Chapter 3

(𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬)
This story contains dark and potentially distressing themes such as Twisted Religious aspects, Cult indoctrination , Gore, Psychological Horror and Death.

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Life inside the settlement has   became a routine.

You effortlessly picked up on their behaviors, recognizing who walks heavily, who hums to themselves, and who quietly takes an extra roll of bread when no one is watching.   

You would work up early in the morning and  work alongside other people, and enduring their constant praise of Yzrivis, even though it often grated on your ears.

You learned to pray the way Lysara taught you—though, you recited it mechanically because the words always felt empty and devoid of meaning.

After all, how can one recite a prayer with devotion when they are nothing but a heretic?

Though, there were moments when you caught yourself laughing at unfunny jokes, or responding automatically when someone called out your ’name’, not out of fear but out of reflex.

It’s strange, because they ask you to do things now—however, it was no longer the grandiose religious duties where they would force you to do rituals with them and listen to sermons, but rather everyday chores that could be considered mundane..

You also began to notice a shift in how people treated you—starting with extra portions of food, warm smiles, and friendly gestures, followed by murmurs of how you were supposedly blessed by Yzrivis.

“They say he’s blessed.”

“Since he arrived, the fields have flourished.”

“Yzrivis has shown us favor.”

However, you ignored it, because perhaps — it was just coincidence, and also because you don’t really believe in Yzrivis — because if he was indeed real, then he’s definitely going to have a taste of your middle finger.

One evening, after a tiring day of work, you felt drawn to the communal fire outside the inner sanctum, mesmerized by the swirling, iridescent flames fueled by resin logs.

The sky above was painted in fading purples and deep navies, with the stars twinkling like diamonds against the dark backdrop.

You spotted Elya immediately, who was sitting cross-legged near the fire, a small blade in her hand and a sliver of wood spinning under her fingers

She’s carving again — you remembered that it was a hobby of her that she had told you about once when you two were assigned to plow the land or whatsoever.

“Vaelix!” she shouts, not bothering to lift her gaze from her work. “Come sit. You look like as if the wind’s been chewing on you.”

Your lips pulled into a thin-lipped expression as your eyebrows arched upwards, arms crossing in your chest. “Is that a compliment?”

You questioned teasingly, unable to stop the smirk forming in your lips. 

“It is if you have a sense of humor.” Elya flashed you a grin and nodded in agreement before playfully miming a gun with her finger and pointing it towards you.

“Uh-huh, I see.” You hummed as you mimicked the motion.

Then, Elya pats the stone beside her, beckoning you to sit with her. “Come on, we saved a spot.”

“For me?” You questioned, arching an eyebrow, and pointing towards yourself while Elya gave you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Who else would it be for?”

“Right…” You hesitated — but not for long, and you eventually found yourself plopping down to the stone beside the sharp-tongued girl.

“Hi Vaelix, you look as handsome as ever!” Dessa greeted you — she was a woman whom you have been on the kitchen duty with once.

You gave her a smile and a nod of acknowledgement.

Around the fire, seven other people sat: Dessa, who was plaiting her hair into a long braid over her shoulder, Hachi who was chewing slowly on a roasted root vegetable, and four others you’ve seen in passing but never spoken to.

The conversation is quiet and meandering, and of course, as usual, they were talking about Yzrivis.

“He kept me alive through the Plague Season,” An old woman inhaled a deep breath as she placed an open hand on her chest “I prayed for three days without eating. He answered.”

‘He answered, she said.’

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, the fabric of your sleeves rustling as your fingers gripped your biceps

After starving herself into delirium — of course, she would start having auditory hallucinations; the brain fills in the silence when it’s desperate not to be alone after all.

“Thal’vaar!” The small group erupted in an enthusiastic applause in a cultist-like way.

“You know, I also have an experience about that.” Dessa suddenly spoke up, catching your attention. 

“About?” You chimed in curiously.

“I dreamed of fire once,” Dessa murmurs. “I thought it meant death, but it meant purification.”

“Thal’vaar!” They cheered again, voice filled with excitement and solidarity.

Oh. and here I thought it’s going to be somewhat normal… Purification… huh.. right, because burning to death in a fever dream is just a divine spa day.

In an instant, you were chewing on the insides of your cheek while your dominant hand curls into a fist, nails pressing crescents into the meat of your palm.

You wondered what parts of her psyche might’ve split in half to make that sound comforting.

However you’re starting to feel bad for constantly insulting their religion and mental state in your mind.

Only slightly bad though, because you cannot forget those snide remarks about you being an ‘abomination‘ that caused your blood to boil.

You told yourself not to judge, and you told yourself that over and over again.

But when someone starts speaking in tongues mid-praise, eyes rolling back as they sway on their knees, muttering about “grace”

You couldn’t help but get a second-hand embarrassment and decided that you’re definitely going to judge.

“Yzrivis is wrath and grace,” said another man, tall and gaunt, his fingers drumming silently against his thigh like he was keeping tempo with some internal hymn.

“He breaks us only to make us new. He tore out my tongue of lies… and gave me truth in silence.”

“Thal’vaar!” They repeated once again in delight as they nodded.

The man then opened his mouth wide to reveal the scarred stump where his tongue used to be, grinning like a child showing off a missing tooth.

Bile surged thick in your throat at the sight of the scarred stump where the man’s tongue used to be-pink and glistening, a grotesque mound of tissue barely healed.

It pulsed faintly when he smiled, as if it still remembered the thing that cut it off, and you flinched without meaning to, revulsion crackling down your spine.

Then, Elya nudged your arm to knock you out of your flabbergasted and repulsed state.

The pressure was light, and not urgent nor dramatic,  just the gentle bump that said I know you. You’ll understand, eventually.

“Vaelix, I have a gift for you.”

Elya suddenly exclaimed, and you glanced sideways, your lashes lowering for the briefest breath before parting again.

“Hm..?” You peered down curiously, there, resting in her outstretched palm was a pendant; it was small, but still striking nonetheless.

It was hanging from a worn leather cord, and it was carved in the shape of a skeletal hand curled delicately around an unblinking eye.

The fingers were elongated — sharp at the tips, and the eye was smoothed over, its grooves clean but primitive.

Your gaze didn’t lift from the charm, however you didn’t reach out to take it from her palms.

Your jaw was still, the corners of your mouth uncertain, throat tightening as dryness bloomed at the back of your tongue.

You looked at the symbol again, and every part of you screamed to recoil, to stand, to laugh and say something cynical and heretical.

But no words came out from your mouth — not after you’ve heard how people justified the trauma that they experienced as a divine thing that came from Yzrivis himself.

“I don’t—”  You struggled to get the words out, feeling a lump in your throat while Dessa’s soft voice floated in from the side. “It’s for protection, Vaelix”

She paused in her task of braiding, her hand now stationary against her chest. “It acts as a barrier against negative things, like bad luck y’know.”

The rest of the group agreed, as if it was a common practice that everyone understood without question.  

“Yeah, take it, you’re one of us now anyways.” The same man with the grotesque tongue added, making you flinch.

At last, their pressure got to you, so you finally took it on your hand, your thumb grazing the skeletal curve of its carved fingers.

They are smoother and colder than you had anticipated, making your brows raise in surprise.

You cautiously ran your fingertips along one of them;  the tip felt excessively sharp, giving off the impression that it could potentially cut you with even the slightest pressure applied, so you left it at that.

