Page 48 of Devoured
Dr. Alan stepped forward, pulling off her white coat to reveal a black dress underneath. Not modern black, but something that belonged to another century, with symbols embroidered in thread that seemed to shift when I looked directly at it.
“You’ve brought them as promised. Our sacrifices.”A giggle escaped her lips.
“As promised,”Varnar confirmed. “The guilty one and her protectors. The betrayers who thought they could deny the Judge his due.”
They threw us down in the center of the room. The stone was cold and sticky beneath my knees. Isaac tried to push himself up, but his broken leg gave out. Marion curled into herself, sobbing quietly. Sela wheezed through broken ribs.
The orderlies cut our zip ties, then hauled us to our feet and held us in place.
The cultists formed a circle around us. I recognized some faces from my vision—not descendants, but the same people, preserved by whatever bargain they’d made. They watched us with hungry anticipation, like we were a feast about to be served.
“Twelve years,”Varnar said, walking over to Sela. He grabbed her hair, forcing her to look up at him. “Twelve years you pretended to serve while plotting betrayal. Did you think we were fools?”
Sela spat blood at his feet. “I served the patients. Not your master.”
Tobias kicked her in the stomach. She doubled over, gasping.
“Enough,”the old man commanded. “Save her consciousness for the offering. The Judge prefers his meals aware.”
They beat Isaac next. Breaking his fingers one by one—snap, snap, snap, each one deliberate. His screams echoed off the stone walls until his voice gave out. Marion tried to turn away, but they held her head, made her watch.
“This is what happens to those who defy the Order,”Dr. Alan said conversationally, like she was giving a lecture. “Every beating is a lesson. Every scream is a teaching moment.”
“Enough foreplay,”Varnar finally said. “Prepare the altar. It’s been many weeks since the Judge has been fed a guilty one.”
They dragged Sela toward the altar, her broken body leaving a trail of blood on the ancient stone. I tried to move forward, but rough hands held me in place.
“No,”I said, confusion cutting through my terror. “I’m the guilty one. I killed my husband. I’m the one you want—”
Varnar turned to me with that thin smile. “You thought you were the sacrifice?”He laughed, the sound echoing off the chamber walls. “Oh, Zahra. You’re far too valuable for that. No, you’re here to watch. To witness what happens to those who betray centuries of Order.”
“But the Judge wanting a bride—”The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Varnar went still. His eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that?”He stepped closer.
My mouth went dry. “I... someone mentioned it. Margaret knew about it.”
He studied me like a predator deciding if prey was worth the chase. The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.
Dr. Alan checked her antique pocket watch, breaking the tension. “All true. But tonight isn’t about feeding the Judge a bride. Tonight is about punishment. About reminding everyone what happens to those who try to help the cattle escape.”
They forced Sela onto the altar. Even with her injuries, she fought—weak, broken, but still resisting. Her arms flailed, catching one cultist across the face. Blood ran from his nose, but he just smiled.
“Still fighting,”Varnar said admiringly. “Good.”
Ancient leather straps secured her wrists and ankles. The restraints looked centuries old but held firm, darkened with the blood of countless victims before her.
“The ritual,”the old man intoned, moving to stand at the head of the altar. “As it was. As it will be. As it must always be, until the final feeding.”
Dr. Alan approached with a curved blade—metal so dark it seemed to swallow light, with veins of red running through it like living tissue. Without ceremony, she grabbed Sela’s wrist and sliced deep across her palm.
Blood welled up immediately—far more than such a wound should produce. It ran down Sela’s arm in thick streams, but instead of pooling on the altar, it flowed into the carved channels with impossible precision. The blood moved like it was alive, filling each groove until the entire altar glowed with dark red light.
“By blood and binding,”Varnar called out, his voice taking on that strange resonance. “By guilt acknowledged and pain made manifest. We summon the Executioner. Let him prepare the way for our Lord Judge. Let him open the door between worlds.”
The chanting started. All the cultists joined in, speaking words that predated language but somehow made terrible sense in my bones. The sound built and built, echoing off the chamber walls until my skull felt like it might crack.
The blood began to bubble and steam. The stones inside that circle cracked. Something was pushing up from below—something that had been waiting. The temperature spiked until the air warped with heat waves.
