Chapter 7

(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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He didn’t tell you but you took his silence as a yes.

You didn’t even know how the thought came to you — how your mouth had formed the words before you could stop them — because you swore it wasn’t reasoned.

It was just like something had crawled into your head like a parasite and spoken through you.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe the guilt — or maybe it was the hallucinations — the voices.

The distinction between them had long began to blur in your mind after all.

But perhaps, it was just desperation — the kind of desperation that makes you blurt out wild accusations just to feel like you still have some control.

Even then, the man—Yzrivis, or whoever he truly was—never confirmed it. But he never denied it either— which leaves you hanging on the grey space, conflicted and confused.

“I don’t have a name, so call me what you want” he had told you. It was unsettling, perplexing, and weird because you swore that back then, he told you that names are an anchor, a thether — to who you are.

Yet, he discarded the concept entirely.

But you didn’t push it, didn’t question the contradiction because you were too tired to fight whatever his mysterious weirdo personality is spewing about. 

Yzrivis is a difficult person to decipher — because he’s like a mirror that refuses to reflect .

He says things plainly, but somehow, it never means what you think it means.

The candle had burned halfway through its wick when you felt  the soundless way the air seemed to shift again.

You didn’t need to turn around, you already knew it was him.

The room always seemed colder when he came after all, yet you found your muscles relax before you could stop them.

“I told you not to exhaust yourself,” he murmured from behind, voice smoother than any blessing you’d ever heard. “But you never listen.”

How can I take care of myself when she’s suffering? Your throat tightened, pulse fluttering in your throat. “She’s not getting better.”

You felt his hands settle on your shoulders, and your muscles tensed and twitched; you tried to flinch but only managed a slight jerk.

His thumbs found the tight knots above your shoulder blades and began to knead, slow and deliberate. 

You hadn’t realized how stiff you were until now as pain flared beneath his thumbs—then ebbed, dulling under the rhythm of his touch.

“I said,” you repeated, voice getting smaller, “she’s not getting better. Is she… is she going to live?”

His thumbs hovered at the base of your neck for a heartbeat, and you felt goosebumps rise along your arms.

“Does it matter,” he asked softly, breath warm against your ear, “if I tell you yes or no?”

You twisted your neck, trying to peer over your shoulder, but he closed the gap before you could fully turn, and his cheek pressed against yours, his breath warm against your skin uncomfortably.

“You said there were ten days,” you muttered, gaze fixed on Alri’s motionless form.

“This is the third. You said… the fourth needs something from outside?” You questioned hesitantly.

“Mmh.” He hummed.

“Very good memory. That’s right. Tomorrow we’ll need something rather delicate.”

He leaned closer, and you felt the curve of his smile behind you as he resumed massaging your shoulders, slower now.

“Blood of the undead, you purify it with the water… on the well outside. It’s on the west.”

You stiffened beneath his hands again. “From outside” you murmured, your voice edged with apprehension.

“Of course,” he uttered, sounding almost amused. “They don’t exactly wander in here politely.”

A knot formed in your stomach, tightening with unease, and you exhaled sharply. “That’s suicide.”

“Oh?” His fingers expertly worked their way down your back, reaching the curve of your lower spine, his thumbs pressing deeply into the aching muscles. 

“You think so?”

“Of course. I’m not a soldier,” you whispered, fists clenched as you bit back the rising frustration. “I’ve already killed yes, but.. my body’s not exactly in the right state to fight, isn’t it?”

“Come now, little wolf. Don’t think like that. You don’t have to kill.” His fingers trailed down your arms with a feather-light touch.

“Just take a sample, a single drop. That’s all. Just knock them down and stab a syringe in them, no need to bash their head. Don’t let your psychosis get the best of you.”

You turned to face him at last and glared at him.

“And if I refuse?”

Yzrivis tilted his head.

“If you refuse,” he said, brushing a lock of hair from your temple with unsettling gentleness, “then Alri dies.”

The words shocked you enough for you to become stagnant. You felt your heartbeat through your teeth.