The eye appears colder than the hands in comparison, its surface smooth and flawless, almost like gazing into an empty and all-seeing iris.

This is creepy. You thought, finding the urge to stare at it for so long — because you knew that if you stare at it long enough, your mind might trick you into believing that it moved.

Your gaze flicked towards the people who were looking at you expectantly, so, you forced your breathing to still.

Then, you gingerly raise the cord, feeling your pulse quicken in your wrist as you slide the leather over your head.

You fought the urge to shiver in disgust as it briefly catched on your hair before settling against your chest with a gentle thud, the intricately carved eye positioned just above your sternum.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

The fire that once crackled bright has now transformed into glowing embers, casting a warm glow over the group as they dispersed with whispered prayers and tired smiles.

Elya carefully tucked her blade away while the rest of the companions offered a firm nod of acknowledgment before departing.

Ugh… my back hurts.

You thought as you rose from your seated position, brushing off the dust that had settled within your  robes, the fabric billowing slightly in the cool evening breeze.   

But as you were just about to make your way back into Lysara’s house, a faint glimmer caught your eye near the northern well.  

It was a little girl, maybe ten or eleven, hunched in the shadow between the herb garden and the outer wall.

She’s huddled against the cold stone wall as if she’s trying to disappear into it, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around her middle.

She was trembling uncontrollably, perhaps out of anxiety or just the cold.

Isn’t she supposed to be in the dining hall right now? You wondered.

You’d seen her earlier in the morning, tending to the prayer-lilies with small, trembling hands and you remembered Lysara calling her Alri.

From what you have observed — she was an extremely quiet girl; too quiet to the point that you almost thought that she was mute until she spoke in that soft hushed voice.

“Alri?” You called out her name gently as you approached her cautiously.

She flinched at the sound — a subtle, involuntary tension that rippled through her shoulders — yet she didn’t look up, instead,  her gaze remained rooted to the ground, as if eye contact might shatter whatever fragile composure she clung to.

“Are you hurt?” You asked gently, concern lacing your voice.

The night air is still warm, but there’s a chill around her, and you can hear her breathing-short and uneven as she clutched at her belly.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head, but you weren’t really convinced.

You crouched down slowly beside her, careful not to move too quickly, as though she were a startled bird that might take flight if you made a single wrong move.

Your knees popped in quiet protest as you settled lower, robes tightening uncomfortably across your shoulders — but you ignored the discomfort you were feeling.

“Then why aren’t you inside?”  You questioned, shifting your weight to ease down closer. 

Then, your gaze dropped and saw a thin smear of blood, dull and drying, seeping throughthe inner edge of her robe.

She had been holding herself tightly, arms wrapped around her midsection like she was trying to keep something in — like the earth might swallow her whole if even a drop touched the ground.

Ah. It’s.. that time of the day then?

Isn’t she supposed to rest if she’s on her period? 

A slow exhale passed your lips, misting briefly in the cool air as you sank fully beside her, the chill of the damp stone soaking into your legs.

“You’re bleeding there, huh…” you acknowledged softly.

Her breath hitched and she began shaking her head with rapid, birdlike jerks.

“I didn’t finish the evening chant,” she blurted out, her voice high, panicked. “It’s my fault. I felt it coming but I didn’t stop it in time—”

“It’s okay.” You reassured, shaking your head. “It’s not like you can stop it anyways, the only way to stop it is.. well… removing your..”

You paused, unsure whether you should continue that sentence. It might appear that you were being a creep after all, and you didn’t want to give her that impression.

Alri on the other hand, kept on shaking her head vehemently.  “I-I can’t eat now. I’m impure, I didn’t even cleanse myself before the sun has set — it’s sin blood. It’s punishment—”

“No.”  You reiterated your refusal with a stronger tone, leaving no room for protests.   

Her misty amber colored eyes darted to you wide and round,  shining with tears that hadn’t yet fallen.

She wasn’t just embarrassed, she looked terrified — like someone who had been taught to expect pain.

She looked like someone who was taught to expect exile, taught that she might be dragged away in the dark for something her body had done without asking.

She’s traumatized, You noted, feeling a sense of pity towards the little girl.

“That’s not a punishment, Alri. That’s your body — it’s normal.”

Her lower lip quivered, as she shakily spoke, struggling to articulate her words. “But… one of the high priest says it’s a curse from the time of the unfaithful… He said that the blood is waste-unfit for holy presence.”

A wave of anger surged through your veins at her words. A curse? fuck, isn’t that a little too cruel to teach a girl that her biology is blasphemy?

To think that these people are acting like they didn’t came from a woman’s womb enrages you.

But you supposed that this religion, or rather cult aren’t really special for having those belief — after all, some religion does believe that when a woman is menstruating, they are impure.

But still, it makes your blood burn in your veins with anger, though, you forced your fists to unlench and placed a hand gently on her back, noticing the way that her shoulders were rigid and knotted with tension.

“Alri. Listen to me,” You softly spoke, attempting to maintain a calm tone despite feeling frustrated, as you gently squeezed her shoulder in attempt to alleviate her discomfort.   

“I don’t care about what he said. That blood isn’t a curse, you hear me?”

“But it’s dirty—!” she protested, her voice rising with  shame.

“It’s natural.” You asserted, face contorted into a frown.

She stared at you like you’d grown a second head, her brows creased in confusion, mouth opening and closing again like a fish out of water.

“It’s nor sacrilege or anything, you hear me?”

“Huh…? what do you mean?”

She wasn’t angry, just lost — like no one had ever told her that before, and like she didn’t know what to do with the idea of being allowed to exist.

“It means your body is growing, changing, and becoming stronger. It’s not unclean.”

“It’s not a sin. It’s just biology.”

You had gestured vaguely with your hand, your fingers slicing through the air. “Your body — what it’s doing is not a curse; it’s biology.”

She wrinkled her nose at the word, the bridge crinkling, and her mouth forming into a confused grimace. “Bi-o-lo-gy?”

You offered her a small, patient smile. “Yeah, science, and real body stuff. You know how flowers drop petals or how trees shed bark when they grow?”

She nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing with careful thought, like she was trying to weigh the truth of your words.

“Same idea,” you continued.

“Every month, your body prepares a place where a child might grow someday. Not because it has to — just because that’s what it was designed to do. And when that space isn’t needed, it sheds it and cleans itself out. That’s what the blood is, just the lining of the womb. It’s not waste.. and not dirty. it’s just… natural cells..”

“So… I’m not broken?”

You kneeled down, lowering yourself to her level, your knees sinking into the soft earth beneath, your hand gently brushing against hers to still its trembling.

“No.” you affirmed, your voice low and steady as your eyes scanned her expression.

“But… why would they say it’s wrong?”

One hand rose instinctively to rake through your hair, fingers combing through the tangles at your scalp.

“Because control is easier when people feel ashamed of themselves,” you whispered, tenderly brushing the away the tears that was streaming down her face 

“When people believe their own bodies are wrong, they turn to someone else for permission to feel whole.”

The last words slipped from your lips, laced with a deep-seated abhorrence.

“And if someone tries to make you feel small for what your body does on its own — then tell them that they can suck my—”

You caught yourself just in time, remembering that swearing in front of a child was a no-go.

“Tell them that they can.. kiss my fist.”

Alri glanced down at her lap again, her arms wrapping tightly around her midsection, elbows locked and shoulders hunched, as if she wished to fold herself into a smaller version of herself

“But I ruined my robes.”

She murmured, her voice filled with a mixture of regret and resignation.

