THE BURIED GOD
Chapter 19: The Village of the Forgotten
The village was called Stillwater.
It was older than the mountain. Older than the god. Older than the hunger. The houses were made of stone, their walls thick, their roofs low, their windows narrow. The streets were narrow too, winding between the buildings like the channels of a river that had long since dried up.
The people watched them pass.
Not with curiosity. With fear.
They knew who Damon was. They could see it in his eyes, in his hands, in the way he walked. They could smell the mountain on him, the cold stone, the silver light, the buried hunger.
“The priests came through here,” Lyssa said. “Years ago. Before I was born. They took the children. The strong ones. The young ones. The ones who could feed the god.”
“What happened to them?”
Lyssa was silent for a long moment.
“They became the sacrifices.”
They were taken to the elder’s house.
It was the largest building in the village, its walls carved with symbols — eyes and mouths and hands and things that looked like words in a language that had never been spoken aloud. The elder was a woman. Old. Her hair was white, her skin was wrinkled, her eyes were gray.
“I know why you’re here,” she said.
Damon looked at her.
“You know?”
“The mountain woke. We felt it. The ground shook. The dead rose. The hunger stirred.”
“The mountain is quiet now.”
“The mountain is never quiet. The mountain is always hungry. The mountain is always waiting.”
The elder led them to a room at the back of the house.
The walls were covered in maps. Not maps of the world — maps of the mountain. The tunnels. The chambers. The heart.
“You need to go back,” she said.
Damon stared at her.
“Back?”
“The seed is not dead. The seed is sleeping. The seed is waiting.”
“I cut it out.”
“You cut it out of yourself. You did not cut it out of the mountain.”
Damon’s blood went cold.
“The seed is still there?”
“The seed is always there. The seed is the mountain. The mountain is the seed. You cannot kill it. You can only bury it.”
“Then we’ll bury it again.”
“You cannot bury it. You are not a priestess. You are not a vessel. You are not a sacrifice.”
“Then what am I?”
The elder looked at Vespera.
“You are the key.”
Vespera stepped forward.
“I am not the key. The key was the priestess. The priestess is dead.”
“The priestess is dead. The key is not. The key is the one who carries the memory of the priestess. The one who carries the blood of the priestess. The one who carries the hunger of the priestess.”
“That’s me?”
The elder nodded.
“That’s you.”