Sybil. The Witch.

Sybil stabbed her nail into the soft flesh of the satyr’s lower stomach and traced a red line that reached above his navel. He screamed and thrashed but his limbs remained fastened to the altar.

“Stop moving,” Sybil commanded and the satyr froze mid contort. She held a bowl to his guts to collect the blood leaking there. Quickly, it was nearly overflowing and she set it upon one of the four pedestals that framed them. 

The satyr groaned as she reached into the depths of his stomach and pulled. She placed his organs into another bowl and placed that on a second pedestal. 

“Please,” he whimpered. 

“Silence.”

His cries died. Sybil glanced at the satyr’s face and found him chewing his bottom lip to shreds, his eyes squeezed shut. 

Her lips tugged up slightly at the sight. There was a peacefulness in the silence before the end. This moment reminded her of midnights in the library admiring paintings of fallen heroes and battles waged. The satyr was like one of her paintings, she mused, and grabbed a hammer from a small table beside her. 

“I have to get to your heart, my dear.” 

His eyes shot open faster than a window in mid summer, and Sybil waved the hammer. “But first, I need a part from your rib.”

Sweat teetered on the planes of his face and provided a shimmer to his horns. He was struggling against her enchantments, but it was useless. She wanted to tell him as much but a part of her wondered if he would be the first to actually break free. So she let him continue until his face was scrunched and red with concentration. 

He could not break free.

She raised the hammer and brought it down in a single motion. Snap. Tears hemorrhaged from the satyr’s eyes and his mouth opened in a silent scream.

Sybil wrestled a shard of rib from his inside and plopped in onto another bowl and pedestal. Blood reached her elbows and stained the stone around them sanguine. It dripped onto her bare feet, bathing them with a familiar warmth. She resisted the urge to taste her hands.