“So…?” you questioned, a single eyebrow lifting in a curious arch.

“It’s only a cloth; it can be cleaned.”

“I… I can’t go back in like this.” Her lips pressed into a flat line.

You inclined your head with deliberate slowness, contemplating her dilemma, and released an exasperated sigh.

“Alright then, let’s go clean up first. I’ll bring you something warm after, yeah?”

You rose cautiously, mindful not to startle her, and extended your hand graciously in her direction.

“Come on,”

Alri bit her lip and hesitated momentarily before slowly placing her hand into yours.

You guided her out of the dim corridor and toward the outer paths, your pace steady, unhurried, so she wouldn’t feel rushed or watched.

The walk to the private wash-house took only a few minutes and the small stone building was tucked behind the outer wall, shrouded in ivy and shadow, a place most passed by without thought.

“You can clean there..”

You stayed outside as she entered, the door creaking softly behind her. The wooden walls were thin, and soon after, you heard the splash of water.

Still, you didn’t listen closely, instead you stared up at the sliver of night sky between the eaves.

You whispered small reassurances through the slatted screen, soft enough that she could ignore them if she needed to, but present if she didn’t.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

You fetched some fresh robes-the thicker ones from Lysara’s place and folded them carefully, smoothing out the edges even though your hands were shaking with agitation.

When you returned, you slid them under the door without ceremony.

“Here.”

When the door creaked open, Alri stepped out slowly, hands fisted at her sides, her face flushed as she murmured a soft “Thank you.”

“Alri… Wait here for a moment, okay?”

Her head tipped to the side in ambiguity as her lips quivered, as if scared that you might abandon her.

“Okay..” she murmured quietly, shoulders sagging in disappointment as she watched you walk away.

You returned a few minutes later with another bundle, this one heavier-steam curling lazily from the cloth as you knelt and gently unwrapped it between you and Alri.

Inside was a shallow wooden bowl filled with vegetable stew, thuck earthy, golden from root broth and softened onions while chunks of carrot, yam, and wild parsnip floated alongside wilted greens and torn bits of lentil bread, soaked soft like dumplings.

A pinch of dried herbs dusted the top-rosemary and a faint shimmer of oil clung to the surface, catching the light like a thin layer of amber.

Next to the bowl, there was a selection of sliced orchard fruits that you had carefully prepared — delicate pear and vibrant plum, their skins glistening from the cold water they had been washed in. 

Alri eyed the fruit with a sense of apprehension and hunger, but she seemed to be hesitant to dig in.

”Eat.” 

“I-i don’t think if I could—“ Alri responded timidly, but you swiftly interjected before doubt and fear can bloom in her heart again. “You can.” 

“Do you want to starve to death?”

“Will I be punished for this?” She blinked up at you, pupils wide with doubt, like a cornered deer unsure if the outstretched hand bore kindness or a trap.

“No. not while I’m here.”

Alri slowly lowered herself onto the ground, folding her legs beneath her in a hesitant manner, unsure if she was allowed to do so.

With a bit of hesitation, she picked up a piece of fruit with her fingers, displaying a somewhat awkward and fumbling manner.

Hah, she’s adorable. You thought as you observed her eat the food like a man in oasis.

She’s adorable, really, though not in the way of quaint things, but in the way a wild animal is adorable when it finally lets you close, when it stops flinching from your hand. 

But then the warmth in your chest curdled, ever so slightly as time passes by — the sight began to spark a sense of pity and anger in you. 

Because… so many of them live in fear, of being impure, of being seen, of being themselves; all because the world made the word holy  synonymous with suffering, and virtue indistinguishable from starvation.

It’s pitiful, really.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

You’ve spent hours in your room, the codex of Yzrivis open in front of you — after all, Lysara had once again started scolding you for slacking off and threatened that she will feed you to the undead.

At first, the verses felt oppressive, stifling—but now that you were seeing all the context, there’s a strange clarity to them.

You’ve read it all—every verse, every chapter.

The teachings are suffused with metaphors and allegories, painted in a language so thick it makes your eyes ache.

But in between the lines, you can almost feel the echoes of something that might have been true.

The book isn’t inherently bad, you realized. There’s wisdom here, hidden between the commandments and expectations — wisdom that might have been twisted over time

The way the words talk about strength and balance, the cycles of nature, the need for community, they’ve been bent, yes. But they are not entirely wrong.

You chew over these thoughts, analyzing the verses in your mind. Renewal, cycles, balance between the earth and flesh.

What if the words, the rituals, the very structure of this belief weren’t just about controlling people?

What if they were meant to teach something else, something long lost or forgotten?

But then, a nagging thought rose in your brain: If they were meant to teach something else, why would they hide it?

Why twist it so violently?

Right now, you seriously felt like an archaeologist digging up lost grace — after all, even poison becomes a medicine in the wrong dose.

The more you think, the more confused you become.

You set the book down on the table and stood up, stretching your stiff limbs and then, the door to your room suddenly creaks open without warning.

Lysara stands there, her figure framed by the soft light from the corridor.

Her usual self-assured demeanor is slightly off, something different in the way she stands — her posture less rigid, her smile warmer than usual, like she’s trying to soften herself.

“Vaelix,” she calls out, her voice a little softer than usual, “I— uh.. i couldn’t sleep.”

Huh, weird. A  sense of curiosity and concern rose within you and looked up from the book you were reading, a puzzled expression crossing your face. 

“It’s late. What’s going on?”

She steps inside, but not all the way, just close enough to almost cross the threshold, but she lingers at the door.

You can’t help but observe the subtle movements she makes, noticing how she shifts her weight from one foot to the other in a restless manner, and the way her hand rests lightly on the doorframe, almost like she’s waiting for your permission to stay.

“You know, I was thinking,” she continued, her voice unusually hesitant.

“That maybe you’ve been too hard on yourself. You’re adjusting to everything so quickly. I didn’t think you’d make it this far.”

You squint your eyes, trying to gauge her intentions

There’s a softness to her words, almost like concern, but it doesn’t sit right with you.

You have always known Lysara o be self-assured and composed, not this… shy, and nervous girl; it was like seeing a knife smile.

Plus this Lysara was acting as if she didn’t threatened to indirectly kill you earlier, and didn’t immediately bombarded your ears with scoldings, which makes her current demeanor all the more puzzling.

“Thanks,” you gave her a hesitant nod, your voice guarded. “I’m just… doing what I can.”

She stepped a little closer, her eyes lingering on the pendant around your neck.

“You’re stronger than I thought, Vaelix,” Lysara says, her voice quiet but tinged with something else — like fondness?

It doesn’t fit her usual cool indifference.

“Uh…okay”

You said awkwardly, finding yourself unconsciously shifting back cautiously.

There was something about the aura surrounding her that filled you with a sense of unease, although you couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

“I’ve always been strong,“ you replied, but the words sound sharper than you intend.

You don’t want to admit it, but the way Lysara’s looking at you, with that unspoken affection, is unsettling.

You’re not sure if it’s a game she’s playing or if she’s really just being herself, but either way, you don’t want to misread her intentions.

Lysara doesn’t seem to notice the tension in your words and she steps in just a little further.

“You’re different, you know.” Her voice drops even softer, barely a whisper now.

“I don’t think anyone really understood you before… But I see it now. You’ve got more layers than you let on.”

You stared at her, trying to make sense of her words, but all they do is confuse you more.

More layers? 

