Duskvale's Queen

In the heart of a forsaken land, where the sun was a fading memory and the very soil pulsed beneath your feet like a slumbering beast, lay Duskvale. Not wheat nor corn nourished its inhabitants; their sustenance came from a darker bargain, a pact sealed in blood centuries past with something ancient, something nameless. They called it the Shadow Feast.

Each year, on the longest night, Duskvale offered a sacrifice. In exchange, the entity shielded them from the creeping decay that consumed the surrounding lands. Crops swelled with unnatural bounty, the water flowed pure and cold, and the creatures of the wild kept a respectful distance. The villagers accepted this grim exchange as unquestioningly as the changing seasons; survival, after all, always demanded a price.

This year, the black iron urn in the town square, heavy with the names of every child born within Duskvale’s borders, had chosen Maren. Even before fate had marked her, she was different. Her hair was the colour of a raven’s wing, framing a face dominated by eyes of startling emerald green. Whispers followed her like shadows, branding her an oddity.

As the villagers prepared her for the ritual, dressing her in a white gown that seemed to amplify her paleness, Maren remained eerily calm. Her parents wept silently, their faces etched with a grief too profound for words. They did not plead, they did not resist. They remembered the fate of those who had dared defy the Feast: whispers of swift and terrible ends, of families vanishing in the night.

The Elder, his skin like brittle parchment stretched taut over bone, led Maren to the clearing beyond the village. The moonless sky was a vast, empty canvas, and the air hung thick with the scent of damp earth and a faint, metallic tang. The altar, a jagged slab of obsidian veined with pulsing red fissures, dominated the clearing. It looked less like a place of worship and more like a wound in the earth’s flesh.

“Do not fear,” the Elder’s voice rasped, a tremor betraying his forced composure. “Your sacrifice ensures our survival. Your name will be spoken with reverence for generations.”

Maren did not answer. She knelt on the cold stone, its sharp edges pressing into her knees. It felt strangely familiar, as if she had knelt there many times before, in dreams or half remembered visions.

The villagers formed a circle, their torches casting grotesque, dancing shadows that mimicked the fear in their eyes. A low, guttural chant began, resonating deep in Maren’s chest, a rhythm that felt unsettlingly familiar.

The ground beneath the altar shuddered, then split open. From the fissure emerged the entity. It was neither god nor demon, but something far older, something that existed before such distinctions were made. A shifting mass of shadows, it defied any fixed form, its edges blurring into the surrounding darkness.

Across its amorphous surface, countless crimson eyes blinked open, each one a window into an unfathomable void. It did not speak in words, but its presence pressed into their minds, a cold, insistent pressure like fingers probing soft clay.

“THE SACRIFICE. BRING HER.” The command echoed not as sound, but as a raw, visceral sensation.

The Elder raised his ceremonial dagger, its curved blade forged from the same obsidian as the altar. His hand trembled as he stepped towards Maren, his lips moving in silent prayer. He was a man bound by duty, trapped between fear and tradition.

But before the blade could fall, Maren moved. Her hand shot out, seizing the Elder’s wrist with unexpected strength. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. She rose to her feet, her emerald eyes burning with an intense, unearthly light.

“No more,” she said, her voice resonating with a strange, unsettling power, as though many voices spoke through her. “I was chosen, yes. But not for what you think.”

The entity stilled, its countless eyes narrowing. The air crackled with unspoken power. The villagers stood frozen, their terror palpable.

Maren turned to face the shadowy mass. Her gaze was unwavering. “You marked me at birth, didn’t you? I’ve felt your pull my entire life. But you didn’t choose me to die. You chose me to rule.” A faint smile played on her lips, a chilling contrast to the fear gripping the villagers.

A tremor ran through the clearing, a sensation that felt less like sound and more like bones scraping against stone. The entity’s response was not laughter, but a vibration that resonated deep within their very bones.

"AND SO YOU REMEMBER, CHILD.

GOOD.

THE CYCLE ENDS.

TAKE YOUR PLACE."

Before the Elder could react, the obsidian blade in his trembling hand began to glow an angry red, then melted, dripping onto the ground like molten glass. He cried out in pain, dropping the now useless hilt. The obsidian altar groaned, deep cracks spiderwebbing across its surface before it shattered, the pieces rising into the air and circling Maren like a dark, ethereal crown.

The villagers fell to their knees, pleading for mercy, their voices hoarse with terror. But Maren’s face was devoid of compassion. With a simple gesture, she silenced them, their cries abruptly cut off as if the very air had been sucked from their lungs.

“You have fed this pact for too long,” she said, her voice now colder than the winter wind that never reached Duskvale. “Your fear sustained it. Your complacency nourished it. But I am not your lamb. I am your shepherd now.”

The ground erupted, tendrils of shadow snaking out, grasping the villagers. One by one, they were pulled into the darkness, their silent screams echoing only in the minds of those who remained just a moment longer. The entity watched in silent acceptance, its countless eyes fixed on Maren as she ascended the shattered remains of the altar.

When the last villager was gone, only Maren and the entity remained. She turned to the shadow, her emerald eyes glowing with a newfound power. “I accept your gift,” she said, her voice now ringing with authority. “But the pact changes. This village is mine. They will worship me, and I will feed you… as I see fit.”

The entity did not bow in the traditional sense, but its shifting form seemed to subtly incline, a gesture that spoke of deference. "AS YOU COMMAND, QUEEN OF DUSKVALE."

The shadows receded, leaving an unnerving silence in their wake. Maren stood alone atop the shattered altar, the air around her heavy with power.

Her emerald eyes glowed faintly as she looked back towards the empty village. The night stretched on, vast and eternal, and for the first time in centuries, the land had a new ruler, and the silence was more terrifying than any scream.