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Khun laughs as they tie him up, hanging between two posts. “It won’t work,” he says, smirking even as blood trickles down his chin. He’d be surprised if there were no broken ribs from earlier.
“Shut up.” The slap across his face is painful, but expected. Khun’s grin doesn’t slip one bit. “You’re the god’s favorite. Only you will please him as the sacrifice.”
“Ha!” This time, Khun doesn’t bother to keep the maniacal glint in his eyes hidden. “Good luck.”
He doesn’t flinch as the summoning circle is drawn, runes etched with careful precision. It’s pretty impressive, Khun has to admit. He doesn’t see a single one out of place. This cult definitely did their research.
Unfortunately, they didn’t study enough.
But he keeps his mouth shut, watching them attempt their futile work. The head cultist takes note of that, remarking coolly. “Nervous now?”
Khun spits in his face. The cultist scowls, waving to another member nearby, and a blade slashes Khun’s back open. Khun doesn’t utter a sound, even as he feels warm liquid trickling down, watering the sigil with his blood. It’s a deep wound—a lethal one, at that.
The cultists step back, out of the ring. They start to chant.
Khun can feel the wound on his back throbbing in time with their voices. It intensifies, but he refuses to show any pain. The sky glows aureate, and he can see the beginnings of rings starting to form. Now his back feels like it’s splitting in agony. Khun sags down, carefully breathing through the pain. To summon the god of life and death, the sacrifice has to be someone right in between—on the verge of death, clinging onto life. All things considered, the cultists had done well.
Their mistake was sacrificing the god’s favorite acolyte.
Khun’s eyes slip shut as reality tears open. And above the gasps of awe and fear, thunderous fury—
“Who DARES harm what is mine?”
