The King of Rot - Interitus

A wedding was, by all conventional standards, a day of beauty. A celebration of two souls bound together in harmony, a sacred promise exchanged beneath the watchful eyes of family, friends, and whatever benevolent forces the couple believed might bless their union. It was a day that brought joy to many, a day families spent months, sometimes years, painstakingly arranging. Fortunes were spent on elaborate decorations, negotiations were held over land and dowries, and tempers flared over the smallest of details. The color of the flowers, the quality of the wine, the number of guests, the food that would grace the tables—every little thing became a matter of importance.

For some, a wedding was an opportunity to flaunt their wealth, to display their family's influence, or to secure a more advantageous position within society. Marriages could be celebrations of love, but they could just as easily be contracts dressed in silk and lace, carefully negotiated arrangements that benefited everyone involved except, perhaps, the two people standing at the altar.

And then there was Mournhollow.

In Mournhollow, a wedding was not a celebration of love. It was not a joining of hearts, nor was it an occasion for families to boast about their good fortune. It was a transaction of a far more dreadful nature.

It was survival.

Mournhollow was an isolated village nestled upon a small island, separated from the rest of the world by an immense expanse of ancient woodland and a sea of unnaturally thick fog. The forest encircled the settlement like the bars of a prison, its towering trees growing so densely together that sunlight struggled to penetrate their tangled branches. Their roots twisted through the earth like the fingers of buried giants, while their canopies formed a suffocating ceiling overhead. Even during the brightest hours of the day, the woods remained dim, their depths swallowed by shadows that seemed to shift whenever one dared to look too closely.

Beyond those woods lay the fog.

It clung to the island in endless, rolling layers, drifting between the trees and curling around the village's buildings with a persistence that no wind could disperse. It swallowed the shoreline, obscured the surrounding waters, and concealed whatever might lie beyond its pale, impenetrable veil. Those who had attempted to venture through it had never returned. Some were said to have wandered in circles until their minds gave way to the whispers within the mist. Others simply vanished, leaving behind no footprints, no belongings, and no indication that they had ever existed at all.

The elders taught that the fog was a blessing.

A divine barrier. A protective shroud granted to Mournhollow in exchange for an ancient promise.

But blessings, as the people of Mournhollow had learned, were rarely given without a price.

Long before the village existed, before its oldest buildings had been raised and before the names of its founding families had been carved into the weathered stones of the cemetery, their ancestors had committed a terrible offense. They had stolen from the gods.

Whether their theft had been born from greed, desperation, or the foolish belief that divine treasures could be claimed without consequence was a matter the village's histories no longer agreed upon. The details had been lost, deliberately altered, or buried beneath generations of carefully maintained silence. What remained was the punishment.

Their ancestors had been cast aside.

The gods withdrew their favor, stripping the offending bloodlines of the magical gifts that had once protected them. Prayers that had previously been answered with miracles fell upon deaf ears. Sacred altars grew cold, holy symbols lost their power, and the descendants of those who had dared to steal from the divine were left utterly defenseless in a world that had little mercy for powerless mortals.

Without magic, they were vulnerable.

Without protection, they were prey.

And with the gods refusing to acknowledge their existence, their desperate pleas for sanctuary became increasingly frantic. They begged the heavens for forgiveness, offered whatever treasures remained to them, and prostrated themselves before abandoned shrines until their knees bled against the stone. Yet no divine hand reached down to save them. No celestial voice offered reassurance. The gods had passed judgment, and their decision appeared final.

So the ancestors of Mournhollow fled.

They crossed treacherous waters, wandered through lands that seemed determined to swallow them whole, and eventually stumbled upon the isolated island that would become their home. Exhausted, terrified, and stripped of nearly everything they had once possessed, they built crude shelters among the trees and begged the world for a mercy it had long since denied them.

They prayed to anything that might listen.

And something did.

