The designs were intricate and deliberate, patterns meant to symbolize continuity, unity, the unbroken line of blood passed from one generation to the next.
At the base of those pillars stood the altar.
Low and solid, its surface darker than the surrounding stone, not painted, not stained, but saturated. Years of offerings had seeped into it, layer upon layer, until the very material had changed.
Maya stepped up to it and stopped.
This was the first threshold. Not a door. Not a barrier. But a decision.
No one entered this place without being recognized, not by guards or law, but by something far older and far less forgiving.
Her fingers curled slightly at her side. Then she reached for the blade.
The motion was practiced and controlled. The edge kissed her palm, and a clean line opened instantly, blood rising in a slow, deliberate swell.