It didn’t sound like a threat — not exactly — but coming from Lysara, it also didn’t sound like a compliment.

Her tone was too ambiguous, and it made your skin itch with unease.

“I’m just trying to figure things out,” you stated, voice edged with caution as you tried to steer the conversation back to something safer.

“I’m just trying to understand where I fit in this whole thing.”

Lysara’s gaze softens, but only slightly. “You fit here, Vaelix,” she says quietly, then with a touch of her usual resolve returning, she adds, “But don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re not important in this place.”

And with that, she left.

Uhm, what the fuck is that even supposed to mean?

You were left alone in your room, the air still thick with the unspoken tension. Her words echoed in your mind, though you wish they wouldn’t.

What the hell just happened?

You sit back on your bed, and pinched the bridge of your nose,

This isn’t like Lysara, and you know it.

She’s never been like this before.

Your fingers rubbed at your temples, fighting the urge to overanalyze.

The words and the feelings swirled in your mind like a whirlpool, and you can’t stop yourself.

You’re too good at reading people to miss what’s going on here.

But why is she acting like this?

Is it something to do with the cult?

Or is it something more?

The answer didn’t come but the unease stayed, and now, you have more questions than ever.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

The chilling sensation of cold water splashing on your face hits you before you even realize what’s happening.

You jolt upright, squinting in disbelief at the sudden drenching, before you found yourself gasping for air, coughing as the water soaks through your clothes, with your hair clinging damply to your skin and the icy droplets trickling down your neck.

Lysara stood in the doorway, her demeanor calm and collected, as though she had nonchalantly chosen to splash water on you as if it were the most ordinary occurrence in the world

“Good morning,” she says with a slight smirk, watching you as you scramble to wipe your face.

“What the hell was that? You’re insane,” you muttered, wiping water from your eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite yourself.

Lysara’s smile broadens slightly as she stepped in, holding a small basin in one hand.

“You needed to wake up,” she says, her tone light, as she sets the basin down on the dainty wooden table beside your bed.

“It’s time for prayers, you wouldn’t want to make the day worse by skipping them.”

You threw her a half-accusatory look, wringing out your shirt and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

“That’s one way to wake someone up. I’m going to have to scrub the floor with my hair now.”

Lysara’s expression morphs into one of amusement as she arches her eyebrow slightly. 

“It’s better than you complaining about being too tired all the time, isn’t it? You are lucky because i considered hanging you from the chapel rafters and le the flies write your repentance.”

A chill tingled at your spine at the threat, but still, a sense of relief surged through you, because well, this is definitely the Lysara that you know.

Choosing to divert the conversation, you coughed lightly to catch her attention before bringing up a different topic.

“So, what’s up with you?”

“You were all sweet and soft last night, and now you’re back to being the ice queen again. What happened? Did I offend you or something?”

She stood still for a brief moment, ignoring you completely, her gaze fixed on the door as she slowly made her way towards it.

The silence in the room seemed to drag on longer than you had anticipated, the few seconds feeling like an eternity, but just as you were about to break the silence with a playful remark, she beat you to it.

“What are you talking about? I was away last night,” Lysara told you, a strange finality in her words.

For a brief moment, you found yourself motionless, Lysara’s words  reverberating in your thoughts.

The ambiguity of her words leaves you uncertain, leaving unease to settle within you.   What the… hell did she mean by that?

Her tone carries a subtle hint of dissonance that doesn’t sit right with you.. Something about her tone feels off.

However, before you can process it, Lysara turns her head just enough to meet your gaze with a worried expression.

“Perhaps you’re just being delusional, Vaelix — you still let doubt bloom in your mind after all. So I suppose that I should assign you to deliver the sacred flowers from the high priest later so you can get blessed after prayer.”

She added dismissively before walking out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

You blinked, the words hanging in the air like smoke.

Delusional? The word feels too sharp, too cutting. It lingers on your tongue like a bitter taste you can’t quite wash away.

You opened your mouth, as if to call after her, to demand an explanation — but she’s already gone.

The soft sounds of the morning reverberate through the walls, but your mind is buzzing, unable to settle.

What’s going on?

You glanced toward the basin, the water still rippling ever so slightly, and something clicked in your mind.

Away last night? Lysara was never the type to lie, and she’s definitely not the type of woman to act all clingy and stuff to you.

You sat back down on the edge of the bed, your heart thrumming in your chest.

There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach, a knot you can’t quite undo.

You want to push it aside, laugh it off as nothing — but there’s a part of you that knows better.

Her sudden affection yesterday was out of character, yes.

But now, this abrupt shift, the way she dismissed you so easily — it feels like something’s been playing out behind the scenes.

It’s almost as if the Lysara you knew last night was a completely different person, and this one standing before you — cold and untouchable — is the real Lysara, the one you’ve always known.

You shook your head, trying to clear the confusion clouding your thoughts.

No. It doesn’t make sense. None of it does.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

The rest of your morning passed by in a blur.

You attended prayers, yet your mind was far from the ceremony as the others chant, their voices echoing the same tired verses.

You walked quickly through the temple corridors, sandals rasping quietly on the smooth limestone floor.

Your arms ached from holding the bouquet of flowers for so long.

It wasn’t large, but it was dense — it was a sacred bundle wrapped tightly in ceremonial cloth-blessed three times over by an older Acolyte whose mouth always smelled faintly of bad breath and fennel.

It had been assigned to you without any ceremony and shit by Lysara earlier this morning after all.

The flowers were already wilting when it was given to you — not enough to be called a ruined withered flower, but enough to notice.

A thin droop to the stems as petals curled in places where they ought to have bloomed open with reverence.

The sapphire hues of the soft petals that were once rich and striking, had dulled to a muted, storm-tossed blue.

Yet still, you found yourself admiring the color.

But then, as you were walking, you turned a corner too fast — and collided with a body.

Your shoulder cracked sharply against something unmovable, and the breath knocked clean out of your lungs.

The bouquet nearly slipped from your grasp, but you clutched it tighter, gasping quietly.

“I’m sorry-” you began but the words faltered from your throat as you looked up.

The person that you bumped into was tall, unreasonably so. The kind of tall that made ceilings look shorter or something.

His hair was long-silver, almost white. It fell like liquid light around his shoulders, as if some distant star had cracked open and poured out across his skin.

His lashes were the same pale tone, and when he blinked, you could see the faint shimmer of them, and his eyes — his eyes were blue.

It was the exact same shade of blue as the flowers.

He looked kinda familiar, but your surprise was overpowering your logic right now. ‘Holy fuck, he’s gorgeous.’

You gawked as you felt heat crawl up the back of your neck in mortification.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized, head ducked in shame. “I didn’t see—”

“I saw you.” The man commented out of the blue, his voice soft and smooth. 

“You walk too fast when you’re carrying fragile things.” He tsked disapprovingly, long fingers flicking your forehead, causing you to flinch and irritation to simmer within you.

“Hey— what the—”  A yelp escaped your lips as  he reached out and took it from your arms without asking.

You should’ve protested because you were supposed to bring it to the priest but when his fingers brushed against yours, your protest evaporated like morning fog.

He turned the bouquet over in his hands, inspecting it as if it were a living creature.

Then, with a half-smile, he spoke “These aren’t blooming properly. The temple’s cold. They’ll die before you reach your destination.”

Your brows pulled together as you opened your mouth to protest. “The priest is waiting-”

“He won’t mind.” He reassured you with unwavering confidence.