God, you loathed how easily he crawled into your mind like this — how he never forced you—but made you choose things you didn’t want to choose.

From the periphery of your sight, you noticed him shift his gaze toward the table, where the meal that had been delivered hours earlier by Lysara remained untouched and walked towards it soundlessly.

He lifted the bowl with one hand, scrutinized the tepid contents, and turned back to you.

He approached once more, and you instinctively flinched, a reflexive shiver running down your spine as he lowered himself to one knee before you

Then, without a word, he dipped a spoon into the broth, lifted it, and offered it to your lips.

“I’m not hungry.” You press your lips into a thin line and exhale sharply.

“You’re lying,” 

“I don’t care.” You tilted your head away, stiff-necked, refusing to meet his calm stare as a sharp ache of frustration bloomed in your chest

“That’s obvious,” his other hand drifts to your cheek, his gloves fingertips colder than the dawn. 

Yzrivis trapped your chin between his thumb and forefinger, the pressure in his grip becoming even worse. “I’m not asking,” he warns.

“Hey— stop it.” Your muscles tensed and you hissed like a stubborn cat, hands coming up to grip Yzrivis’ wrists to push him away.

You tasted fear on your tongue as his hand shifted, the pressure inching tighter, every second threatening to snap your bones.

You squirmed, just enough to burn your pride but not enough to undo his hold. “Leave. You’re not my—”

Your words were cut off as he forced your mouth open, the spoon sliding between your lips.

God, it was so disgusting because the broth was a freezing wave of bitterness, tangy with crushed herbs and practically tastes like shit.

You gagged, throat contracting, but he held you still with that samw steady grip, anchoring you in place.

“Swallow.”

Mortification filled you, and your cheeks began to heat up in embarrassment and frustration.

Once you swallowed in despair, he eased his fingers away, only to dip the spoon again with mechanical precision.

You glared at him and he met your stare calmly, as if your fury were nothing more than summer flies buzzing at a still pond.

“You can’t save her,” he stated flatly, “if you collapse first. Starvation and grief won’t give you wings. They’ll give you a grave.”

What a poetic way to say that  depression is gonna kill me. You rolled your eyes, half amused and half annoyed.

When he offered the second spoonful, you took it on sheer stubbornness—on shame and on the grudging acknowledgment that he was right. 

“I told you to leave.” You grumbled as you swallowed the food mechanically.

“I never said I would.”  He shrugged while feeding you another spoonful of that accursed pathetic excuse of a food.

“And you’re in no condition to make demands.”

He drew the chipped ceramic bowl closer, sliding into the rickety chair beside you

“Why do you care?” you muttered bitterly.

“I don’t,” he swiped a stray drop of broth from your jaw with his thumb delicately.

“But I find you interesting when you’re desperate.”

His words made your eye twitch, but you bit back the retort that threatened to come out. 

“I’ll wake you at first light,” he added, brushing loose strands of hair from your damp forehead with unnerving delicacy.

“You’ll need strength tomorrow. The undead won’t pity you.”

You swallowed the last spoonful with resentment curling in your gut as Yzrivis placed the bowl back on the table quietly.

“…Why are you helping me?” you asked, voice hoarse. “You don’t care about her… You don’t care about me.”

He tilted his head slowly “Did I say I did?”

“Then why?” You leaned back, arms crossed tightly over your chest to contain the shaking.

“I was delirious that day and was overwhelmed… but now that i’ve started reflecting about what i did and how fucked up it is…” You trailed off as you eyed him warily.

“What were you doing in the weapon room that day? You just happened to be there  you handed me the axe.”

“You told me you needed a weapon. ” he said.

“I told you that the flesh that is touched by the cursed cannot be purified, but did you listen?”

Those words felt like daggers to your gut — because yes, you didn’t listen to him — you were too panicked, too overwhelmed by your feelings to listen to anyone at that time.

You flinched, shoulders sagging. “That’s not my question. I asked you what were you doing on that room. Besides.. I was delirious…”

Yzrivis clicked his tongue, as if he was disappointed by your lame excuse. “Tell me then, does that excuse your actions?”

