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The peoples of ancient societies would often make ritual sacrifices to appease their gods—animals and humans, alike. These rituals were done in hopes of a better harvest, greater prosperity...or even out of plain, simple fear.

One such society would conduct a ritual on the day of the summer solstice. They would offer up a great feast, of course, but only three animals were to be slain on the altar: a hedgehog, for success in future conflicts; a rat, to prevent future pest infestations; and a curiously hairless cat, just because it looked weird.

The animals were not the only creatures to be sacrificed that day. The priests brought upon the altar a nude young man, his face gaunt, his eyes piercing. He looked proudly down his nose at the crowd, in spite of his fate.

One by one, each animal was slaughtered. Blood was collected and poured over the altar; bones and organs were removed to be burned for the deities. The flesh was butchered, and fed, uncooked, into the boy's mouth. Finally, they gave to him a fatal drink of fermented nightshade.

As he felt his vision blur, the sky darkened. The cheers of the crowd grew silent.

Something was very wrong.

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"Up there!"

The shouts came first from a servant girl, her voice shrill with fear.

"We've angered them," she cried. "Look up in the sky! The sun is gone!"

"The sun!"

"It's gone!"

Such astute observations were spoken by the masses, again and again, their voices melding to form one colossal cry. In an effort to calm them, the head priest stepped forward, hands raised, ready to placate.

"The procedures were perfect!" he shouted. "We did as was written in the scripture, down to a fault. No punishment shall befall us—the gods are simply showing their gratitude."

He looked to young man upon the altar, his form small and still, eyes wide and unseeing. He was almost certainly dead. That fact would be certain very soon, the priest thought grimly.

"Bring me the Knife," he told the servant girl, who straightened in shock. After a moment, and with great effort, she brought forth the Knife and its container.

The Knife was concealed inside a large jar, and saw daylight only twice a year. Its blade was finely honed, and gleamed like it was newly forged. The weight of it still felt unfamiliar to the priest, even after decades of ceremonial use.

"Daeho-idar," he murmured. "To you we offer this boy's heart."