A fresh summer breeze rustled through the old oak trees. The air was filled with the buzz of the bees and children laughing as they played in the freshly harvested meadow.

The wooden table in the centre of the clearing was groaning with produce after a bountiful harvest. Corn, wheat, tomatoes, apples, and potatoes all stacked high, topped with the sweetest honey that dripped thickly off the table

There was enough food to last two years. It made poor Emilia’s sacrifice even more heat-wrenching, but as the distant drum signalled the approach of the procession Cynthia was reminded that the Old Gods’ favour must be paid for.

Soon the meadow was filled with a new sound. A scraping sound as the high priest sharpened the ceremonial dagger while Emilia lay underneath on the old stone altar.

She didn’t make a sound as the blade plunged down. Her blood trickled and dripped down and over the altar’s edge. Dripping into the grass and Mother Earth below.