You, My Devil - Chapter 6

The coming-of-age ceremony for Yuri, the Fourth Prince of Nike, began as the burning red sun dipped below the horizon.

Atop the stepped platform before the palace, Emperor Nike sat at the highest position. To his right sat the First Prince, Nadin, and to his left were the Empress and the Second Prince, Fessis, seated in orderly alignment.

Before the palace stretched a vast square, filled with all the citizens of Granada. Among the crowd, figures with their heads wrapped in cloth could be seen here and there—immigrants from colonized nations who sought to hide their distinctive light-colored hair from view. Most of them were from Constance.

Their gazes, fixed on the priests preparing the ritual, were heavy with grief. How could they not be? They were standing in a foreign land, conquered by the Nikean Empire, and witnessing the ceremony of Yuri—the very man who had brutally murdered Arjen, the Crown Prince of Constance and their hope for the future, to ignite the war. It was no surprise that not a single one of them wore an expression of joy.

The somber mood was not confined to the people of Constance.

“Mom, is it true that Prince Yuri was born in the desert? Is that why his hair is as red as the sun?”

“Shh, you mustn’t say such things!”

“But Roy said that Prince Yuri is actually a demon cursed by a witch, and if you meet his eyes, he can steal your soul.”

The mother hastily clamped her child’s mouth shut, her eyes darting nervously around. The nearby Nikeans kept their gazes forward, pretending not to hear, but the tension etched on their faces betrayed their unease.

To the people of Nike, Yuri was a fearsome figure—a reflection of the Emperor’s violent disposition. Some even whispered that he might truly be a demon. Despite his relentless conquests and the empire’s territorial expansion, the Nikeans were weary. Years of unending wars and the burdens of tributes had left them exhausted.

“Begin the ritual.”

The Emperor’s deep, commanding voice resounded. Priest Camille lit the ceremonial flames positioned at various points on the platform, signaling the start of the ceremony. The torches roared to life, black smoke curling into the sky. Drums began to beat from all sides.

Boom—boom—ba-boom.

The thunderous drumbeats reverberated through Granada. The sun, now almost entirely set, cast its final crimson light across the land as if unleashing its last burst of fury, painting the earth a vivid, blood-red hue.

“Why hasn’t Yuri appeared yet?”

The Empress furrowed her brows, leaning toward her son, Fessis, to ask in a whisper. Fessis’s composed expression twisted into a faint sneer as he replied in a low voice, careful not to let the Emperor hear.

“He left earlier, claiming he wanted to absorb the energy of the desert. Given his self-centered ways, it’s hardly surprising. But judging by the expressions of the crowd, they look exhausted already, even before the ceremony has concluded.”

“And why are the Constance slaves sitting in the front row, completely uncovered? Their bare heads are an eyesore. We should have simply killed them back then,” the Empress said, her displeasure clear as her gaze fixed on the front of the square.

There sat the former Emperor and Empress of Constance—once rulers, now reduced to mere slaves. Yet their posture was rigid, their heads held high, and their faces showed not an ounce of submission. Instead of bowing, they stared with defiance, their expressions filled with contempt. It was a silent protest—the last shred of dignity they could offer their people.

“Watch closely,” Fessis murmured, a haughty smile playing on his otherwise pristine features. “Their expressions will change dramatically. Watching their child sacrificed before their very eyes should prove to be quite entertaining.”

“Yaaaawn. Where on earth is Yuri? Is he rolling around with the maids or something?”

The First Prince, Nadin, yawned audibly from his seat. While his voice likely didn’t reach Emperor Nike, it was loud enough for the row of ministers standing nearby to hear.

“Prince, mind your manners,” the Empress quietly admonished, her gaze flicking toward him.

Nadin turned to her, offering a sly, knowing smile.
“How can I, Mother, when Fessis keeps droning on with his nonsense? It’s unbearably dull.”

“Nadin,” Fessis interjected, his brow furrowing as he turned to glare at his older brother. Though he despised Nadin’s lackadaisical attitude, which was unbecoming of a grand chancellor, his irritation only deepened at the condescending smirk on Nadin’s face.

“Oh, looks like Yuri’s finally showing up,” Nadin said suddenly, flicking his fingers as if relieved, then pointing toward a distant sand dune.