Your teeth sank down to your lower lip, feeling agitated — god, you knew you shouldn’t have brought the topic up again — but you really can’t reverse what’s been done

“No.. but that doesn’t excuse yours either — you gave it to me knowing I’d use it on her.”

“I gave you what you asked for — and i’m not making excuses for my actions. I am accountable for that, but so are you.” He shrugged, almost casual.

Shame stabbed through you, and your mind reeled, trying to find a retort, trying to find something that can justify your actions, but all that came out of your mouth was a timid “You didn’t stop me.”

“You didn’t ask me to.” His tone sharpened slightly, and even if his eyes were covered — you could feel his glare.

His words are like poison that was threatening to curl on the edges of your brain to twist the narative — but even then,  he wasn’t wrong— because technically — you hadn’t asked.

You just did it on your own. You cut her hand off to satiate your worries and didn’t asked how she felt about it.

She’s a kid, she doesn’t know what’s right for her right now. You did the right thing. A voice whispered in your head, but you shook it off.

Yzrivis was right . You should be accountable for your actions too. 

Your eyes flicked back to Alri.

“But she…” You shook your head. “She didn’t say yes. I didn’t ask her if she wanted that. I just—” Your voice cracked. “I just did it. I panicked. I thought if I cut it off fast enough…”

He nodded slowly — as if you’d finally arrived at the truth he’d been guiding you to all along.

“It’s still aggravated assault,” you said. “I—God—I  hurt her. Even if I was trying to save her. Even if I thought it was mercy. It’s still—”

“Violence.”

Yzrivis cooed softly, as his hand reached out, gloved fingers brushing against your temple.

“Now you realize don’t you?” he whispered.

“Now you see that it’s your fault. You must be feeling so horrible right now, hm?  That’s alright. That’s good. You should.”

He murmured sweetly.

“Besides, you accepting your own wrong doings is the first step.”

“You never meant to hurt her,” he whispered, stroking your hair gently.

“But intentions doesn’t erase consequences. You see that now. That’s why this guilt clings so tightly, isn’t it?”

You nodded dumbly as dread began to corrode your insides once again.

You’re horrible.

That was what Yzrivis probably wanted to tell you — the implication was there after all, and the subtle snark in his words was more than enough to make you realize it.

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒

Nobody you there was punishment for missing multiple prayers.

Not one of them thought to mention it — not even Lysara.

You weren’t told a thing — just that you were being taken somewhere “for the good of your soul.”

You didn’t expect to be dragged out of the room by them just as you had finally, finally  fallen asleep  —  didn’t expect the blindfold — the whispering — and also didn’t expect that they would throw you to a room.

You stumbled on the room as your blindfold was yanked away. You blinked hard, breath hitching in your throat.

You thought that maybe, you’re getting Zyval’korr for what you have done to Alri — but what you certainly didn’t expect was the mirrors.

There were dozens of them, no — there were of them hundreds. 

They lined the walls, the ceiling, the very floor. Each pane catched the light emanating above on the chandeliers, and they flickered with warped reflections of you — only you — over and over and over again.

Same broken expression, same dried blood at the corners of your mouth, same robe that was clinging to sweat and dirt.

And the same look of someone hanging by a thread that’s already frayed through.

“What the hell is this…”  A strangled gasp clawed out of your throat, irises dilating as you stumbled forward, arms out, touching the cold glass.

“Wh-what the fuck..” You took a shaky breath as you slammed your fist into the nearest mirror real hard, but it didn’t shatter at all.

“…Where is Yzrivis— is he the one—” cold sweat began to moisture your dry skin as your mind began to spiral into panic.

“Get me out! Get me the fuck out!”  You yelled, fists slamming down into the mirrors over and over again until your fists began to ache.

“Fuck— i get it, i’m horrible — i’m disgusting — god, just please get me out of here!” Your voice began to crack.

“Lysara!” you shouted, your voice quivering as the corner of your eyes began to sting.

“Lysara, if you have any mercy left in you, you’d tell them i didn’t know! i prayed!  i only missed because i’m tired — but i still tried! Isn’t that what matters?!”