You stared blankly at him, noting that his demeanor looked kind of familiar..?

“Do I… know you?” you asked cautiously.

His head canted slightly to the side,  his eyebrow  arching elegantly .   

“You’ve seen me,” He said simply, pink succulent lips curved into a smile. “Come. I’m bored. Play a game with me.”

“What?” you gawked in bewilderment..

This guy had just taken the sacrificial bouquet from your arms like it was some kind of casual flower arrangement, then stood there, ethereal and unreadable, as if he was just inviting you to tea party instead of disrespecting sacred rites.

What the actual fuck is happening right now, last night, You were given this weird pendant, and then you met Alri, and then Lysara who was acting all weird and stuff.

And now… this?

“A game?”

You blinked again, almost hoping that the scene would rearrange itself into something that made more sense.

“A game of chess” he repeated smoothly, as if that was all the explanation needed.

He turned, already walking as if assuming you would follow him, his pale hair swaying behind him like smoke in still air.

Your thoughts scrambled.

No — this wasn’t allowed.

You weren’t even supposed to speak to anyone along the way unless spoken to first.

The last acolyte who went off course had been reassigned to grave maintenance for a full lunar cycle.

You couldn’t afford that.

You were already behind on your memorization texts, and just this morning you’d overslept the dawn call and Lysara already creeped the living hell out of you.

“Hey give that back—”

“It’s not as serious as they make it. Come now, don’t make me ask twice.”

The hairs along your arms prickled and you swallowed thickly against the drought in your throat.

“I can’t.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended. “I was given a task, and I’m tired of getting scolded 24/7 so…”

“You’re very obedient for someone who doesn’t believe.”

You stood completely still, feeling an icy shiver travel down your backbone, staring at him in shock like a bewildered fish gasping for air.   

“What?”

He turned his gaze back towards you, inclining his head once more as you met his eyes.

“How do you know that?”

“I listen.”

His response caused a surge of unease in your chest. 

You turned your gaze towards the corridor, feeling your heart begin to race within your chest confined like a trapped animal.

If you ran, maybe you could find another priest, and then you can tell  someone that you got harassed—

But then his hand was on your wrist.

A low, electric tension flickered beneath the surface of your arms, your back, your legs like your nerves had been replaced with copper wire, humming with too much current.

However, before you could react, his hand firmly grasped your wrist.  

A sense of intense electricity seemed to pulsate through your body, as if your nerves were now made of metal wires conducting excessive energy.   

You could feel your heartbeat in your wrists, in your throat, in your ankles.

You wanted to run, but not because of logic, or because of fear.

This wasn’t fight-or-flight.

This was freeze.

As if your body remembered something that your mind didn’t.

It was like déjà vu-except with dread.

Your wrist felt burned, not from heat but from memory.

But what memory? There was nothing to anchor this to.

No trauma that looked quite like this, and yet your whole nervous system screamed.

Because how could you explain it? That his touch felt like the second before something terrible happened.

That his voice rang in your bones like an echo of your worst dream.

That standing this close to him made you want to cry and kill him all at once — and you didn’t know why.

So instead, you stayed still.

Your mind tried to analyze and to intellectualize.

Maybe this was stress.

Maybe your body was overreacting because it remembered what it was like to be helpless.

Maybe your brain was misfiring, mapping this moment onto the terror from before.

Maybe that was all.

The panic didn’t show on your face; you’d trained yourself out of that long ago.

But it showed in the microshakes of your muscles, in the way your other hand clenched into your robe, and in the way your eyes darted anxiously .

“I’m not going to hurt you,”  He hummed, noticing the way that tension seemed to reverberate within your whole being. “But I am going to play with you.”

“That’s not — what is this?” you breathed, half-yanking your arm as trepidation fills your mind. 

Suddenly, he turned on his heels and forcefully pulled you along with him, causing a surge of panic to bubble up inside of you.

What the hell is this? I’m being kidnapped!

Your sandals slid slightly against the stone floor.

You struggled, but his grip was too tight — and it felt as though resisting him was like trying to resist the pull of a siren’s somg.

“Let go—! Motherfucker—!” You couldn’t help but cry out in dismay, your heart pounding in your chest as you fought against his grip.   

His grip hurts so much, as if your circulation was almost getting cut by the tightness of his grip.

“Stop—! Let go off me, damn it!” In a desperate attempt to break free, you twisted and turned, the sound of your heels scraping against the floor echoing in the tense atmosphere.

“You can’t just take people!”

“Then don’t be so easy to take,” he said over his shoulder, glancing at you coldly.

His grip tightened even more to the point that you almost thought that he would crush your bones — and you feared that if you moved too much, he would eventually sever your arm.

Your wrist throbbed in protest as he dragged you down the corridor, and each step made the pain in your arm worse — a dull, relentless throb that crawled up into your whole body.

“Gods—! You’re hurting me!” You snapped, stumbling to keep up, your voice trembling despite the bite. “Seriously, you’re gonna rip my arm off—!”

The man didn’t stopped, if anything, he yanked you harder, and a jagged jolt of pain made your knees buckle.

“Fucking stop—! Are you deaf or just deranged?!”

Abruptly, he halted, and your momentum almost threw you into his back, but before you could even react, he whirled around and grabbed your face with one hand.

His fingers clamped hard around your cheeks, digging into the soft flesh until your lips puckered, forcing your jaw into a painful contortion as your words died in a grunt.

“MMFF— NGH L-LWET G-GO”

You jerked your head, trying to wrench away, but his grip only tightened, forcing your jaw open with the blunt strength of his palm and fingers and it felt like your bones were being ground together.

“Do you ever shut your mouth?” he questioned, leaning closer, his voice velvet-smooth and laced irritation. 

“If you’re ever going to cry, then maybe.. you should cry harder and I’ll consider letting you go.”

Then, he began to drag you once more.

The corridors then began to change once more as he led you further from the main sanctuary-stone giving way to older stone, light to dim shadow.

The place was darker here — fewer braziers, fewer signs of ritual. The walls had no inscriptions, just smooth stone, and the man said nothing as he led you.

“I’ll scream,” you suddenly blurted out in panic, heart pounding erratically against your chest.

“Go do it, and I’ll cut your tongue.”

You froze.

Your vision blurred and blinked, like glass smeared with oil, and suddenly you weren’t in the corridor anymore.

You weren’t even sure where you were.

It was dark and something cold was pressed to your lips.

It was a voice. “Open, if you don’t I’ll sew it shut permanently.”

You blinked, and then a corridor returned, washed in sickly gold from the low lanterns.

What… was that?

It had been so fast — so sharp.

Like the edge of a blade grazing a nerve — not deep enough to bleed, but just enough to let your body remember something your mind didn’t want to see.

Is that.. a memory from your past?

You didn’t have that much time to dwell on about it as he opened a tall wooden door carved with ancient looking symbols you didn’t recognize.

You righted yourself awkwardly, breath catching in your throat.

For a moment, you just stood there, staring at the chessboard like it would split your skin if you got too close.

“What is this?” you asked again, voice smaller now, the  throbbing in your fingers still pulsing beneath your skin.

The panic hadn’t left — it had only curled inward, tight and coiled like a serpent in your belly.

Your hands twitched restlessly in your lap, fingers flexing and curling as you feel your pulse thumping in the tips.

The man stepped to the other side of the table and sat, motion slow, deliberate.

“Sit,” he commanded.

