At noon, Laemno was brought to his chambers and presented with his robe for the upcoming Sacrificial Ceremony.
It was an immaculate white, so pure it shone under the sun's gaze. Verses from the Sidereal Revelations were woven into its fabric with silver threads, clustering around the collar like an ornamental instruction to tell the executioner where to put the blade.
The garb was complemented with a slightly modified Hierapetran himation, following local customs. It was shorter than the traditional wraps, resembling a silvery shawl with the Luminous Spear's sigil displayed through intricately sewn jewels.
They glittered like a night sky even with the dimmest light, which would undoubtedly enhance the ethereal atmosphere of the whole ritual.
Finally, the masterpiece was a crown of fake thorns chiseled from stones of Mount Eurymedon's highest peak. It had been used ever since Hierapetra's first Sacrificial Ceremony, more than a millennium and a half ago. Laemno's name was freshly carved on its surface, next to his predecessors'.
Phaedra, Helios, and Aphidnos...
Strangely enough, he felt melancholic at the sight of these names. All of them had held this very crown at some point in their lives, shortly before they were sacrificed for the sake of a barbaric tradition. Unlike him, they had no hope of escaping their fate and no assurance that they had value other than in death.
How did you feel, walking the steps of oblation under the gaze of tens of thousands, waiting for nothing else but for your blood to be spilled?
He glanced through a window, spotting the craterous aftermath of that ten-branched, cross-shaped pillar of light.
Not far from it, to the east, a pyramidal staircase was being built with great haste, bearing the heraldry of the Temple of Stars and Hierapetra's Hallowed Sovereign. At its top, an ancient altar, still sullied by the blood of the previous Celestial Offerings.
West of Priene, near the city gates, an endless procession of entire households, aristocrats, and lesser citizens was stumbling inside. With them came music, cheers, dancers, and other performers—all auguring the beginning of a new era through a grand festival.
They came from every corner of Hierapetra, wishing to witness the sacrifice of the Celestial Offering and the blessing of the Gods Beyond that would ensue.
They're in for a surprise, then. He smirked, fully determined to escape this destiny they burdened him with.
—
Meanwhile, in another wing of the Inner Monastery, within Father Phineus' office.
Novice Stolos, Priestess Lyra, and Bishop Antenor looked at the horrific scene with varied reactions.
The younger Stolos threw up his breakfast on the already stained carpet, the experienced Lyra stared at the mutilated body with shock and confusion, while the hardened Antenor was already analyzing whatever clues he could grasp.
Father Phineus' corpse was pinned to the wall with two stakes, one through his genitals and another through his heart.
His throat was carved open, and his tongue forcibly stuck out. A particular symbol was precisely burned on the flesh, displaying an open, wrathful eye. Lastly, his hands were cut off from the wrists, then nailed to each side of his neck in a pleading posture. A small pile of ash was present on each palm.
Above the defiled cadaver, the same symbol was drawn again with blood on the wall—a strange eye brimming with hatred.
"What... is this?" Lyra felt her stomach churn as the acidic pungency wafted in the closed room. She loudly swallowed, keeping her nausea at bay through sheer force of will.
"A punishment, if I had to guess." Antenor tsked in displeasure, then opened a window. "It hasn't started to smell yet, so he died less than 24 hours ago. No apparent signs of magecraft, either. Who discovered the body?"
A member of the Gilded Watch dragged a slave inside. She was female, petite in stature, and as jumpy as cornered prey.
"You," Antenor addressed her. "What's your name?"
"A—Aketa, Your Excellency..." She was trembling, frightened by the stares of everyone in the room. "I—I swear, I have nothing to do with this! I found him like that, and i—immediately ran to a temple guard."
The temple guard in question stepped forward. He was in his mid-thirties, and unlike the Gilded Watch, he didn't wear armor.
"She says the truth, Your Excellency," he added. "She came throwing her guts up, and I warned you as soon as I confirmed the situation."
A golden glint shone in Antenor's hazel eyes, sizing the slave and the temple guard. After a short silence, he sighed. "Seize them. They hold traces of hypnosis magecraft."
Before the temple guard or the slave could move, the Gilded Watch had already tackled them to the ground. Their mouths were gagged, and they were forcibly escorted out of the office, struggling in confusion.
Only the three magi remained inside, though Stolos was hazy enough to be considered half-asleep.
"Do you truly think they did it, Bishop?" Lyra asked.
Antenor looked back at the morbid crime scene, shaking his head. "I do not. The mystical influence within them is dormant. It has yet to be activated, meaning the hypnosis was implemented but not used. The killer must have planned to bewitch them for some other plan, but we'll know the truth of it soon enough."
Lyra calmed her beating heart, focusing on the details of the murder despite its sordid nature. "Killing Father Phineus is loathsome, but toying with his corpse after death is an even graver offense. I can't fathom why anyone would do something so vile."
"You have seen nothing of humanity's potential for depravity, Priestess," Antenor spoke somberly, seemingly recalling something far more sinister. "Beyond the western borders of our beloved Hierapetra, in the Profane Lands where blasphemers and malevolent entities prowl freely under the light of day, this is a common sight."
"Still," he added, "this act isn't without reason, as senseless as it may seem. Anyone who has spent some time in Gangra would often hear the tales of staked sinners, judged under the wrathful gaze of the Ashen Gift."
"The Ashen Gift?" Lyra felt a slight tremor in her Mana, born from her instinctive fear of the Profane Lands' unknown monstrosities. "Is it an entity worshipped by the Profaners?"
"Not an entity per se," Antenor calmly explained. "It's more of a force of nature, though perhaps associated with some vengeful deity. During times when the fighting in Gangra grows fierce, and our forces slaughter Profaners by the thousands, the Ashen Gift is known to appear."
"Those who have spilled too much blood would be found staked in a vaguely similar fashion as Father Phineus."
He pointed at the blood-painted eye, then at the handful of ash on each palm.
"The Profaners believe that the Ashen Gift punishes sinners for their wrongdoings, searing their soul until it can no longer find repose in the Netherworld. Whatever remains of it is said to materialize as ash atop their beseeching hands—a warning of sorts."