Chapter 1 – The Ultimate Sacrifice
“Do you understand what must happen?” Kasparian asked in a severe tone.
Before him, on a large stone slab, lay a man. His blue shirt had once been an expensive piece of clothing, but it was torn and dirtied now. Sweat ran from his forehead, dripping onto the stone. His hands and feet were bound, and his eyes ran nervously around the room. “Y-yes. My sacrifice will give you the power to cure my daughter. P-please, help her. I have given everything.”
Kasparian looked at his ten disciples standing around the altar at the heart of the cave. A set of large white wings decorated the chest of their robes, and their faces were lit only by the crackling torches that hung along the cave’s crude walls.
Kasparian took a deep breath and placed his hand on the man’s moist forehead. “I will save your daughter and give her what my family never got – the gift of life.”
The man swallowed hard. “T-thank you, my lord bishop. Bless the gods and the followers of Gjandir.”
Kasparian summoned a smile, but a hollow one. He couldn’t afford to fail again. The look in the eyes of the poor souls turning to him for salvation haunted him every night. It would never have come to this if the gods would help everyone, not only true believers.
He brought out two items from a deep pocket in his robe – a purple crystal and a pitch-black onyx that he clenched in his hand. From the stone slab, he picked up a small knife and looked around at the men and women standing in a circle around him. Like the man who was about to sacrifice himself, his disciples looked to him for guidance and meaning. He had picked each of them from the streets and taken them into his house. They had all suffered terrible losses, and studying their gazes, he understood how far they would go to follow him. Their loyalty was undeniable.
“My friends, my family. We are here tonight to take matters into our own hands. For centuries we have prayed to the gods, hoping they would come to our aid. But where has that taken us?”
“To poverty and desperation!” one of the men shouted.
“I was forced to work in brothels when my husband died. Why didn’t they hear my prayers?” asked a small woman, scars covering her forehead and one cheek.
Kasparian nodded. “We have all suffered because of the so-called gods. Imagine what we could do with powers like theirs!” He raised the knife up high, and the man on the stone slab started shaking, the robe cutting into his flesh as he squirmed in anguish at the blade pointing down at his chest.
“The deepest desire of this man is to save his daughter from certain death. Like so many others, he is willing to sacrifice his own life for hers.” Kasparian looked down into the man’s eyes. “Pray to the gods. Pray that they will gift me all the energy your life force can provide. With that energy, I will be able to help your daughter.”
The man’s eyes widened, and he started praying, first as a whisper but then louder and louder. “Adalyn, the loved one – the most glorious of all the gods. Help me! I give my life to save my daughter. Hear my plea. My life for hers.”
The knife plunged into his chest, and he gasped for air, staring at the bloodied blade stabbing into his torso, again and again. His lifeblood streamed down the stone and dripped onto the floor. His head fell back, and he breathed out one last time.
Kasparian plunged his hand into the gore without hesitation, cutting out the man’s heart. He held it in both his hands together with the crystal and the onyx as he started whispering, “Gods, hear our prayers. This man gave the ultimate sacrifice, like Gjandir many centuries ago. Grant us your power. Show us the extent of your divinity, and we will perform miracles in your name.” He squeezed the three items in his hands, chanting, “E’hir nunor Adalyn, omira tasina.” He paused for a second before continuing with a flare incantation. “Mentiro illu av’ror.” Squeezing the heart further, blood ran through his fingers. He could feel the shadow energy of the black gem rushing up his arm as he activated the onyx and summoned a dark shroud that engulfed them all. He had performed this trick many times, but the utter darkness this illusion of the assassins created still made him shudder.
An eerie silence fell over the cave. The howling wind and the flickering flames of the torches were the only sounds heard.
When darkness slowly crept back into the onyx, the disciples all stared at him, but none dared to speak. Kasparian opened his hands slowly. The heart, the crystal and the onyx were still there. Nothing had changed.
He roared out as he threw the heart onto the floor, the last of the blood spraying on his boot. “False gods!” he shouted at the ceiling of the cave. “When will you listen? How many lives will it take?”
A woman sunk to her knees, and two others sat down further back in the cave – everyone with disappointment painted on their faces.
Kasparian was furious. He had failed them again. How many people had he sacrificed in his attempts to acquire just a fraction of the gods’ powers? Twenty? Twenty-five? He had lost count along the way. With anger rushing through his veins, he stuffed the two gems into his pocket and paced out of the cave into the chilly night.
