episode 2
873 Words
Other girls in white robes joined her. All had braids. All had pale faces.
Some girls looked strong. Some looked small and scared. One girl cried quietly.
Nyx looked only at the ground. Step. Step. Another step.
They came to a big stone platform in front of the Temple steps.
The Keepers told them to sit.
There were no chairs. Only cold stones in a straight line.
They faced the people behind iron fences.
Families. Neighbors. Strangers.
Everyone came to watch because it is tradition.
Mothers held their children too tight. Fathers stood like stone.
All eyes were on the girls
The Keeper with the longest gray sleeve stepped forward.
No words. No names yet.
He just pointed one gloved finger at the girl on the far left.
She stood up slowly. Her legs shook a little, but she hid it.
Everyone in the crowd watched and held their breath.
She walked to the stone table. She stopped at the first silver bowl in the row of twenty-three.
It was hers. Shiny. Empty. It looked like a tiny open grave in the torchlight.
The person with the black knife stepped next to her.
The sharp obsidian blade caught the firelight.
“Palm,” the Keeper said. The voice was flat and hidden under the hood.
The girl held out her left hand. No shaking. No waiting.
We all learned this since we were small children.
Palm up. Fingers straight.
The cut was fast. A thin line across the palm.
Just deep enough.
Blood came out right away bright red on pale skin.
The Keeper held her hand carefully with gloved fingers.
Three drops fell into the bowl.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
The sound was loud in the quiet.
The girl did not move. Did not cry out. She looked straight ahead.
The knife person pressed clean cloth on the cut and tied it.
The Keeper looked at the blood in the bowl, then put it down.
The girl went back to her place. She sat and held her bandaged hand.
No tears. No sound.
One done.
The finger pointed again.
Another girl stood. Same steps. Same hand. Same cut. Three drops.
Back to the row.
Again.
And again.
Every time the knife cut, the crowd breathed out a little.
They felt glad it was not their daughter.
They felt scared it might be next.
The air started to smell like blood. Not too strong yet, but real.
I counted in my head.
Fifth girl.
Eighth.
Twelfth.
The bowls slowly got small pools of blood. Some still empty. Some red like rubies in the light.
No glow yet. No strange movement. The Keepers just watched with blank faces.
My turn came closer.
Fifteenth.
Sixteenth.
My heart beat so loud I thought the girl next to me could hear it.
I stared at the bowls. I tried to guess which one was mine.
They all looked almost the same. Tiny scratches. Small marks. Light on the edges.
I could not tell.
One of them waited for my blood.
Seventeenth.
Eighteenth.
The finger pointed again.
This time it pointed right at me.
Nyx.
No one said my name, but everyone knew.
Whispers moved through the crowd like dry leaves.
I felt Mother watching from behind the fence. I felt Father’s heavy silence.
I stood up.
My legs felt numb. The robe dragged on the stone.
The short walk felt very long and very fast at the same time.
I stopped at the nineteenth bowl.
It looked like the others shiny and empty.
But this one was mine.
I held out my left hand. Fingers straight. Chin up. Eyes forward. No fear on my face.
The black knife came close.
For a second I saw my own face in the dark stone—small and strange.
“Palm steady,” the Keeper said quietly.
The cut came.
Sharp. Cold. Then burning hot.
Blood came fast. Brighter than I thought.
The Keeper moved my hand over the bowl.
Three drops fell.
Plink.
Plink.
Plink.
The blood spread slowly in the silver bowl.
No light. No swirl. Just red on red.
They bandaged my hand tight and quick.
The pain became a dull ache.
I walked back. I sat. I held my bandaged hand in my lap.
The cutting continued.
Twentieth girl.
Twenty-first.
Twenty-second.
Twenty-third.
Now all twenty-three bowls had blood in them.
Small pools that would decide our futures.
The Keepers took the bowls.
Two carried trays with seven or eight each.
One walked behind.
They went up the steps into the inner part of the Temple.
A big basin waited there.
They would pour the blood in.
They would watch.
They would wait.
Twenty-four hours.
In twenty-four hours they would come back to this platform.
They would tell us who the blood chose.
I looked at my bandaged palm.
A small red spot was already showing through the cloth.
Where would my life go?
To a stranger I never met?
To silence no match go home but marked as refused forever?
Or to nothing like the girls who chose the river or the rope before today?
I did not know.
No one knew.
All I knew was this:
The cut was made.
My blood had started to speak.
- Writer
