CHAPTER 3 – The Priestess Falls
1324 Words
The massive temple doors stood defiantly open, their ancient bronze hinges groaning against the ferocity of the storm that lashed the sacred grounds with sheets of stinging rain and howling winds.
Maria stood tall and unwavering at the summit of the gleaming marble steps, her long silver cloak now heavy and soaked through, clinging to her form like a second skin, yet her regal bearing remained unshaken by both the tempest and the chaos below. Lightning split the darkened sky behind her, momentarily casting her silhouette in stark relief against the temple's imposing columns. She drew a deep breath and raised her arms with deliberate slowness toward the seething mob below—hundreds of men and women of the Sea Kingdom who had gathered despite the elements, their faces contorted with anguish, their eyes fever bright with a volatile mixture of desperation, rage, and the dangerous glint of those who have nothing left to lose. The crowd surged forward, then retreated like the very tides they once revered, their collective voice rising above even the thunder's rumble.
“Peace!” she cried, voice clear despite the wind. “You come with fear in your hearts, but fear will not bring calm to the sea.”
The crowd growled, shuffling closer. Torches flared, casting red shadows on the stone.
“Your daughter!” a fisherman bellowed. “Where is she, Priestess?”
“You kept her hidden from the Sea God!” another accused. “You’ve cursed us!”
Maria didn't flinch. She lowered her arms deliberately and stepped forward with quiet resolve, her bare feet making no sound as they glided across the ancient stone of the temple floor. The torchlight cast dancing shadows across her determined face, highlighting the unwavering confidence in her eyes.
"She is not cursed," she said, her voice ringing clear and powerful through the cavernous space. "She is chosen."
The mob, which had been surging forward with murderous intent just moments before, fell momentarily quiet. They exchanged uncertain glances, visibly taken aback by the calm certainty radiating from Maria's voice and stance. Some lowered their makeshift weapons slightly, doubt beginning to creep into their previously unshakable conviction.
Maria’s eyes swept over them, not with anger but with sorrow.
“I have served our god since I was a girl,” she said, “and I have seen signs others ignore. I have seen the winds shift before the sky darkens. I have heard the silence beneath the waves before storms were born. And I have seen a vision of my daughter standing beside her fated mate, binding sea and mountain together.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“She was never meant to be a sacrifice,” Maria continued. She was meant to be a bridge. Her time had not yet come. I waited because I trusted the gods would show us when it was right. You must have faith.”
But the word faith struck a bitter chord.
Faith had not filled empty bellies or repaired sunken boats. Faith had not saved drowned husbands, or children shivering beneath leaking roofs.
“She’s lied to us for years!” a woman screamed. “Let her pay!”
Torches rose. The mob surged up the steps.
Maria lifted her chin and stepped back, beckoning them in. “Then come,” she said. “Let the gods judge me.”
The temple swallowed the storm’s sound as the villagers poured in, wet and furious. The scent of sea salt and sweat mingled with burning oil. The ancient hall, carved from white limestone and bleached driftwood, seemed to hold its breath.
Maria stood before the ancient altar, her slender fingers tracing the intricate carvings on the worn stone basin that generations ago had brimmed with fragrant oils and exotic fruits as offerings to the temperamental sea gods. It was bone dry now, a network of spiderweb cracks spreading across its once-smooth surface, fine dust collecting in the crevices where saltwater had once glistened.
She looked tired, dark half-moons shadowing her eyes, her shoulders slumped beneath the weight of unspoken burdens.
“Listen to me,” she said again, softer this time. “She is not your offering." The god does not want her blood.”
“No god leaves storms this long without a price,” someone muttered.
“No fish for months—”
“The twins would’ve died, and you let them believe they’d be spared—”
Voices overlapped, rising, drowning her.
Maria opened her mouth to speak again, but the words caught.
Her knees buckled.
The room froze.
The high priestess clutched the altar, her breath rattling in her chest. Her body shook—then sagged. She crumpled to the stone floor, her silver cloak fanning out around her like foam on a tide.
Silence dropped like a curtain.
A few gasps broke the stillness, then someone cried, “She’s fallen!”
Several villagers dropped their torches and rushed forward, shame overtaking fury. “She’s still breathing,” a young woman whispered, kneeling beside her.
“She’s burning up,” said another.
“Help her—gods, we didn’t mean—”
The priestess was carried to her chambers with reverent urgency, all signs of riot forgotten. She murmured once in her fevered sleep—Kassandra’s name—but never woke again.
That night, Maria Rhodes—the Sea Kingdom’s last true spiritual guide—slipped away like the tide she once served.
---
The dawn was strangely still.
For the first time in weeks, the wind was quiet. The ocean rested. Birds sang again from high branches, and light glistened on the wet leaves above Kassandra’s cave.
She stirred where she lay curled in a blanket of moss, still half-wrapped in fear and grief.
Then the sound came—soft and low, rolling over the trees like a mournful wave.
A conch horn.
Three short blasts.
The temple’s mourning call.
Kassandra shot upright.
“No,” she whispered.
She scrambled out of the cave, feet slipping on wet roots. Her heart pounded harder with every step she took toward the cliffs. She barely noticed the return of sunlit skies, or the stillness of the sea.
She only heard the horn.
And she knew what it meant.
Her mother was dead.
---
The temple was quiet when Kassandra arrived.
The doors stood open, as if still expecting the angry mob—but there were no villagers here now. Only silence.
She stepped inside, chest tight, vision blurring.
The air was heavy with the scent of incense. Someone had lit the ceremonial braziers—she could see the soft glow behind the altar, flickering in the quiet.
And then she saw her.
Maria lay on a bed of white linen in the center of the altar space, arms folded over her chest. A crown of braided seaweed and shells had been placed on her brow. She looked peaceful—but far too still.
“No,” Kassandra choked.
She fell to her knees beside her mother, sobs shattering out of her.
“I should’ve stayed,” she whispered. “I should’ve come back.”
The silence offered no comfort. Only the echo of her grief.
Behind her, the stone floor creaked.
Kassandra turned sharply.
A shadow slipped along the far wall—tall, broad-shouldered.
Someone was there.
Her wolf stirred in alarm.
“Who’s there?” she called, voice raw.
No reply. Only footsteps, slow and careful, circling behind the temple pillars.
She rose to her feet, her eyes scanning the shadows.
And then, a voice.
“You shouldn’t have come back, girl.”
Kassandra froze.
A man stepped from the shadows—a cloaked figure with sea-stained boots and a cruel smirk beneath the hood.
He pulled back the cloak’s edge, revealing the hilt of a curved blade.
“The kingdom may have mourned your mother,” he said, “but the god still needs his sacrifice.”
- Writer
