Chapter 4

The church elders, grim-faced men I' d known my whole life, dragged me through the sanctuary. The pews were filled with the townspeople, their faces a disturbing mix of piety and excitement. I saw my parents in the front row, their eyes shining with pride. They were watching their second daughter being led to her death, and they were beaming.

They didn't take me to the main altar. They pulled me down a side corridor, to a private chamber I never knew existed. The room was circular, the walls covered from floor to ceiling with paintings.

My breath caught in my throat.

The paintings were graphic, horrifying depictions of death. Each one featured a young woman, her face contorted in a mask of ecstatic agony. One was surrounded by flames, another submerged in water, a third covered in what looked like insect bites. And in the center of it all, a new, freshly painted canvas. It was my sister, Maria. She lay on a bed, her wedding dress stained with blood, a single, perfect red flower blooming from a wound in her chest.

They tied me to a large wooden bed in the center of the room, the ropes rough against my skin. My mother stepped forward, her face glowing.

"Isn't it beautiful, my child?" she whispered, gesturing to the paintings. "The Ascension of the Brides. Soon, your portrait will join them."

She kissed my forehead and left, closing the heavy door behind her, leaving me alone with the silent, screaming faces of the dead.

I struggled against the ropes, but it was useless. The terror was a physical thing, a cold weight in my chest. I stared at Maria' s painting, at the blissful, terrible look on her face. Why? Why would anyone do this? Why would anyone celebrate this?

The door opened again.

Pastor Rufus Morris entered. He was an imposing figure, tall and broad, dressed in pristine white robes. One side of his face was hidden in shadow, but the other was handsome, charismatic. He carried a velvet-lined case. He placed it on a table beside the bed and opened it. Inside, nestled on the velvet, was a collection of ceremonial daggers, each one ornate and wickedly sharp.

He didn't look at me. He looked at the empty space on the wall next to Maria's portrait.

"A blank canvas," he said, his voice a deep, resonant baritone. "Full of potential."

He turned to me, his visible eye cold and devoid of emotion. He gestured to the daggers.

"The Lord honors a willing heart. All your predecessors chose their own path to glory. So, tell me, Gabrielle. How do you wish to make your sacred departure?"

Something inside me snapped. The grief, the betrayal, the sheer, mind-numbing horror of it all erupted in a wave of pure rage.

"You demonic fraud," I snarled, the words tearing from my throat. "You murderer. You killed them. You killed my sister."

He looked genuinely surprised. He tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eye.

"Killed them? My child, you misunderstand."

"I understand that you are a monster and this whole town is your cult!" I screamed, pulling against the ropes. "They aren't willing! You brainwashed them! You forced them!"

He watched me struggle, a strange, almost pitying look on his face.

"All the others... they were so eager. So full of faith. They begged for the honor. You are the first to refuse."

He picked up one of the daggers, not to threaten me, but to examine its edge.

"It is a core tenet of our faith," he said calmly, as if discussing the weather. "I never force the unwilling."

And with a flick of his wrist, he sliced through the ropes binding my hands. He then cut the ropes on my ankles.

"You are free to go," he said, turning his back to me. "The door is not locked. Leave."

I stared at him, stunned into silence. I scrambled off the bed, my legs shaky. I didn't hesitate. I ran for the door, expecting him to grab me at any second.

But he didn't. I fumbled with the latch, threw the door open, and ran out into the corridor, not looking back. I was free. But I had no idea what I was running toward.