The Written Wilds

The god took a long time to die. It wept as it burned, its tears a silver too bright for the human eye. Flesh like coal and pearl cracked open in the pyre, spilling blood that sang in voices. The apprentice stood back from the flames, eyes stinging, nose bleeding. He was told not to cover his face. To witness was part of the work. “Do not flinch,” the master had said. “Do not kneel. Pity is a seed that grows into rot.” So he stood. And watched. And listened to something vast and old and afraid scream itself hoarse in a language he didn’t know, until he did. Why do you do this? We kept the rivers full. We kept your children safe. He blinked. His mouth was dry. The fire ate the voice. The words faded. Behind him, the master knelt to open the travel-altar. From it came a knife, black and blunt, and a bowl made of polished bone. No prayers were spoken. Only silence. “You will take the liver,” the master said. “Do not let it touch your skin.” The apprentice obeyed. The god’s body—what was l...