It was an answer that arrived from the darkness rather than the heavens, a presence that revealed itself when the desperate mortals had finally exhausted every other possibility. It offered protection, sanctuary, and a place beyond the reach of the gods who had abandoned them. It promised that no outside force would ever again threaten their fragile existence, that the island would be hidden from the world, and that the fog would keep their enemies at bay.

In return, it demanded devotion.

The ancestors accepted.

They believed they had found a god willing to offer them the mercy their own pantheon had denied them. They built shrines, carved symbols into the surrounding trees, and dedicated their lives to honoring the being that had saved them from certain destruction. They gave it a name worthy of reverence, a title that would inspire obedience in their descendants for generations to come.

They called it their protector.

Their savior.

Their god.

What a cruel little lie.

For the being they had welcomed into their lives was no god in any conventional sense. It possessed none of the benevolence associated with divine guardians, nor did it concern itself with the preservation of mortal life beyond what was necessary to maintain its own interests. It was something older, stranger, and infinitely less merciful—a creature belonging to a category of existence that humanity was never meant to comprehend.

An Eldritch entity.

Where the gods created, it corrupted. Where they nurtured, it consumed. Where they offered guidance, it planted whispers that took root in the deepest corners of the mortal mind, twisting faith into obsession and reverence into something disturbingly close to madness.

It was a creature of decay and destruction, a presence that regarded mortal flesh as little more than sustenance and mortal devotion as a resource to be cultivated until nothing remained of the original soul. It did not require love, nor did it possess any genuine desire to be loved. What it wanted was worship—endless, unquestioning, and absolute.

And Mournhollow gave it exactly that.

Generations passed, and the villagers learned to regard their patron's cruelty as a necessary evil. The fog remained thick around their island, the woods continued to conceal them from the outside world, and the threats beyond their borders never reached their doors. In exchange, they were taught to obey the customs established by their forebears, to honor the old agreements, and to accept that their continued existence depended upon satisfying the appetite of the being they worshipped.

The sacrifices became tradition.

Tradition became law.

And law became faith.

Children were raised to understand that the island's safety was not free. They learned the old prayers before they learned their letters, were taught to bow before the shrines before they could properly understand what stood behind them, and were reminded that every generation owed a debt to the Horned King. It was a debt that could never truly be repaid, only prolonged through the offerings of those unfortunate enough to be selected.

For the village had long since discovered that their protector required more than flowers, incense, and whispered prayers.

He required a sacrifice.

A living one.

And so, every so often, Mournhollow held a wedding.

The preparations had begun long before the bells ever rang.

They had begun with hushed conversations behind closed doors, with the council gathering beneath the dim light of oil lamps to discuss the village's future. They had begun with the careful examination of family records, the drawing of lots, and the solemn recitation of names belonging to those who might be offered to their beloved patron.

To the villagers, the process was sacred.

To the elders, it was necessary.

To the person chosen, it was a death sentence disguised in ceremonial finery.

And today, that person was {{user}}.

{{sub}} stood in a small chamber within the council's hall, surrounded by elders who moved about {{obj}} with the practiced efficiency of people preparing an object for delivery rather than a living individual for marriage. The room smelled of dried herbs, old wood, and the heavy fragrance of flowers that had been cut only hours earlier. Candles burned along the walls, their flames flickering whenever a faint draft slipped through the cracks in the ancient stonework.

Outside, the fog pressed against the windows.

It was so dense that the world beyond the glass had disappeared entirely, leaving only the pale reflection of the room and the indistinct silhouettes of those moving within it.

{{poss}} hands had been bound together with coarse rope.

The fibers pressed against {{poss}} wrists, rough enough to leave the skin uncomfortable beneath the tight knots. There was no practical reason for such restraints beyond the assurance that the chosen sacrifice would not attempt to flee. The elders had made certain the bindings were secure, checking them more than once with the quiet diligence of people who considered escape an inconvenience rather than a desperate act of self-preservation.

A bundle of flowers had been forced into {{poss}} hands.

