Yorda sometimes passed through the hall with the many strange sarcophagi lining the walls. While Yorda had never seen the ritual itself, sometimes she saw the echo of a memory flitting by. Masked men carrying a horned child towards the tomb that pulsed with light, locking them in to die a slow death, and their life was drained. Some of it went to extend the Queen’s lifespan and some of it went into creating Yorda.

“Forgive us. It is for the good of the village.”

The days when these memories passed her by, she would seek out flowers from the courtyard and leave them at the foot of the tombs.

“I am sorry,” she said softly. “Your death became our life.”