Bart grunted as he dragged the sacrificial goat across the stone floor of the abbey, working his way through the dark recesses of the dimly lit hall toward the rear exit leading them to the goat pit. His twin brother, Tholomew, trailed behind, collecting the stray entrails and offal that spilled from the goat's carcass.

  "It's a complete waste of a delicious goat," Bart said. "We offer the blood and organs, then throw all the good meat into the pit to rot. I like a lamb well enough, but wouldn't a little variety be nice?"

  Tholomew nodded, keeping his bloody hands away from his body as his face twisted at the foul smell.

  "You know what Antonio says—the goat is the offering, so we can't eat it. It would be sacrilege."

  Bart could hear Antonio's peckish, whiny voice in his head.

  We sacrifice the goat to show our devotion to Morghadus, and when he returns to this world—a return of our making—he will spare us his wrath and reward us with a prominent place in his new world order.

  Eating the goats would be sacrilege.

  "Sacrilege," Bart muttered. "It's a bloody demon coming to devour the world. You'd think sacrilege would be its thing."

  At the goat pit, Tholomew tossed the collected remnants into the hole. Turning his face away to avoid the splatter, he shook his hands, trying to dislodge the bits of goat and blood that still clung to his fingers.

  "Grab the back end, Thol, and we'll give it a heave."

  His brother grunted as they lifted the goat and dropped it fifteen feet to the bottom. It landed with a squishy thud, sending a backwash of rancid decay. They both covered their mouths, tiny gags escaping their throats as their eyes watered.

  They hurried away from the stench, heading toward the open air of the courtyard. They stopped to draw deep breaths of fresh, clean air at a safe distance from the pit of death.

  "That was pleasant," Bart said between gasps. "I swear, if we had to do this more than once a month, the next time, it would be Antonio going in, not the goat."

  Tholomew looked at his brother with empathy. "I understand the sentiment, brother, but we both know you wouldn't hurt a fly."

  "Well, yes," Bart said. "I'm not a violent man, but I do have my limits—and Antonio may be the one who pushes me past them."

  Tholomew smiled, knowing the truth of it. Bart was a good man, and they would find a more appropriate solution before it came to that.

  "Tell me again, brother, why are we here? Blindly following the orders of a mad priest who wants to raise a demon?"

  Tholomew nodded with understanding. His brother often struggled when overwhelmed, and sacrifice nights always took their toll.

  Tholomew glanced at his brother, his expression soft and understanding.

  "Look around, Bart. What do you see?"

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  Bart sighed, recognizing the familiar ritual.

  "Trees, grass, sheep, lambs. Peaceful things."

  "Exactly. Now, close your eyes and listen."

  With another exaggerated sigh, Bart closed his eyes.

  "Fine. The wind in the trees, the buzz of insects, some birds, and a lot of quiet."

  Tholomew smiled. "And that’s why. Remember Ilimar? The noise, the filth, the endless hustle for scraps? Here, we have peace. Clean air, fresh food, warm beds. Antonio’s quirks are a small price to pay for that."

  Bart opened his eyes, nodding.

  "Yeah, yeah. I've heard this story before. But if that goat pit starts attracting wolves, I’m out."

  Both brothers stood, taking in the simple natural wonders around them. Despite its few annoyances, this life was good—far better than scraping by in the streets of Ilimar.

  Bart broke the silence. "So, do you think he can pull it off? Summoning this demon, Morghadus?"

  Tholomew shook his head, his lips twitching with amusement.

  "Not a fucking chance. He's completely misreading the old texts, and I, for one, am not about to correct him."

  Bart nodded with relief.

  "Good. If that changes, we are going to wish we were someplace else. Someplace very far away."

  Antonio sat behind a large wooden desk with tomes, manuscripts, and several bowls of half-eaten stew. Occasionally, he would hold a book up to the light streaming through the narrow window, muttering something unintelligible, and then return it to the desk, his finger tracing the faded lines of text like he was unraveling the mysteries of the universe.

  A soft knock sounded at the door. Without looking up, Antonio grunted an ambiguous acknowledgment. Bart entered, clasping his hands behind his back as he stopped before the desk. Antonio had requested him, which could only mean one thing: trouble.

  Bart knew better than to expect praise or gratitude—those were reserved for Tholomew, who had a knack for indulging Antonio's delusions of grandeur. Less skilled in such performances, Bart often played the reluctant skeptic.

  Antonio finally looked up, feigning surprise.

  “Oh, Bart! Why didn’t you announce yourself? Here I am, deep in my vital work, and you’re standing there wasting time.”

  Bart suppressed an eye-roll.

  “Apologies, Antonio. I didn’t want to interrupt your important research.”

  Antonio’s expression softened, pleased by the acknowledgment.

  “Yes, yes, well… appreciated. But as it happens, you’re a key part of today’s efforts—critical to the mission of our cult. Top priority.”

  Bart gave a polite nod, his tone measured. “Of course, sir. I’m at your service. What needs doing?”

  Antonio leaned back in his creaky chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded Bart.

  “Tell me, Bart, how many points are on a pentagram?”

  Bart frowned, taking a moment to visualize it. “Uh… five?”

  Antonio nodded.

  “Correct. Five. And tell me, Bart, how many members are currently part of our illustrious chapter of the Cult of Morghadus?”

  Bart hesitated, wondering if this was a trick question.

  “Well, there’s you, me, and Tholomew. So… three.”

  “Precisely,” Antonio said, his voice tinged with dramatic sorrow. “Three. But for the summoning ritual—the ritual that will bring forth Morghadus and usher in a new era of power and glory for us all—we require five.”

  “Ah,” Bart said. “Bit of a problem there.”

  “Indeed, Bart, a rather serious problem,” Antonio said, leaning forward. “Imagine it. We’re on the brink of success—soclose to unlocking the final mysteries of these sacred texts. And yet, the culmination of our great work is delayed because we lack two additional members to complete the ritual.”

  Bart nodded. “A shame, sir. A real shame.”

  Antonio’s eyes gleamed with intensity.

  “Which is why I am entrusting you with this sacred mission. Bart, you are to leave the abbey immediately and return only when you have recruited at least two new members—two willing souls ready to take the oath and join our ranks.”

  Bart stood a little straighter, doing his best to sound dutiful. “Understood, sir. I’ll leave at once.”

  “Good,” Antonio said, already turning back to his books. But when Bart didn’t move, Antonio glanced up again, his voice sharp.

  “Bart, why are you still standing here?”

  “Oh, right. Sorry, sir. I wasn’t sure if you had dismissed me.”

  Antonio let out an exasperated sigh, waving a hand toward the door.

  “You are dismissed, Bart. Go.”

  Bart gave a slight bow before leaving the room.

  As the door clicked shut, Antonio muttered to himself, “Incompetence... everywhere I turn.”