wide as he stood in front of the altar, adorned in nothing but a white loincloth, bearing his old skeletal body for the entire congregation to see.
The priest's voice echoed off the dark marble walls eerily and Wyndon shifted his weight uncomfortably. None of the torches inside the tower were lit. The only light was that of the sun where its rays had managed to worm their way through cracks in the gemstone roof.
There were nearly three hundred people gathered, but Wyndon could see none of their faces – all of them hung in the shadows. He stood by the carved stone altar where his father's body lay, ten steps higher than everyone else, close enough to Pale Moon to smell the decaying of his old flesh.
His little sister Ver grasped for his hand, not enjoying the foreboding silence that hung in the air. He was only in his twelfth year, and a Ritual funeral sent shivers down Wyndon's spine. It was even worse for Ver, being three. Wyndon squeezed her hand back.
"Mouth of the gods, receive our sacrifice," the crowd muttered as one. Next to Wyndon, he heard his mother whisper the same line. He looked up at her, searching for reassurance. She held herself gracefully, poising the lips of her white powdered face confidently. Dressed in black silken robes, she was the very image of a Duke's lady. Wyndon wondered why he could not be the perfect Duke's son.
There was the mellow creak of cooling brickwork somewhere off in the shadows. The building was so old that its creaks came as frequently as conversation. They had tended the ceremony for four hours already and as Wyndon's mind began to wander, he imagined the building beginning to collapse around them.
The sharp shatter of breaking glass awakened him from such a delusion.
He flinched his panic and looked up towards the ceiling, trying to find the gap where the tile had fallen from. No one else seemed to notice the sound. The congregation betrayed no reaction, and when Wyndon looked to his mother, she only turned to offer him a gentle smile, a smile that made him feel very young and very foolish. He straightened himself and pulled his shoulders back, folding his hands behind him, trying to appear older than he was.
When a second tile smashed against the floor, he did not betray a single reaction, knowing that there was simply a bird or some other such creature loosening them. And then another fell another, and then another, until it seemed like the sky was raining pottery. Wyndon glanced around urgently, freeing up his hands should he need to protect himself or his sister. He was shocked to see that no one else even acknowledged it. They stood there in a golem's silence, ignoring it entirely.
When the shattering finally stopped, it was immediately replaced by a tremor that shot through the ground and rocked his feet into unbalance. Ver clung to him as he clung to her, doing their best to remain upright. An earthquake, Wyndon thought to himself, a light one. Knowing the cause of the interruption gave him confidence, for he had seen his fair share of earthquakes.
Following the tremors, a gust of warm moist air hit the back of his neck. He turned his head, expecting to see a hole in the wall, but instead, he was met with the wet black nose of an animal. An animal so large that its nostrils alone were nearly as big as Wyndon's head. The rest of its bulky being was still cloaked in shadow but the immense menace of its presence froze Wyndon cold with fear.
"Out of the way, sweetling," his mother said, putting her hand across his shoulders to sweep him to the side as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Ver ran after them in a blind panic, clutching hold of her mother's leg like a koala to a tree.
The beast made its entrance. It padded into the light and wandered up the pyramid of steps atop the altar, one paw for three marble steps. It stood behind Pale Moon and parted its whale-like jaws in a relaxed yawn, revealing rows of sharp white teeth and canines as big as swords. It shook itself then, casting the last of the stone from its back and freeing up its black fur. That colossal hound sat down in a heap, panting like a domesticated beast a tenth its size. It looked to Pale Moon with tame obedience, waiting for a signal of some sort. The priest merely pointed with a long and bony finger towards Shern Ritual's body and the dog's tail began to wag, wreathing like a giant sea snake.
It extended the red carpet of its tongue and dragged Wyndon's father into its mouth. There was a sickening crunch and a spout of blood. The legs fell to the floor with a wet meaty sound whilst the torso and head were ground to a flesh putty inside the hound's mouth. Blood escaped from its jaws, a hellish amount of it, splashing onto the altar in bucket loads, flecking against Pale Moon's bare skin and disturbing Nephasis' makeup, dying the white of her skin a deep red. A thick puddle fell onto Wyndon's head and splashed onto his sister. The cold liquid ran down his robes and against his skin. His mind flashed white as he struggled to process the horror of what he was forced to see.
The blood crept down the steps and into the eight-pointed star of the guttering, lighting it up in red. The crowd stood guard as an army of stone men, unmoving, unyielding, without a shred of reaction.
Pale Moon dabbed his finger into the blood and drew a red spiral upon his jutting belly.
Wyndon could deal with it no longer. He squeezed his eyes closed and his body was overcome by the urge to vomit. The cold blood soaked into his robes and reddened the bracelets of gold that cuffed his sleeves. His breathing grew more urgent and panicked, each breath provided too little oxygen, his head grew light and the fear climaxed.
A hand on his shoulder and he dared to squint his eyes open.