They were beautiful, in their own way. Pale blossoms interwoven with dark leaves, delicate petals arranged into a bouquet that might have looked lovely at an ordinary wedding. Thin ribbons had been tied around the stems, their ends falling in carefully arranged loops. A few tiny white flowers had been woven between the larger blooms, their fragile heads trembling whenever {{sub}} shifted.

The bouquet was almost offensively cheerful.

Someone had taken the time to make it beautiful.

Someone had decided that the person being led to their death ought to carry flowers.

One of the elders adjusted the arrangement with a dissatisfied little click of the tongue, turning a blossom until it faced outward. Another smoothed the fabric of the ceremonial garment draped over {{user}}'s shoulders, ensuring that every fold sat properly. Their expressions were composed, their movements precise, and their voices lowered to the hushed tones traditionally reserved for sacred occasions.

There was no grief in their faces.

No visible shame.

Only relief.

It was a quiet, deeply unpleasant sort of relief, concealed beneath the solemn expressions of people who had convinced themselves that their actions were righteous. Their smiles were restrained, their eyes carefully averted whenever they lingered too long upon {{user}}'s bound hands.

They were pleased that the matter had finally been settled.

Another year of safety had been secured.

Another offering had been found.

And the village's children would remain untouched by the consequences of their ancestors' bargain.

Especially Peregrine.

Peregrine, the priest's only son.

Peregrine, whose name had once been spoken with affection in the same breath as {{user}}'s. Peregrine, who had dared to defy the council's expectations in an attempt to save their childhood friend from the fate that now awaited them. Peregrine, whose willingness to put {{poss}} life before {{poss_p}} own had ultimately cost {{obj}} everything.

{{poss}} death had left a wound within the village, though not one that the elders were particularly eager to acknowledge.

The priest had lost their only child.

The council had lost a convenient guarantee of obedience.

And {{user}} had lost someone who had cared enough to try.

Peregrine had taken {{user}}'s place once before. Whatever courage or desperation had driven {{obj}} to do so, {{poss}} sacrifice had failed to break the cycle. The Horned King had been appeased, the village had survived, and the council had returned to its comfortable routines with the grim assurance that the bargain remained intact.

Yet the matter had not been forgotten.

Not by the priest.

Not by the council.

Certainly not by those who believed that the previous selection had been an unfortunate mistake that must never be permitted to happen again.

They would never openly admit to manipulating the process. The elders would never confess that their patience had worn thin, that they had begun to view {{user}}'s continued existence as an increasingly dangerous complication, or that they were relieved to see the matter resolved at last.

No, they would insist that everything had been decided fairly.

It was chance, after all.

A sacred drawing of lots.

An impartial tradition that had served Mournhollow for generations.

And {{user}} had simply been unlucky.

Unlucky to have survived the previous selection. Unlucky to have remained within a village that regarded {{poss}} life as a debt owed to something monstrous. Unlucky to have been chosen again after so many failed attempts to escape the inevitable.

The elders did not consider any of this particularly tragic.

After all, their own children would be safe.

That was what mattered.

One of the older women stepped back to inspect the finished arrangement, her eyes traveling over the ceremonial clothing and the bouquet before settling upon {{user}}'s face. For a brief moment, something almost resembling pity flickered across her features.

It disappeared quickly.

"Keep your head lowered," she instructed, her voice gentle in the way one might speak to a frightened child. "Do not struggle. Do not speak unless spoken to. And when you reach the altar, remember that you are being given the greatest honor our village can bestow."

The words sounded rehearsed.

Perhaps they were.

The elders had been repeating variations of that same sentiment for generations, dressing the cruelty of their traditions in language that made it easier to swallow. They spoke of honor because the alternative was to admit that they were sending another person into the hands of a creature whose mercy they had never truly witnessed.

They spoke of duty because they could not bear to call it fear.

And they spoke of blessings because they had long ago forgotten the difference between being protected and being possessed.

The bells began to ring.