Sure enough, a small speck could be seen in the distance, kicking up a trail of dust. The figure was Yuri, galloping at a terrifying speed atop a horse. The drumbeats and blaring trumpets grew deafening as the crowd’s attention fixed on the approaching prince.

Just as the sun vanished below the horizon, casting its final fiery glow, Yuri’s flaming red hair streamed like a banner in the wind. He closed the distance to the square with breathtaking speed, the sand swirling wildly in his wake.

“Make way! Prince Yuri approaches!”

Even without the soldiers’ shouts, the sound of thundering hooves was enough to send the gathered crowd parting to create a path. As Yuri charged through, a tempest of sand trailed behind him.

He raced down the cleared path with relentless momentum, only yanking the reins just before the platform. His black horse reared sharply, front legs striking the air before it finally came to a halt. The animal snorted heavily, its breaths visible in the cooling desert air, as Yuri leapt from the saddle with practiced ease.

He carried an enormous sack made of camel leather slung over his shoulder. Ministers rushed to him, hurriedly draping ceremonial robes over his shoulders—a white garment trimmed with vertical golden bands. A crown of laurel leaves was set upon his head as he dragged the heavy sack toward the platform.

“Prince Yuri of Nike! Pay your respects before the divine!”

At the command of High Priest Camille, Yuri knelt in the sand, bowing low until his lips touched the ground.

“All is as ordained by Nike and the gods who favor him.”

Nike finally spoke.

“Commence the coming-of-age ceremony!”

At the Emperor’s command, Yuri ascended the platform, and the High Priest Camille began his invocation. By now, the sun had fully set, and the darkness of the Granada desert crept in swiftly.

What on earth are they planning to do with me?

At that moment, Heina was trembling in fear, bound tightly and hidden inside a concealed compartment beneath the sacrificial altar at the center of the platform.

Until noon that day, no one had come to her room—not even the maid who normally brought her meals. When soldiers suddenly burst in without warning, she knew something was wrong.

“What… What’s going on?! Let me go!”

She struggled, but it was useless. They dragged her to this place, locked her in the confined space, and left. Hours had passed since then. Though her eyes and mouth were bound, muffling her vision and voice, the noises from outside filled her ears clearly.

She had no doubt—she was at Yuri’s coming-of-age ceremony. The words of the maid Elise from the previous night replayed in her mind.

“Tomorrow night, to celebrate Yuri’s coming-of-age, all of Granada’s citizens will attend, as well as the former Emperor and Empress of Constance.”

This meant her parents were likely present as well. Heina twisted and writhed, desperately trying to loosen the ropes binding her wrists. Cold sweat poured from her, soaking her body as she strained against the restraints.

A voice resounded near her, likely Yuri’s, delivering a speech.

“By the will of the gods, I bless you in the presence of all of Nike’s people. Yuri, chosen by divine favor, now perform the rite that will display your devotion. With hands stained by sacred blood, fulfill the will of the gods and make Nike an even greater nation.”

Sacred blood?

The ominous words froze Heina in place. Her hair stood on end, and a chill ran down her spine.

Could it be… this is it?

An instinctive realization of her impending death overwhelmed her. She now understood why her body had been doused in Nikean oils and dressed in revealing ceremonial attire—barely covering her vital areas. It was all to prepare her as a sacrifice for Yuri’s coming-of-age ceremony.

“Mmmpf! Mmmph!”

Heina whimpered through the cloth gag in her mouth, struggling against the tight confines of her bonds. The friction against her wrists scraped her skin raw, and her muffled cries were laced with desperation.

Sweat dripped from her brow as her breath came in shallow gasps. Only now did she grasp her own foolishness—she had trusted Yuri’s word when he claimed her life would be spared until the next rain ritual.

“I dedicate myself fully to the will of the gods,” Yuri’s voice echoed, sharp and chilling.

Overwhelmed by fear and anger, Heina’s entire body trembled like a leaf caught in the wind.

“Offer the sacrifice of sacred blood to the gods! Yuri, son of Nike!”

From his seat atop the highest position, Emperor Nike gave the final command to end the ceremony.

