Deep beneath the surface of Sanctora's idyllic charm lay a shadow that no hymn could cleanse, a secret so dark it had been buried for centuries.
Every year, when the first fross kissed the northern mountains, ten citizens—men, women, elders, and even children—were chosen by lottery to ascend the Spine of the North in two weeks' time.
The official story was one of heroism: these individuals were "offering themselves to the light," their sacrifice ensuring peace and prosperity for the kingdom.
Statues would be erected in their honor, songs sung in their memory, and tears shed with pride as they walked toward what everyone believed was divine purpose.
But the truth was far grimmer. These sacrifices weren't offerings to any God or principle—they appeasements to tha cave-orc tribes who dwelled in the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the mountain.
After Saint Felix's death, the council of that time realized they lacked the military strength to fend off raids from the brutal orcs.
Rather than admit their weakness , they struck a grim bargain: ten lives every winter solstice in exchange for the tribe staying away from Sanctoras's borders.
The day of the selection was framed as grand festival, a celebration so vibrant and lively that it masked the somber truth beneath its surface. The square transformed into a kaleidoscope of colors, with streams of ribbons strung between buildings and lanterns glowing softly in the crisp autumn air.
Stalls lined the cobblestone paths, offering steaming pies, spiced cider, honeyed pastries, and roasted meats that filled the air with a irresistible aroma.
Musicians played cheerful tunes on flutes, drums, lyres, their melodies mingling with laughter and chatter as children darted through the crowd, clutching toys or sweet treats.
Everyone wore their finest clothes—dresses embroidered with delicate patterns, tunics dyed in rich hues—and smiles seemed to come easily, even if some eyes betrayed flickers of unease.
At the center of it all stood an ornate wooden stage adorned with garlands of autumns leaves and golden flowers, where the lottery would take place. To any outsider, it would appear as a joyous occasion, a testament to Sanctora's unity and faith.
Yet behind the festivities lay a quiet tension, a collective holding of breath as families prayed not to hear their names called amidst the revelry.
The selection has begun, and the air in the square felt heavier than usual despite the bright morning sun. As the names were drawn one by one, gasps rippled through the crowd.
When the name Evelyn—a little girl barely six years old with golden curls and wide curious eyes—was called, her mother let out a strangled sob, clutching her daughter tightly.
A nearby villager placed a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder, murmuring softly, "she'll be remembered forever. Her name will shine brighter than the stars."
Evelyn herself didn't fully understand what was happening: she only looked up at her mother, confused, tugging gently on her sleeve. "mama, why is everyone crying? Am I going somewhere special?" the question hung in the air like a blade, sharp and unbearable.
Her mother forced a trembling smile, brushing a tear from her cheek. "yes, my sweet girl. You're going to meet the angels." Behind the scenes, the council convened in the dimly lit chamber of the office, the weight of their decision pressing down on them like a stone ceiling ready to collapse.
Elder Alaric Aguilar leaned forward, his voice low but urgent. "we can't keep doing this. Not to children. Did you see her face? She doesn't even know…" he trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
Across the table, grand priest Agapios Lindqvist closed his eyes, his hands clasped tightly together as though in prayer. "and what would you suggest, Alaric? Telling the people the truth? That we've been feeding our own to monsters because we're too weak to fight back?" his tone was calm, almost serene, but his knuckles betrayed his inner turmoil.
The kingdom's lack of true military strength was an open secret, though few dared to speak of it openly. Sanctora's soldiers were not the hardened warriors one might expect from a land surrounded by danger; they were farmers and blacksmiths pressed into service, trained just enough to hold a spear or swing a sword in defense of their homes.
Their armor was often mismatched, pieced together from scraps salvaged after skirmishes, and their tactics relied more on hope than strategy. Even worse, the magicians who supported them were limited to light magic—spells designed for healing wounds, mending broken spirits, and providing small buffs like increased stamina or temporary clarity of mind.
While these abilities were invaluablefor maintaining morale and patching up survivors, they offered little against the brute force of cave-orcs or the monstrous creatures that lurked beyond the coastline.
Elder Cedric Valois once remarked bitterly during a council meeting, "our soldiers can mend a wound, but they can't stop one from being inflicted. And our mages? They're healers, not fighters. We send lambs to face wolves." The wounds hung heavy in the air, unchallenged because no one could deny their truth.
This mediocrity had forced the council into its grim arrangement with the cave-orcs tribes centuries ago. After Saint Felix's death, when the first major orc raid nearly wiped out the northern villages, the council realized how outmatched they truly were.
A desperate delegation ventured into the mountains, seeking terms rather than victory. What emerged was the agreement that ten lives would be given each year—a compromise born of weakness diguised as piety.
Over time, this reliance on appeasement only deepened Sanctora's vulnerability. Without the pressure of constant threats, there was little incentive to train stronger soldiers or develop offensive magical capabilities.
Elder Lucien Pendragon, usually pragmatic and composed, stared blankly at the ancient map of the northern mountain sprawled across the table. "it's not just weakness, " she said quietly.
"it's cowardice. We wrap it in piety and call it noble, but it's nothing more than fear dressed as faith." Nearby, Elder Gawain Hohenheim sat silently, her usual warmth repalced by a brittle stillness.
She glanced at the others, her voice barely audible. "two weeks. That's all the time we have left to prepare them—and ourselves." In the days that followed, preparations began for the somber procession.
The chosen ones were treated with reverence, their homes adorned with garlands, their meals prepared by neighbors eager to show gratitude. Evelyn, too young to grasp the gravity of her fate, giggled as an elderly woman braided flowers into her hair, calling her a "little angel".
Her innocence was both heartbreaking and infuriating to those who knew the truth. In private moments, whispers spread among the townsfolk—some questioned why the sacrifices always seemed to prevent orc attacks, while others wondered why soldiers never accompanied the victims.
Still, no one dared challenge the system. Fear masqueraded as faith, compliance as courage. And so, the cycle persisted—a grim testament to the fragility of peace built on lies and blood.
In the dead of night, when the stars shone cold over Sanctora, the cries of those lost to the mountains echoed silently in the hearts of those who remained, unseen but unforgettable.
However, not a single soul in Sanctora could know that this sad and dark secret recipe to their peace is about to change for good. That the savior that has been prophesied a long time ago would emerged and help them fight—instead of bargain—for their true peace.