Chapter Four (Extended): The Curse of the Cerythian Rite
As Almond was dragged toward the labyrinth's looming entrance, his mind burned with fragmented images, each flash sharper than the last.
The name pulsed in his skull like a curse:
The Cerythian Rite.
No words were spoken of it in the open. In hushed whispers, even the boldest souls referred to it only as "the Ceremony That Calls Shadows". Its origins were older than any known kingdom, older than the walls of the city itself.
The Rite was said to summon the lost souls of the forgotten dead—not to honor them, but to force them back into living vessels. It was not resurrection; it was theft.
The summoned spirit would not return willingly. Its essence had to be ripped from the afterlife, screaming, and then bound to flesh through cruel means—ritual bloodletting, soul branding, and the consumption of forbidden ichor brewed from ground ash and marrow.
To complete the ceremony, the living participant had to offer part of themselves—their memories, their humanity, or, in rare cases, someone they loved.
Every account of the Cerythian Rite ended the same way:
The vessel either went mad,
Or became something inhuman,
Or was hunted down and executed before the corruption spread.
And yet, despite knowing this, he and Jim had performed it.
The flashes in Almond's mind became clearer now: the circle drawn in blood, the hollow chanting of names that should have never been spoken, the sound of flesh tearing where no blade had touched.
No wonder the old man had asked him Why with such weight.
No wonder Jim had begged for forgiveness.
The Cerythian Rite was not just forbidden—it was a sin against the natural order itself.