Within the cold heart of Moras's temple, silence reigned like a crown.
The sacred chamber was soaked in divine residue—walls carved with spirals of madness, red light spilling from hanging chains, and a thick circle of silver drawn across the floor with ground bones and blood.
At its center lay a boy, no older than ten, breathing shallowly.
His small chest rose and fell, and his eyelids fluttered—caught in a dream he could not escape.
The high priest stood before him, face hidden behind a ceremonial mask made of polished bone. His hands trembled as he lifted a blood-soaked dagger, chanting words that twisted the very air around them.
Every syllable called to something older than the stars, something deeper than the abyss.
"I offer this body, chosen by the stars. Let your will descend. Let your essence flood this vessel. Let Moras rise."
The dagger flashed and plunged—not into flesh—but into the sigil at the boy's feet.
A burst of divine light swallowed the chamber.