You were unable to muster the courage to budge an inch, thus, you remained standing there awkwardly like a pole.

He cast a disapproving gaze in your direction, his piercing blue eyes filled with disappointment, almost as if he had expected you to do better. 

“I said sit.” 

Wait— what the!

Your breath hitched as a sudden, mysterious force overtook your body, manipulating you like a marionette and compelling you to take a seat.

Your body felt like it was being controlled or something, or.. are you overthinking it and maybe it’s really just your instincts? 

You felt a lump in your throat as you tried to process what the fuck is happening right now.

“You’ll be ivory.”

“I don’t want to play.” A muscle in your jaw twitched as you sat straighter, willing your breath to even out.

“You will.”

“Tch…” There’s no really use in trying to refuse this creep, huh.

You grit your teeth as you gazed at him intensely, studying the composed expression on his face and trying to decipher the inscrutable thoughts hidden behind his calm eyes.  

His eyes seemed almost otherworldly, as they seemed to absorb rather than reflect the light around them.

It was quite creepy, really — to see an eyes so blank and soulless.

“You can’t just force people-” You started shakily, but he interrupted you before you can even finish that sentence.

“I can.”

You bit your lips and looked back at the board, fingers brushing the ivory queen.

“I don’t want to play,” you repeated, quieter this time, almost childlike in your fear.

His hand rose and hovered between you, two fingers resting lightly against your chin.

He then tilted your head  like one would adjust a figurine.

“Then it’s a good thing that I don’t care about what you want.”

God, what an asshole. You thought as his lips formed a sneaky smirk that made you feel somewhat disturbed.  

“You’ll be ivory. First move is yours.”

You stared at the pieces, blinking against the sting that was creeping up in your eyes.

It was a normal chessboard, wasn’t it? A normal game?

Your hand trembled as you touched a pawn.

You pressed your palm to your thighs, grounding yourself in the sensation — then, hesitantly, you lifted your trembling hand and pushed the pawn forward.

The moment it left its square, his succulent lips curved into yet another smile.

“You learn fast,” he praised.

You shifted your gaze upwards, locking eyes with his face. “What is this place?” you asked, your voice hoarse.

“A room,” he replied flatly.

A look of annoyance clouded your face as you clicked your tongue, trying to ignore the pain in your cheek. “Why me?”

He reached for the obsidian knight and set it down with quiet finality, the piece making a dull clack on the board.

“Because you ask questions like that.”

You opened your mouth to snap something back, but the words died.

…This was probably your punishment for being a little shit, isn’t it?

“What’s your name?” you asked, clinging to the question like it might buy you an inch of ground.

He didn’t look up from the board, his eyes remained fixed on the pieces, studying them coldly. “Would it make you feel better to know it?”

“Yes.”

He finally looked up then, tilting his head slightly, like he was watching a bird flutter against a window. “Then no.”

The burn of humiliation bloomed behind your eyes.

Your jaw clenched so tight it ached, and your nails bit into the tender meat of your palms as your hands curled into fists in your lap.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to throw the board, knock the bone pieces across the room, drag the candles down and set the whole place ablaze until it smelled like soot and rebellion.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you played.

And all the while, he watched you — not the game — you.

“You’re not from the temple,” you whispered. “Are you?” Your hands shook, cold sweat gathering in the crease of your neck.

Your fingers awkwardly reached for the bishop, moving it across the board with careful, uneven pressure.

The piece scraped softly against the wood, like a bone dragging across stone.

…And you definitely didn’t expect him to correct your shitty move.

“That’s a mistake,” he bluntly pointed out, making you grit your teeth, anger blooming in your chest.

“I told you already, I don’t know how to play this game”  You snapped, only to freeze when his hand passed through the space between you as he unhurriedly grasped the bishop and slid it back to its original place.

“Try again.”

You scowled, fists clenching.”I thought you said it was my move.”

“It is,” he hummed. “But you’re doing it wrong.”

A frustrated breath slipped out through your teeth, your shoulders twitching upward before you forced them down again. “So let me lose.”

“No,” he replied, tone sharp. “I don’t like watching people lose without understanding why.”

His elbows rested lightly on the armrests, and his fingers steepled beneath his chin as though deep in contemplation.

Then, softly, he murmured, “Move your knight. To F3.”

You squinted at the board, hesitating. “Where even is F3…”

He extended a single finger and pointed, slow and patient, to a square near the center.

You followed the direction with your gaze, cheeks warm with tension.

You nodded once and reached out again, clumsily picking up the knight.

Its carved edges dug against your palm as you placed it where he said.

“There. That’s better.” His eyes met yours briefly. “You think too defensively. Always looking for where you’ll be cornered. That’s not how you win.”

Your arms crossed over your chest. “Maybe I’m not trying to win.”

His left eye twitched. “That’s why you’re so easy to take.”

Your blood ran cold.

“You—” Your voice broke on the edge, but you bit your tongue, stopping it before it spilled over.

Your shoulders snapped tight, jaw locking so hard it ached.

You didn’t even know what you were going to say — accuse him? Beg? Curse? There was no solid ground left in your chest, just the shifting sands of fear and annoyance.

“You’re angry,” he noted, sounding almost amused. “You think I’ve trapped you here.”

“Haven’t you?” you snapped.

He considered that, as if it was a fair question. “Maybe.”

Your lips parted, but you had nothing left to throw at him.

You turned your eyes downward instead, glaring at the pieces like they’d betrayed you.

He pointed again. “Look. If you move your queen here — see how it threatens my bishop?”

Your eyes tracked the imaginary line he drew.

“It leaves the king exposed,” you huffed, “You’re baiting me.”

“I’m teaching you.”

You scowled and moved the queen.

The game continued, slower now, while he corrected you every few moves.

Slowly, you began to get used to it and you started moving faster, and bolder — you stopped second-guessing.

“You’re not like the others,” he murmured finally.

How cringe. How many times do you seriously have to hear this from different people? Your nose wrinkled.

“What others?” you asked. “You’re making me sound like a pick me.. or a weirdo.”

“Anyway, what happens if I win?”

It seems your words nicked a nerve as his blue eyes flickered to your face, and his smile withered.

“You won’t.”

The pieces clicked again and his knight took your rook.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

You woke up gasping, the stone beneath your cheek damp with sweat. Your hands scrambled against the floor, fingers twitching as if to anchor yourself to reality.

But the moment you sat up, a nauseating wave of disorientation struck you like a slap.

The hallway.

You were still in the hallway.

No… not still.

You were back in the hallway.

Same amber sconces flickering against the old walls, same stretch of ancient tile beneath your knees.

The faint scent of smoke still hung in the air like a veil, masking the mildew that always clung to the lower corridors.

You looked down.

Your offering bundle — the one you’d carried with care, with purpose — was gone.

The sacrificial flowers had vanished like a mirage.

You stood frozen in place, feeling a sudden churning sensation in your stomach that was both intense and rapid.   

Had it all been a dream?

No, not a dream.

A hallucination?

Your heart pounded again from confusion.

Were you just hallucinating everything? 

You pressed your back to the wall and dug your fingers into your scalp hard. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, but the phantom sensation of him breaking your fingers returned like a shiver under your skin.

It hadn’t happened.

It couldn’t have happened.

You would’ve been reassigned, punished, seen.

So why did it feel realer than the cold stone you sat on now?

You tried to steady your breathing. You’d read about this before — hallucinations in high-stress environments.

The brain’s way of making sense of isolation, trauma, religious pressure.

