---The Rite of the Moon Maiden---

  In the heart of the village square, beneath the pale glow of a winter moon, the lively celebration unfolded.

  Laughter rang through the air.

  Children clasped hands, forming circles around the age-worn stone statue that marked the center of their world. Their bare feet pattered rhythmically against the cold ground, each jump synchronized with the beat of the village drums. Their rosy cheeks were flushed with feverish joy, their giggles floating like fireflies in the crisp night wind.

  Adults joined them. Men and women linked arms, spinning around the ancient stone statue that stood at the center of the square.

  The statue, a towering woman carved with flowing robes and a serene expression, watched over them like an eternal guardian.

  Everyone smiled. Everyone laughed. Everyone danced.

  Everyone was happy. Everyone was happy!

  Blood seeped between their toes, staining the dirt and cobblestones a dark, wet brown. Some feet were split open; some toenails had peeled off.

  Yet no one faltered. No one winced. They continued to dance, their smiles wide and unwavering, as if the pain was just a minor, forgotten inconvenience.

  “Let’s dance together!”

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  A small child tugged on the sleeve of a lone stranger hiding at the edge of the square. The child’s face radiated with genuine happiness.

  The stranger hesitated. “I… I should not…” He gently pulled his hand away.

  Silence fell.

  In that single heartbeat, hundreds of heads turned toward him at once.

  Their smiles remained, yet not a single eye blinked.

  “Let’s dance!” A girl seized his hand, forcefully broke his wrist backward with a sickening crack.

  “Let’s dance!” A burly man with a face of utter bliss, wrapped an arm around the stranger’s head and snapped his neck with a casual twist.

  The body fell. The villagers didn’t pause.

  “Dance like there's nothing left!” They roared as one, trampled the corpse beneath their blood-slicked feet, and ground bone and flesh into the bloody mud.

  Laughing. Clapping. Spinning. Their joyous cries rose higher, mixing with the hollow crunch of bones crushed underfoot.

  “HAHAHA, HAHAHAHAHAA!”

  At the very center of the madness, a man stood atop the stone statue’s pedestal.

  His white coat billowed like a flag in the night wind. With arms stretched wide, he welcomed the carnage with almost holy devotion, his head thrown back in rapture.

  His violet eyes gleamed with feverish brilliance, reflecting the moon above.

  “Let us welcome the birth of a New Moon!” he cried, his voice booming across the square.

  Above him, the moon swelled. Slowly, violet liquid began to seep from it, droplets falling like tears from the heavens, weeping a sorrow upon the ecstatic dancers below.

  The villagers threw their heads back, arms raised toward the weeping moon.

  ““”OUR NEW MOON MAIDEN!!!”””

  In the year 1538, a village disappeared from the world map.

  The Holy Court, in its records, called the phenomenon:

  The Dancing Plague.