A young boy lay upon the altar, his hands and feet bound, his mouth gagged. His parents stood by—one fanning the flames, the other stirring a pot of golden liquid.
That was molten gold.
The molten gold was hoisted up by a huge wooden mechanism, and the red-hot cauldron stood above the boy. The orange-red liquid appeared even hotter than molten lava.
Mira watched in disbelief as the Priest on the platform chanted Scriptures. As the suspended cauldron drew ever closer to the boy, the scalding gold poured down from midair before the onlookers could react.
Splash.
Heavy white steam rose from the altar.
Mira covered her mouth, her eyes filled with horror.
What was the boy thinking just before death?
What flashed through his eyes? His father's stern face while teaching him a craft, his mother's complaints as she carefully tended to him, the heretical Scriptures recited day and night, the piety of daily prayers...
Mira did not know.