You weren’t the first. After all, the mind under strain, begins to create narratives.

But it just made things worse, because if this had come from your own mind, then why did he feel so foreign yet so familiar?

The sharpness of it all — felt too real, too tactile.

You remembered everything about that interaction – even that simple words where he said “I’ll cut your tongue” seemed nostalgic to you.

You’d heard that before.

Not from him.

What had the psychologists called it?

Somatic memory? Trauma echo?
Muscle recall?

Sometimes the body remembers long before the mind catches up.

Sometimes it invents stories to explain why your skin crawls in an empty hallway.

Why you flinch when no one’s there. Why someone’s smile makes you feel like prey.

And yet… .It was as if it had never happened.

But your brain knew better — you were sure that it’s not just a hallucination.

Was it just stress?

Was this what Lysara had warned you about? The way the faith sinks its fangs in you? Makes you question what’s real and what’s divine?

Some days, you wondered if the zealots weren’t actually the crazy ones.

Maybe they’d already snapped.

Maybe that was why they always looked so peaceful.

Maybe you were next.

You stood up shakily and clutched your robe tighter around your shoulders.

Maybe this was a test.

Maybe the gods had sent it to punish you for doubting or maybe your own mind was eating itself.

But still, you needed to tell someone. Lysara? No, she’d scold you again.

She already thought you were too soft, too forgetful, and too easily led astray; you couldn’t give her more ammo.

But keeping this to yourself… that wasn’t an option either.

And then, the silence was broken with the sounds of sharp, deliberate footsteps.

You jerked your head toward the end of the corridor, breath catching in your throat as a figure emerged-robes of deep red and black, layered with silver thread and prayer knots.

Father Myron, judging by the slight limp and the heavy rings dangling from his belt — the same one that saved you from back then.

For one wild moment, you thought he might pass you by, but then his eyes landed on you — piercing, pale, narrowed in instant disapproval.

“You,” he suddenly spoke.

You pushed yourself upright, your hands bracing against the wall for support. “I-“

His voice cut like a blade. “Where are the flowers?”

You blinked, opened your mouth, then shut it again. “I-They’re gone.”

“Gone?” he repeated, voice rising with incredulous fury. “The sacrificial offering? Lost?”

“I didn’t mean to-” You tried to explain, stumbling over your words.

“Didn’t mean to?” His voice boomed throughout the hall, filled with disappointment and disdain. “It was sacred, and you lost them?”

“I think-” You hesitated, struggling to find the right words as your breathing got heavier. “I think something happened. I think I saw someone. There was a-room-“

“There is no room in this wing.” His voice dropped, venomous and filled with contempt now. “And no one was permitted to speak to you along the way. No one.“

“I know,” you replied quickly as you shook your head. “But I saw him! I was awake, I remember chess. He said— he said things. He grabbed me, he touched me and — i mean, not like that kind of touch, I mean—”

“Stop,” Myron barked, not really believing any of your words. “You’re rambling.”

You gazed intensely at him, feeling a sense of unease as your throat parched up in anxiety.  “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“You don’t need to explain.” His expression darkened.

“You need to repent. Yzrivis does not abide negligence. You’ve let his offering vanish, and now—” He turned, voice rising. “Now all of us will suffer the consequences.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little… dramatic?” you muttered bluntly, eye twitching slightly in agitation.

He turned back toward you slowly, as if you’d just spat on Yzrivis himself.

“What did you say?”

You could feel the tremor in your bones, but your voice stayed even. “I said, maybe this isn’t negligence.”

His nostrils flared, completely taken aback by your audacious claim. “You dare-“

“Maybe it’s Yzrivis’ will.”

He stopped mid-step. “What?”

You swallowed the knot of nerves building in your throat and stood a little straighter. “Maybe I wasn’t meant to deliver those flowers. Maybe I was just… carrying them to where they needed to go.”

He stared at you like you’d grown a second head.

You continued, voice lowering, gaining that strange, solemn cadence the priests always used during sermons.

“Do we not believe that Yzrivis guides all things? That not even a grain of rice falls without his breath stirring it? You told me that yourself, didn’t you, Father?”

“I-” He faltered.

“If the flowers are gone,” you began, “then Yzrivis willed it. If I was stopped in the hallway, if I saw someone— then perhaps it was not a test of my obedience… but a lesson meant for me. A lesson only I could receive.”

“Blasphemy,” he muttered, but he wasn’t shouting anymore.

“No,”  You said assertively, confidently taking a step closer while being cautious about your body language so that he buys your bullshit.

“I am not denying the will of the divine. I’m submitting to it.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked… rather unsure. Doubtful.

The priest looked at the wall for a long moment as if it was the most interesting thing to ever exist.

“You think the god speaks through loss?” he spoke finally, voice hoarse.

“Yes. Isn’t that what you’ve always taught us? That suffering is sacred? That what is taken from us is also part of his plan?”

He turned away, pacing two steps, then three. His hand rose to his temple, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

You watched him wrestle with the contradiction and the tension.

It was quite fun seeing him wrestle with the knowledge that punishing you meant resisting the very logic they beat into your skull when you were scared enough to recite the morning prayers.

“…Perhaps,” he murmured at last, quietly, “there is something to be discerned from this.”

Finally, he turned toward you again, the fire was gone from his face, replaced by cool detachment.

“You will not be punished,” he stated, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “But you will be watched.”

You nodded slowly, thanking your lucky stars.

“And you will write a full report. Every word, every sensation, every hallucination, if that is what it was.”

Your breath left you in one slow stream. “Of course.”

“The other high priests will read it personally along with me.”

You bowed your head in what looked like humility, but behind your lashes, your eyes burned.

“Yes, Father.”

He lingered a moment more, then turned and vanished back into the corridor without another word, the sound of his staff echoing like a metronome of dread.

Only when he was gone did you allow yourself to sink back to the floor, hands trembling as your breath came in short crystalline puffs in the cold air.

That had been… too close.

Your breath stayed shallow, caught somewhere between your lungs and throat, like it, too, feared drawing attention.

You wanted to feel relieved, but instead there was this sour taste in your mouth, like you’d swallowed glass shards and it was scraping your insides.

Fuck…you just spoke like one of them and they believed it.

That priest — Father Myron — who’d once ordered a man whipped for asking why the sun still rose during days of mourning, and the one who also asked other people to be killed for religion — had hesitated because you’d recited back his own teachings with just the right intonation.

It made your skin crawl.

They are so easily bent, you thought, your pulse pounding in your ears. All it takes is the right tone. The right scripture, a trembling hand held just so and they will believe anything, so long as it ends with Yzrivis.

They were all so ready to see signs in everything.

You pressed your palms to your face, fingertips grazing the tender, chilled skin under your eyes.

“I don’t believe in him,” you whispered, into the silence, into the cold. “And yet…”

“You little — you Zel’vethrin.”

The voice cracked through the silence like a whip.

You flinched, snapping upright just in time to see Lysara storming toward you— robes dragging, eyes like two polished coals catching firelight.

“You absolute imbecile.“

Her hand grabbed your wrist before you could stand, wrenching you up like you weighed nothing.

The pain shot up your arm, but you were too stunned to protest.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she hissed. “Do you want to be gutted in front of the altar for everyone to watch? Do you want to be thrown to outside for the undead to eat? Is that it? Have you just-given up?“

“I didn’t-“

“You didn’t what? Didn’t think? Didn’t care? You lost sacred offerings, disappeared for gods-know-how-long, and you’re just sitting here like you pissed yourself at prayer! I didn’t begged and worked hard to keep you alive just for you to give up!”

