Darkness still held the land in its fist, but on the edge of the sky a thin silver crack of dawn trembled.
The forest was silent, as if frozen in anticipation. Only the mist moved between the trunks like pale shadows, slipping toward the sacred clearing.
Here lay the heart of the hiis — the ancient grove where no stranger’s foot dared tread.
Today, those who had gathered here were men who might never return home if the gods turned their faces away.
Half a hundred warriors, covered in scars and soot-darkened bronze armor, stood shoulder to shoulder.
Their eyes gleamed, but not with the firelight — they burned with their own inner flame that no fear or frost could quench.
On their helmets crouched boars — beasts that carried rage and death.
In the center stood the stone of sacrifice, carved with patterns older than human memory.
Upon it a fire already roared, its smoke rising straight upward, refusing to disperse — a stairway for souls.
The high priest stood by the flames, leaning on a silvered staff.
His face was like weathered oak, deep with the cracks of age.
“Taara... Tarapita... great father, hear us!”
His voice was rough and deep, like distant thunder.
“Take our hearts and our blood — give us the strength to spill theirs!”
The warriors struck their shields.
The muffled roar that followed was as if the earth itself growled beneath them.
Two men brought forth a white goat.
Its eyes darted wildly; it struggled, sensing that the gods demanded its life.
The priest raised his knife, and in that moment everything — the wind, the crackle of fire, the breathing of men — stilled.
The blade flashed, and warm blood poured into a wooden trough.
The first drops were cast into the flames — the fire roared, throwing red light onto the warriors’ faces, making them look like demons of war.
Then the feast began.
One by one they came to the communal horn, drank deeply, and poured the rest into the sacrificial bowl.
Afterward, they gripped the shoulder of the man beside them, looking into his eyes — a vow that even death would not loosen.
The fire crackled louder, its flames dancing.
The drums beat in time with the heartbeat of a giant.
The warriors began to sing, low and guttural, their voices merging into a single drone.
Minute by minute the singing grew louder, rising into a roar, then into shouts.
Some beat their chests, some spun their spears, some threw back their heads and howled into the sky.
“Taara, aita!” — the first cry tore through the noise.
“Taara, aita! Taara, aita!” — all joined in, their voices soaring like wind and thunder in unison.
The forest shook; even the mist tore itself apart to flee.
The priest lifted his sword, and on the blade, wet with dew, the first ray of the sun flared.
The warriors froze.
A light breeze moved above their heads, making the branches shudder.
It was a sign: the gods were near.
A heartbeat later, the formation moved.
Heavy steps thudded through the roots of the trees.
The forest swallowed them into its shadows, and all was silent.
Only in the sky, above the curling smoke of the altar, a lone raven circled — a herald of war.
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