Chapter 1: The Shearing of the Lamb

The bronze shear felt heavier in Elias's hands than it had any right to. The S-shaped blade caught the pale morning light, its surface etched with symbols that seemed to writhe when he wasn't looking directly at them. Below the makeshift wooden stage, the congregation of Saltcradle pressed closer, their faces upturned like flowers seeking sun. But there was nothing warm about their hunger.

"Blessed are those who give of their flesh," his father's voice boomed across the salt-stained air, "for they shall know the favor of the deep."

Cain Thorne stood at his pulpit, dark robes billowing in the coastal wind. The exposed sinew on his jaw—a reminder of his own communion with their God—gleamed wetly as he spoke. His words carried the weight of absolute certainty, the kind that brooked no questioning, no doubt.

Elias forced himself to look at the girl.

Claire Keane knelt on the weathered planks before him, her wrists bound with kelp rope. She was sixteen, maybe seventeen—it was hard to tell with how the grief had hollowed her out. Her mother's drowning three months ago had left her skeletal, all sharp angles and translucent skin stretched over bone. But it was her eyes that unsettled him most. Those wide, grey pools held no fear, no pleading. Just an unnatural calm that made his skin crawl.

"The Tide God hungers," his father continued, his voice carrying over the crash of waves below. "And we, His faithful servants, shall feed Him well."

The congregation murmured their agreement, a low susurrus that blended with the sound of retreating surf. Elias had heard these words a hundred times before, had watched other Shearings from the crowd. But this was his first time holding the blade, his first time serving as the instrument of their God's will.

His nineteenth birthday gift. The honor of the bloodline.

"Present the offering," Cain commanded.

Claire extended her left hand without being asked, palm up, fingers steady. No trembling. No tears. Just that same eerie composure that had marked her since her mother's death. The morning sun caught the fine scars already marking her forearm—practice cuts, preparation for this moment.

Elias raised the shear, its bronze surface warm despite the morning chill. The blade was sharp enough to part flesh like water, curved just so to peel away clean strips of skin. His grandfather had used this same tool, and his great-grandfather before him. The Thorne bloodline, keepers of the sacred cutting.

"Do not hesitate, my son," his father's voice carried a note of warning. "The God does not favor the weak-hearted."

But Elias found himself frozen, staring down at Claire's outstretched palm. Up close, he could see the faint blue of her veins beneath the pale skin, the delicate lines that mapped her short life. She was looking up at him now, those strange eyes boring into his with an intensity that made his breath catch.

It was as if she could see right through him. Past the ceremonial robes, past the practiced solemnity, straight to the growing knot of wrongness in his chest that he'd been trying to ignore for months.

"She sees it," he thought with sudden, terrible clarity. "She sees the rot."

The congregation began to murmur, a restless sound like wind through dry reeds. He was taking too long. His father's jaw worked, the exposed muscle twitching with barely contained fury.

Claire's lips moved, so softly that only Elias could hear. "It's alright," she whispered. "I know what I am."

Something in her voice—not resignation, but acceptance of something far larger than herself—finally spurred him to action. The shear bit into her palm with practiced precision, parting skin and flesh in one smooth motion. Blood welled up, dark and rich, dripping onto the salt-stained wood below.

The congregation released a collective breath, their approval washing over the stage like a warm tide. But Claire... Claire didn't even flinch. She watched her own blood fall with the same detached interest one might show a mildly curious sunset.

"The first offering," Cain announced, raising his arms to the grey sky. "Let the God taste and find it good."

Elias peeled away the strip of skin, his hands moving with muscle memory even as his mind recoiled. The flesh was warm, almost feverish, and it seemed to pulse with its own rhythm. He placed it on the bronze dish beside him, where it would later be carried down to the tide pools as the day's devotion.

But as he worked, preparing for the second cut, Claire began to speak. Her voice was barely audible over the wind and waves, meant only for him.

"She tried to leave," she said, staring past him toward the churning sea. "My mother. She tried to take me away from here."

Elias's hand stilled. Around them, the congregation swayed in anticipation of the second offering, but their fervor felt suddenly distant, muffled.

"She said the God was hungry for more than just flesh," Claire continued, her grey eyes now fixed on his face. "She said it wanted to come ashore."

"Be silent," Elias whispered, but his voice lacked conviction. The wrongness in his chest was spreading now, cold tendrils wrapping around his ribs.

Claire smiled then, a expression so serene it belonged on a saint's face. "But you already know that, don't you, Elias? You've felt it stirring in the deep places. You've heard it calling."

The shear trembled in his grip. Behind him, his father's voice rose and fell in the familiar cadences of worship, but the words seemed to come from very far away. All Elias could focus on was Claire's face, calm and knowing and utterly, terrifyingly unafraid.

"The second offering," his father commanded, and Elias found himself moving again, muscle memory overriding the chaos in his mind.

The blade found flesh again, parted it cleanly. More blood, more approving murmurs from below. But Claire never looked away from his face, never showed even a flicker of pain. It was as if the body being flayed belonged to someone else entirely.

"There," she said as he placed the second strip of skin on the bronze dish. "It knows me now. It knows my taste."

The final cut was the deepest, meant to leave a scar that would mark the offering for life. Elias positioned the shear against Claire's palm, his hands no longer trembling but moving with mechanical precision. This was what he'd been trained for, what his bloodline existed to do.

But as the blade bit deep, drawing a line of crimson across her lifeline, Claire's eyes rolled back in her head. Not in pain, but in something that looked almost like ecstasy. Her lips parted, and for just a moment, Elias could have sworn he heard another voice speaking through her—something vast and cold and hungry, something that had been waiting in the depths for far too long.

Then the moment passed. Claire's eyes focused again, clear and grey and human. The wound on her palm bled freely, soaking into the weathered wood of the stage. Around them, the congregation roared its approval, voices raised in religious fervor.

"It is done," Cain announced, his voice carrying notes of pride and satisfaction. "The God has tasted, and found our offering worthy."

Elias stepped back, the bloody shear hanging loose in his grip. He should have felt triumph, completion. This was his birthright, his sacred duty. But all he could think about was the look in Claire's eyes, the terrible certainty he'd seen there.

As the congregation began to disperse, already talking excitedly about the feast that would follow, Claire rose unsteadily to her feet. Someone had cut her bonds, though Elias hadn't seen who. She cradled her wounded hand against her chest, but her movements were careful, deliberate. Reverent, almost.

"Thank you," she said to him, her voice carrying clearly despite the wind. "For helping me become what I was meant to be."

Then she was gone, melting into the crowd of worshippers like morning mist into sunlight. Elias stood alone on the stage, blood still dripping from the bronze blade, and wondered why salvation felt so much like damnation.

His father's hand fell heavy on his shoulder. "Well done, my son," Cain said, but there was something strained in his voice, something that might have been fear masquerading as pride. "The bloodline continues."

Elias nodded, not trusting his voice. Around them, Saltcradle went about its business, preparing for the celebration that always followed a successful Shearing. But as he looked out over the grey waters beyond the village, Elias couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed. That in cutting Claire Keane's flesh, he had somehow opened a door that was never meant to be opened.

The tide was coming in, and with it, something that had been sleeping in the deep was beginning to stir.