You yelled in desperation as your chest tightened painfully, but all of your efforts seemed futile.

“I’m sorry— fuck, please.. i won’t do it again!”

Your throat began to grow more hoarse from your continuous yelling, your knuckles were ruptured, and your mind was spiraling.

Your vision started to blur as your tears fell more freely now, carving glistening paths down your cheek.

Why won’t this break?! 

You exhaled shakily as you looked around the room, your skin crawling as the reflection in the glass mirrored your expressions and movements.

You tried to breathe calmly, but each inhale feels like as if your lungs were being stabbed by a sharp shards of glass.

“What the fuck… are they copying me or am i copying them?” You began to get more agitated as you looked at your reflection in the mirror, eyes darting from one mirror or another.

You shut your eyes firmly, as the dreadful pulse of your own heartbeat began to pound louder in your ears.

It’s okay.. if i close my eyes.. i’ll be fine…

For a fleeting moment, you thought that keeping your eyelids shut would drown out the agitation that was flaring in your gut.

But it wasn’t finished there —  because music was now playing on the background.

It repeated, again and again.

You tried to cover your ears but it didn’t help. The sound seeped into your skin, echoing in your bones.

Your shoulders trembled, and you blinked, trying to breathe, but your vision blurred as tears began to slide down your cheeks.

“Make it stop…” you croaked.

“Make it stop— fuck.. I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

You touched your face — and every reflection touched theirs at the same time.

You dropped to your knees with a ragged sob, hands pressed to your chest.

Your brain was getting overwhelmed by the repeating reflection  and the music that was assaulting your senses.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, and again, and again, voice hitching between each breath. “I’m sorry i missed the prayers— i was— i was tired… i didn’t— she was…”

“I didn’t know— please— please just— make it stop—”

You began to babble apologies to no one, but the hymn didn’t stop.

And now the music had begun to loop.

At first, it was just a faint musical box whine, full of stuttering flutes, faint mutterings, and off-tune strings — but as your ears adjusted, you began to hear it more clearly.

It wasn’t a song but a chant.

You tried covering your ears again, but as the time passed by, you memorized the hymn.

You rocked, slowly, back and forth in that endless chamber of glass — eyes fixed on your own reflection — you found yourself mouthing along.

“Zel-uthir… Zay-ahr… Zel-uthir… Zay-ahr…”

You muttered the same words, over and over again.

“Zel-uthir… Zay-ahr…”

Hours had passed and  the only thing anchoring you was the rhythmic motion of your own body, rocking back-and-forth like a pendulum swing.

The mirrored floor beneath you had long been smeared with your blood and sweat, and your nails scraped shallow crescents into your palms where they clutched the folds of your robe too tightly.

Your lips had stopped moving, but the chant still echoed in your head.

Zel-uthir… Zay-ahr… Zel-uthir… Zay—ahr…

You couldn’t stop hearing it — even in your silence, it danced in your mind.

The reflections no longer scared you — you had passed that stage.

You were so tired, and there was already a sharp,  searing pain  lancing through your head.

And then the doors creaked open.

Your neck turned slowly, almost unwillingly, at the sound of footsteps.

You didn’t know how long it had been since you’d seen someone real.

When did someone that is not you had existed in this world?

So when Father Halren stepped into the room, tall and cloaked in crimson-trimmed violet, with an incense censer swinging from one gloved hand and a bone-white staff gripped in the other — you flinched.

“Ah,” he said, voice even and sharp as a blade dipped in wine. “You are awake enough to be aware. Good.”

He paced in slowly, boots echoing faintly against the mirrored floor as the incense hissed softly as it swung, trailing acrid smoke in curling spirals behind him.

Halren stopped a few paces before you, tilting his head like he was inspecting something pitiful.

“I am pleased,” he murmured. “I’d feared your mind might splinter completely. But I see now — you were not broken. Just cracked.”

You blinked at him, slow and damp-eyed, heart beating erratically in your chest .

“What…” you whispered, voice hoarse as you shifted, the disorientation that fogged  your mind slowly disappearing.