The sun had long since vanished below the horizon. The desert night enveloped the city in its heavy darkness, while the crescent moon, shaped like a goat’s horn, disappeared behind a veil of clouds. All around the platform, the flickering torches cast ominous, dancing shadows as the drumming resumed.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The drumbeats filled the square, thickening the tension in the air. The gathered crowd held their breath, their eyes fixed on Yuri. Both the Nikeans and the people of Constance wondered if the rumors were true—would Yuri truly offer the former Princess of Constance as a sacrifice?

Yuri strode purposefully toward the altar. All eyes followed his every step.

Then, with a swift motion, he opened the concealed compartment beneath the altar and lifted Heina into his arms, her bound body visible for all to see.

“Waaahhhh!!!”

A roar erupted from the crowd.

As Yuri placed Heina on the altar, a thunderous cheer erupted from the crowd. The sight of the sacrifice sent the Nikeans into a frenzy, their voices rising in excitement and bloodlust.

In stark contrast, the people of Constance, scattered among the crowd, turned pale as death, their faces frozen in horror. Among them, the former Emperor and Empress of Constance—Heina’s parents—sat in the front row. Seeing their daughter for the first time in a year, their expressions twisted in shock and anguish.

“Kill her! Kill her!”

The Nikeans chanted louder and louder, their cries reverberating through the square. Above them, dark clouds began to gather in the already overcast night sky.

When Yuri unsheathed his gleaming sword, the crowd’s fervor reached a fever pitch. Heina flinched as she felt the pressure of the blade near her face. The cloth covering her eyes was cleanly cut away with a swift motion, the fabric falling to the ground with a soft swish.

“Kill her! Kill her!!”

The Nikeans roared in ecstasy at his dramatic gesture, their cheers shaking the air.

Heina blinked several times, her vision adjusting to the dim, torchlit scene. The first thing she saw was the vast square, packed tightly with people, their faces filled with either elation or despair. Then, her gaze shifted to the front of the square—and locked onto her parents.

Tears welled in Heina’s eyes, spilling over in hot streams.

“My daughter!!!”

The former Emperor of Constance stood abruptly, his voice trembling with desperation, but was immediately restrained by Nikean soldiers. Beside him, Heina’s mother half-collapsed in her seat, her strength draining away at the sight of her daughter on the altar.

Though her eyes were now free, Heina’s body remained tightly bound. Lying on her side atop the altar, she could only watch helplessly as tears slid down her cheeks. She could not meet her parents’ gaze; the shame and despair were too great. Instead, she turned her head and glared with fierce hatred at the one who had orchestrated this horror.

“Ugh…!”

It was Yuri. That devil of a man intended to kill her right in front of her parents, before their grieving eyes.

She wanted to spit at him, to hurl curses aloud, but the cloth gag in her mouth made even that impossible.

Yuri bent down, leaning close to her ear, his voice a cold whisper.
“It’s too soon to be so tense, Heina. The real fun is just about to begin.”

Under the darkened sky, now smothered by thick clouds, Yuri stood over her with a wicked smile. She could do nothing but glare up at him, tears staining her face, silently cursing him with every ounce of strength she had left.

On the platform, Emperor Nike, along with Nadin, Fessis, and the Empress, focused their full attention on Yuri as he stood before the altar. Below them, the people in the square watched with bated breath, their eyes riveted on him. Only the blind High Priest Camille seemed indifferent, muttering prayers toward the heavens as though oblivious to the spectacle.

Yuri, holding a long sword adorned with a brilliant jewel at its center, strode purposefully to the middle of the platform.

“People of Nike, blessed by the gods! My people, as resilient and strong as grass growing in the desert sands!”

Standing before the roaring ceremonial flames, Yuri’s voice cut through the air, silencing the square in an instant.

“Nike has endured hundreds of days without rain! The land is parched, cracking beneath the scorching sun! Fifteen days have passed since a grand rain ritual was offered to the gods, yet no rain has graced Nike!”

Yuri’s voice thundered across the square, his words slicing through the silence like a blade.

“What nonsense is he spouting now?”

The Empress, startled by Yuri’s unexpected attack on Fessis, grabbed her son’s wrist. Fessis’s eyebrows shot up, his face contorted with disbelief and anger.