Henrietta had always wanted to kill herself. She was, however, never given the opportunity to do so. That is, not until today.
This day had been a blessing, or so it seemed, as the apprentice had finally gotten her chance. Her forehead met with cold stone as she knelt in the offering room of Sereia's last temple. The space was coated in a thick darkness, and any earth that had displaced the floor was damp, helping the moss her fingers rested on to stay soft. There was no way for her to see. No matter, she thought, for there was a passion that burned bright within her, one that would not let a mere fear of the dark ruin this moment.
The girl kept her head low as she raised her palms to the sky. An athame was placed into her small hands. The calm demeanor she had began to fade, her breathing finding its way to her chest and becoming all too shallow. Tightening her grip on the ritual's only item, she reminded herself of what the gods had in store for her. It was a gift from them, after all. It would be rude not to accept.
Lifting her head from the floor, she brought the weapon mere inches from her stomach. For so long she had begged to have this. The only thing in her way now was instinctual fear. But she would not let her humanity stop her from getting her revenge.
A yelp of pain forced itself out as she plunged the dagger into her flesh. Her body fell, but her consciousness seemed to float away. The stain on her robes grew until blood began to flow from her, pooling. The sensations of the world had faded quickly. Nothing could be felt by her, not the blade within her stomach nor the coarse stone beneath her skin. A sense of accomplishment, the only joy she had left, washed over her as the lifeforce drained from her body. How lucky am I, that this is my fate. Every piece had fallen into place for her, but she knew the time to truly revel had not yet come.
The lids of her eyes fell to cover what little sight had not been overtaken by the strange bright blue creeping into her vision. The last sense to leave her let her cling to a final voice, one gentle, yet firm:
"̶̝̣̫̄̋͘Ḍ̸͈̹͕͊̑ơ̴̻̣̱̪ ̸̘͖͖̂̀̔̄y̵͇̮̰̽̍͂o̵͚̐u̶͈̩͈̺̿̉ ̴̢̛͖̐̇̔k̴̢̳͗́͒n̴͓̋͝o̴̲̗͇͐̋̊w̷̜͋ ̶͚̲̲̠̓̄y̶̝̰̺͝ǫ̵͍̯̹̿̌ų̶̲̠̜̓̈́̄r̶͎̀̂̄͝ ̶̨̼͖̮̍̂̾p̴̤̘̀̅͋͝ĺ̴̛̮̠̻͈̿́a̴̱̼͌̈́̽͝c̵̨̦͎͎̐̽̾̅ḛ̴̟̗̄ ̷̟̦͙̬̈́ȋ̸͉̘̺ṇ̶̝̠̔͜ ̸͉̞̹̩̈̕t̸̰͔͛̈̈́̚h̷͎̰̒̔́͗͜i̸̭̪̪͈̋̄͠s̷̜̯̰̓͜ ̶̱̫̃̌w̵͍͍͆͗̐̚o̴̪͂̕͜͠r̵͓̈́͠l̴̤̜̓͐d̵̦̝̤͕̉̃?̵̨͉̀͋͝"̶̡̭̓