The Hero woke choking on the taste of iron.
His tongue was thick with it, raw, as if he''d bitten down too hard, too many times. A hollow, rasping breath forced its way through his throat—dry, though the ground beneath him was wet.
Not water.
Not blood.
Something warmer. Thicker.
His arms twitched, but they didn’t feel his.
Why am I moving like this?
The sensation was slow, wrong, like his body was following someone else''s instructions. Muscles clenched a half-second too late, the stiffness in his limbs unfamiliar. Every breath dragged itself into his chest out of obligation, rather than instinct.
A heartbeat pulsed—too slow.
It should have pounded in his ears. Should have been racing, frantic, desperate to make sense of the world. But it wasn’t.
It was steady.
Even.
Measured.
Like a heartbeat that wasn’t his at all.
The cathedral was gone.
No stone, no shattered pews, no bodies.
Only a tunnel. Alive.
Walls shifted with a pulse that did not belong to the living. Folds of something not quite flesh, not quite stone twitched at the edges of his vision. Dark veins pulsed in slow, wet rhythms. The air stank of something ancient—not rot, but the memory of rot.
He should be dead.
He was dead.
Something had killed him.
Or had something taken him?
The thought throbbed in his skull like an infection. He tried to piece together his last moments—but the memory wasn''t whole. Like someone had scraped a knife through the center, leaving only the edges.
No pain. No moment of breaking.
Just—
"You’re awake."
A voice.
The Hero''s gaze snapped up.
Erasmus.
The priest stood nearby, hands folded, unhurried, waiting. The flickering glow of the tunnel’s pulsing walls did not touch him. It seemed to bend around him instead, reluctant to make contact.
He looked untouched.
No. Untouchable.
Something in his golden gaze caught the Hero’s breath in his throat. Not cruelty. Not warmth. Just—certainty. As if everything had unfolded exactly as expected.
A shiver, deep in the marrow.
"You," the Hero rasped. His voice was thin, like he hadn’t spoken in years. "You did something."
Erasmus tilted his head. "I acted."
Two words. Not an answer.
Something shifted in the Hero’s stomach. His limbs were his, but they didn’t feel like they belonged to him anymore. The wrongness stretched deeper than just surviving.
"I should be dead."
"You should," Erasmus agreed, stepping forward, "and yet you are not."
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The weight of the words settled in his bones like a verdict.
—
The quiet was unnatural.
Not just the absence of sound, but the feeling of it. A silence deliberately shaped, deliberately placed. It pressed against the Hero’s ears—thick, waiting, watching.
Something was missing.
No wind.
No shifting leaves.
Not even the faintest echo of their own footsteps.
Like sound itself had been cut away.
"You do have a way out, don’t you?"
The words slipped through the silence too cleanly.
The Hero turned to Erasmus.
The priest’s expression hadn’t changed.
No concern. No urgency. Only expectation.
"What?"
"A way out," Erasmus repeated, without impatience, without worry. He simply expected an answer. "You wouldn’t have come here without one, would you?"
Something curled, cold and sickening, in the pit of his stomach.
There was never supposed to be an escape.
Erasmus studied him, then exhaled—a soft, mock sigh.
"You owe me a great debt, you know."
The words sank into the air too naturally, too inevitably.
A sharp, stinging pull inside his chest.
"Debt?"
"You were meant to die in there," Erasmus gestured vaguely to the ruins behind them, "and yet, here you stand. Breathing. Thinking. Speaking my name."
His heartbeat skipped.
Not an ordinary debt.
Not an obligation.
Something had shifted inside him when Erasmus spoke those words.
A tether.
He swallowed against the weight pressing against his ribs.
"Why do you think that is?"
The priest watched him carefully. Then, a smile—not warm, not cruel, but satisfied.
"It’s only right, don’t you think?" Erasmus murmured, "I saved you. Shouldn’t I at least know the name of the man whose life is now tied to mine?"
The trap.
It was simple—too simple. Erasmus could have asked earlier, but he hadn’t. He had waited.
Waited until the debt was real.
Instinct screamed to lie.
But exhaustion dug into his ribs.
He could feel something pulling. Not physically, but in his thoughts. Like a thread had been stitched into his existence, and Erasmus had already begun tightening it.
A slow breath.
"What’s your name?" he asked instead.
Erasmus’ smile lingered.
"Names hold power, don’t they?" His voice was almost gentle. "They are burdens. Chains."
A pause. Then—
"Veridion Luthais."
The name was wrong.
Not in a way that could be explained—just wrong.
It sat too heavily in the air.
Something from scripture.
Something forgotten.
A hesitation.
The Hero should not trust him.
But his mind was heavy, his bones weary. The exhaustion slid the lie past his lips before he could stop it.
"…Rei."
Erasmus inclined his head.
"A fitting name."
And the way he said it—
Like he had already known.
Like he was satisfied.
Then Erasmus stepped forward, voice lowering to something almost soothing.
"Now… why don’t you actually tell me how we get out of here?"
—
Then—
Click.
A single sound.
Sharp. Hollow. Rhythmic.
Click-click.
Not footsteps. Not breathing. Something deliberate.
The air wasn’t silent anymore.
It had a shape.
Like something was pressing against it from the wrong side of existence.
Then—
Click-click-click-click.
The sound of something shifting.
Unfolding.
Click-click-click.
The silence was gone.
His breath hitched.
He had heard this sound before.
Before the cathedral. In the trees. Something had been watching, moving just beyond sight.
It had never been seen.
But it had been there.
And now—
It was here.
Erasmus turned toward the darkness.
"How expected," he murmured, almost amused. "I was wondering when they’d finally stop lurking."
The tunnel pulsed.
The air thickened.
And the skittering grew louder.
They were not alone.