An hour later, racing east on his mare across the plains to Kanthos, Kasparian’s blood had cooled slightly. Hatred had replaced anger – hatred against the so-called gods.
Far ahead, hundreds of large braziers burned atop the great walls of Kanthos. Kasparian growled as he looked over the city. The bishops probably slept safe and warm in their extravagant homes at this hour. The patriarchs of the followers of Gjandir were not lacking. Were they really worth more than the man in the cave who sacrificed himself for his daughter? Why had he less right to the divine power of those pompous birds in the sky than anyone else? Everyone worshipped them as gods, but Kasparian knew the truth. They were only wisaris, a foreign race living in the Realm of Light. Still, he couldn’t deny their rejuvenating powers.
Kasparian forced his heels into the mare, pushing it even harder. He had given his youth to the followers to save his family. His father was the first to die from the strange disease that took all four, slowly turning them into empty, mindless shells.
He had prayed day and night when his mother fell ill. The gods even took several years of his life when he offered it. In the beginning, it seemed to work, and she got better. But then the disease came back, and she started fading away once again. Why had they accepted his sacrifice only to let her die anyway? How could the gods be so cruel?
Years later, when his sisters fell ill, he was Bishop of Khur Cathedral. As a bishop, he understood the ways of the gods better and made his first human sacrifice. The woman was homeless and had come into his cathedral to pray. He’d offered food and wine in his private chambers and prayed for his sisters as he choked the woman, hoping one life could restore another. But even in his elevated position, it didn’t work. The gods didn’t accept a sacrifice not given willingly. Since that day, even simple prayers had stopped working for him. He could no longer use the prayer of intensified sight or heal injuries by drawing on his life force.
Galloping across the plain, Kasparian was deep into his own thoughts when a large, winged shadow cut through the air above his head. He pulled the reins back so hard that the horse’s rear hooves dug into the dirt, desperately trying to obey its rider’s command.
A cloud of dust rose as the horse finally came to a halt. Its heavy breathing was so loud and the dust so dense that both rider and mare were caught off guard once more when the winged creature landed less than five metres away. The mare kicked out several times and threw Kasparian from its back before racing off.
Kasparian hit the grass shoulder first, and a sharp pain stung him as he rolled over several times. But he forgot all about the pain as soon as he laid eyes on the creature standing before him. It was one of them – one of the gods.
The great feathery wings and the large eagle talons vanished as it moved closer, leaving a perfectly normal set of arms and legs. The man seemed young. He was slender and moved gracefully, his long white hair blowing in the wind and his bright yellow eyes almost glowing in the night. “Corrupted by heart. Betrayer of your own kind. You no longer deserve your title, bishop.” His voice was light, but his tone severe.
Kasparian stood and brushed the dirt off his trousers and shirt. His eyes narrowed at the wisari before him. “Are you… real? Have you come?”
The wisari frowned. “We know what you have done. We have seen how you treat those you claim to serve. If your cause were true, you would sacrifice only yourself.”
Kasparian shook his head, unable to take his eyes off the wisari. “B-but if you have seen everything, why didn’t you listen? Please, give me what I’m asking for – a chance to help everyone.”
“NO! Justice is the only thing you will find. You deserve to live the rest of your life in pain and misery for your sins. Yet, your fate is not up to us.”
Kasparian moved closer and reached for the wisari’s shoulders, wanting to shake some sense into the thing, but he never managed to touch it. It shoved Kasparian back to the ground with blinding speed and went into a defensive stance.
Kasparian got on his knees and shook his head. “Who are you to decide our worth? You rule the sky and might believe yourselves to be gods, but you’re nothing but imposters!”
The wisari’s wings and eagle talons reappeared, and it turned around, about to take off. The young man looked over his shoulder and said, “We did what we could to help, but your family was beyond saving, even for us. You went too far, and we had to make sure you would never hurt anyone again.”
Kasparian frowned. “What have you done?”
“We no longer involve ourselves in the affairs of Elonia. However, we will always aid those who believe in us, those willing to sacrifice themselves for others.” The wisari paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “When someone claiming to serve the light falls as far as you have, we have to act. You have broken your vow, and the bishops will judge you.”
The massive pair of wings whirled up dust as the wisari took off, rising fast into the air.
Kasparian’s lip curled as he eyeballed the wisari until he could no longer see it in the night sky. Back on his feet, he sprinted towards the eastern gate of Kanthos. He had to make it back before the bishops arrived. He had to save the rest of his disciples, those who had not joined them in the cave.