Holy fuck — why is Lysara so mad?! She’s even cursing right now!

“I was—something happened—” you tried, but her grip only tightened.

“Oh, something happened? Something happened?” Her mouth curled in mockery. “And what would that be, exactly? You tripped? Had a vision? Or are you just trying to get yourself marked as insane so we throw you in the pit with the others?“

You twisted your wrist free, panting. “I saw someone! a  man, and he touched me-!”

Lysara stared at you like you’d just grown horns, her lips parted in shock, but her eyes already narrowing like she was bracing for the rest of the sentence to be even worse.

“I mean — he touched me but not like that! he said things, Lysara, he knew things— he was really tall and had silver hair!”

You didn’t really bothered telling her about the broken fingers because she probably would not believe you — but even then, you are starting to doubt yourself too.

Her expression wavered momentarily, a hint of uncertainty passing through her features.

“…Silver hair,” she repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded too quickly, too eagerly, almost stumbling over your own breath.

“Yeah! you know about my.. beliefs.. I never told anyone, but he—he knew. And then everything—”

“Stopped,” she finished softly.

You stared at her, hope blooming in your chest. “You believe me?”

Lysara was unusually quiet, her usual sharpness dulled under something else-less fury, more calculation.

“…Maybe,” she finally said at last. “Maybe it wasn’t just your stupidity, maybe it was a sign.”

 You blinked your eyes and tilted your head slightly, in an attempt to comprehend and understand the words she was saying.   

 “A sign?”

“You don’t know much about the old doctrines, do you?”

“I was late to most of our lectures,” you muttered, scratching the back of your neck awkwardly.

“That much is obvious.” Her tone was dry as she folded her arms and looked at you.  “Tell me, heretic, have you ever heard of transmigration?“

You frowned, and arched an eyebrow.  “…You mean like reincarnation?”

“Not exactly.” She leaned against the stone wall, watching you carefully. “In this world, we believe souls don’t just vanish. They move, they shift and Yzrivis guides them from one form to another.”

You nodded slowly, still catching your breath.

“The faithful — the worthy — are said to be reborn within the safety of the settlement because the lord is granting them a second chance to continue what they started.”

“And the unworthy?” you asked, voice lower.

“They’re exiled,”

“Scattered, and left to wander in rotting corpses — or worse — cast into a realm with endless suffering.”

“But there’s another belief,” she continued, voice quieter now. “That some souls… come back wrong.“

“…Wrong how?”

“As if something has interfered, wiped them clean, and rebuilt them with purpose. But without memory, they wake up in new bodies, in new lives, but something inside them never feels right. The priests say it’s heresy, while others say it’s divine mercy.”

You licked your lower lips to moisturize them as you fiddled with your fingers. “You think… that could be me?”

“I think…” Yzrivis has taken an interest in you. That was what she wanted to say but held back. “Nevermind, just be aware that it never ends well.”

You rubbed your arms, suddenly cold, lips quivering. “But i didn’t ask for this…”

“No one does.”

Silence crept between you.

“…What now?” you finally asked.

Her gaze sharpened again. “Now? Now you wait. And you pray no one else hears about this before your report is reviewed.”

“But if they do hear?”

“Then they’ll call for Zyval’korr.”

The word was unfamiliar. But the way she said it — the weight of it, and the eerie pause — made your skin crawl.

“What’s that?” You didn’t even realize you were wringing your hands until you felt your nails biting into your palm.

“Punishment,” She stated nonchalantly.

“Punishment reserved for heretics,  liars, and those who claim visions without permission.”

Your heartbeat ticked up. “What kind of punishment?”

“Feeding you to the dead, or torturing you to death.” she informed bluntly.

“Some examples of it are, tying you to a post at the edge of the ruined wall, screaming until they drag you into the dust, or stripped bare beneath the Temple Spires, left to bake beneath the sun until your skin splits and your bones rattle from thirst.”

That’s… really brutal. But what can you really expect from a cult that does every crime just to justify it in the name of their faith?

Still, your stomach churned with a mixture of discomfort and apprehension. Because… what if they eventually found out that you’re a heretic?

Would you be subjected to such torment too?

You are quite lucky that Lysara hadn’t snitched on you yet.

Her words are just a reminder that you are but a lamb lost in a forest that only breeds wolves and that you should tread carefully, or else you will be torn.

“Or,” Lysara suddenly added lightly, “something worse. There are always worse things.”

“Why are you telling me this?” you whispered, biting your lip.

“Because I want you to survive,” she placed her palm on your cheek, tenderly caressing it as her eyes softened . “And you clearly don’t know how.”

“So listen here, Vaelix.”  You grimaced in pain as you felt the sharp tug of Lysara on your earlobe, a jolt of discomfort washing over you.

“Ouch- that hurts!” you whined, attempting to move away as Lysara leaned closer and spoke softly into your ear.  

“Keep your mouth shut,” she pulled away and straightened her posture. “Write down everything. Leave nothing out and make it read like scripture if you have to.”

You looked at her, and for the first time, Lysara looked afraid.

Not for herself.

For you.

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 ! !

Memories
-The reader doesn’t remember much-not names, places, or even his own past clearly. But his body does. And when he was near that man, something in him coils tight. It’s not logical fear. It’s instinct. Psychologically, he knows this could be emotional amnesia-the brain forgetting what the body cannot. The amygdala remembers fear even when the mind forgets the reason. So when the man steps too close, and he freezes-he doesn’t know why. But something inside him does.

The sacrificial flower
-It represents purity, ritual, and sacrifice. In the temple, they’re offerings-symbols of obedience and devotion. They come in different colors, but most of them are always sapphire.

Games
-In this world, games are not mere distractions-they are dangers. Specifically, the game of chess was demonized. To the devout followers of Yzrivis, games like chess, promotes independent thinking, personal strategy, and complex problem-solving-qualities that distract the mind from true worship. Thus, it is banned. And to be caught playing it, even in secret, is to invite punishment. So therefore, that means that the reader has done something illegal without even knowing it himself.

Menstruation
-In this world, The belief that menstruation is impure is a misinterpretation rooted in patriarchal distortion of the Codex of Yzrivis – many of them are all misinterpreted. One such verse-“And the daughters of clay shall bleed in their seasons, as the earth does in hers…”-was meant to honor the natural cycle of women, comparing it to the earth’s own renewal. However, instead of embracing its symbolism of life and rebirth, some men twisted its meaning to shame and marginalize women.

Lysara’s affection Level: 75%
-Lysara was never meant to be soft. So when the reader arrived-all injured, and constantly muttering blasphemies under his breath-Lysara hated the reader. Not disliked. Hated. Because he was always questioning, always doubting, always getting underfoot and drawing the wrong kind of attention. He didn’t pray properly. And to Lysara-who had given up everything, who had lost everything– his irreverence was a slap across the face of her pain. But as time goes by, the reader started to remind her of what she once had-and lost. Her husband had been killed, and she got a miscarriage, so, because of the isolation she was feeling, she ended up developing an attachment to the reader and somehow trauma bond with him. Lysara never said it aloud, never softened enough to admit what was happening. But she started watching the reader the way a mother does-constantly, critically, protectively.

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a/n: For those interested in updates or sneak peeks or theory shit abt this book, then feel free to join my discord server—the link is on my profile.