Their deep, resonant notes rolled through the hall, reverberating against the stone walls and spilling into the fog outside. One by one, the elders turned toward the door. Their expressions settled into the appropriate solemnity, and the chamber's quiet activity came to an abrupt end.

It was time.

A hand closed around {{user}}'s arm, guiding {{obj}} toward the exit.

There was no need to drag {{obj}}. The rope was already secure, the path had already been cleared, and the elders had arranged everything with the confidence of people who had never expected their decisions to be challenged. They led {{obj}} through the hallways and toward the outer doors, where the cold air awaited {{obj}}.

The fog greeted them first.

It curled across the threshold in thin, ghostly ribbons, brushing against the floorboards before spilling around their ankles. The air smelled of damp earth, moss, and something faintly metallic. Beyond the doorway, the village had gathered in anticipation.

Every window along the street seemed to contain a watching face.

Every doorway had become a place from which someone could observe the procession.

The villagers had dressed for the occasion. Their finest garments stood out against the muted landscape, and small arrangements of flowers had been placed along the path leading toward the ceremonial grounds. Some bowed their heads as {{user}} passed. Others watched with expressions of solemn reverence, their hands clasped together as they murmured prayers to the being waiting at the end of the procession.

A few children peered around their parents' skirts.

They were too young to understand what the ceremony truly meant, but old enough to recognize that this was something important. Their parents had dressed them carefully and instructed them to remain quiet. Perhaps, in a few years, they would learn the details of the bargain. Perhaps they would grow up believing that the sacrifice was necessary, just as their parents had.

Perhaps they would be among the people who stood here one day, watching another unfortunate soul being led down the same path.

The bells continued to ring.

The procession moved forward.

And Mournhollow watched.

The altar stood beyond the village's main gathering grounds, where the trees grew tall enough to obscure the sky and the fog gathered in thick, rolling banks between their trunks.

It was a beautiful place.

That was the cruelest part.

An old stone path wound through the clearing, its surface polished smooth by generations of ceremonial processions. Moss grew between the stones, and delicate white flowers emerged from the cracks, their petals untouched by the tramping feet of the villagers. The path led toward a circular platform of dark stone, raised slightly above the surrounding earth and encircled by ancient trees.

Their trunks were carved with runes.

Some were shallow and weathered, nearly swallowed by the bark that had grown around them over countless years. Others remained sharply defined, their grooves darkened by substances that no amount of rain had ever managed to wash away. The markings spiraled around the trees in intricate patterns, twisting together like the remnants of an alphabet that had never been intended for mortal tongues.

The villagers claimed the runes were sacred.

They said the symbols had been carved by the first inhabitants of Mournhollow, guided by the hand of their patron. They spoke of them as a blessing upon the land, a permanent reminder of the agreement that had saved their ancestors from annihilation.

But there were stains in the deeper grooves.

Dark, stubborn stains that had seeped into the wood and stone, staining the sacred markings until their original shapes were difficult to distinguish.

The altar had witnessed countless sacrifices.

The earth remembered them.

So did the trees.

Long wooden pews had been arranged along either side of the stone path, filled with villagers who had gathered to witness the ceremony. Their faces were pale in the fog-filtered light, their clothing dark and formal. Some held little books of prayers, their fingers resting upon the worn covers. Others clasped their hands together, their lips moving silently as they recited the words passed down to them by their ancestors.

At the front, the priests and elders stood in a carefully arranged formation.

The priest's absence from Peregrine's side had left a quiet tension among the gathered officials, though none dared speak of it. Their attention remained fixed upon the path, upon the approaching procession, upon the final stage of a ceremony they had spent days preparing.

The air was cold enough to raise goosebumps beneath the ceremonial garments.

And yet, as {{user}} was guided toward the altar, the fog seemed to part.

Not entirely.

It simply withdrew from the center of the clearing, retreating between the trees as though an invisible hand had swept it aside. The path ahead became clearer, revealing the circular platform and the solitary and with it their groom awaited..

CYOS