“…What was that.”

Father Halren smiled gently, but his eyes were hollow and blank.

“A cleansing, Vaelix. It’s an intervention of the psyche, as recommended by Father Myron himself. Sister Lysara was… unconvinced by your state. She feared that you were hallucinating.”

So it was Lysara’s fault after all.  Of-fucking-course. You should’ve known. 

You should’ve known that the moment you let yourself be vulnerable, she will turn everything you say to an ammunition to prove that you’re insane.

After all, she always looked at you with such disdain, hadn’t she? She probably thought you were sick because you would always doubt, always question everything.

Your gaze hardened as resentment began to poison your mind slowly.

Halren began to preach about some stuff — but you weren’t listening at all.

They couldn’t convert me.

That thought, sudden and uninvited, flickered through your mind like a matchstrike.

That’s what this was, wasn’t it?

That’s what it had always been.

You inhaled sharply, the air snagging in your lungs like a barbed wire as  negative thoughts began to swirl in your mind.

They probably realized they couldn’t burn out your resistance through fear, couldn’t purge you with suffering alone.

Because pain doesn’t break people the way kindness does. They didn’t need to beat you bloody — they probably just needed to make you believe.

To willingly swallow it, and to choose to kneel.

Because that’s what cults do.

They hadn’t gotten what they wanted, so maybe they changed tactics.

They probably studied you  — because you swore, you could feel eyes on you whenever you would just do the most mundane things ever. 

Maybe they observed what made you flinch, what made you reach out — and then made sure to put the knife in those exact places.

They made you feel loved — then punished you for believing it.

Manipulation is most effective when you can’t tell what was real and what was performance after all.

Maybe they’re the reason why Alri got bitten too, after all, Alri is one of the very few people that you hold dear to your heart after all.

Or is Alri just a test for you too?

Maybe—

Your thoughts were cut off when Father Halren stepped forward. Your body tensed as his shadow fell over you.

“—She was right.”

He knelt before you and tilted his head. 

“I must admit,” he said softly, yet you could hear the slight mockery and amusement that tinged in his voice.

“The method is not often used because this chamber is only for the most stubborn minds. But Myron believes that your delusions are poisoning the little girl — and that you tried to kill her.”

A pulse of anger cracked through the fog in your mind. I’ll consecrate you and Myron in your own blood. You thought.

“She’s not—” 

“She is,” Halren declared.

“You brought her here diseased, you missed your prayers, you severed her arm in hysteria and you lied to your caretaker. And now, you dare claim Yzrivis walks beside you?”

You scowled. “He does.”

Halren reached forward and tapped two fingers gently against your forehead, and his touch made your skin crawl.

You want to break every bone in his hands so he can never raise them, or touch you ever again.

“This punishment is not cruelty,” he said. “It is mercy. You are not hated, you are seen — and the lord does not abandon the broken vessel. He simply re-molds it.”

I want to crush his windpipe beneath my heel. 

I hope Yzrivis kills you.

I hope Yzrivis carves your lungs out and makes you watch yourself choke on them, you little fucking tyrant.

The thought bloomed like a thorned flower in your skull.

I wonder if Yzrivis will listen to me if I ever pray to him.

Halren rose, smoothing his robe. The censer swung idly in his grip, smoke drifting lazily like ghosts.

“You will remain here for the time being until we decided that you’ve been punished enough.”

He turned away, and walked toward the door without another glance.

“You should thank Lysara for her mercy,” he said before the door creaked open. “She begged us not to commence Zyval’korr on you.”

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒

Two guards came at dawn, wordless as they entered the chamber. You were too weak to stand, so they dragged you—one gripping each arm, your feet scraping limply across the cold floor.

Your knees were still raw, and your thoughts still gummed with the remnants of hymn-song and mirrored delirium. 

They didn’t tell you where they were taking you.

Only that you had to “witness.”

They brought you into the courtyard on the eastern pit.

The pit was carved into the earth, square and deep.

At the bottom was a stone platform slick with dark stains and scored with grooves. The surrounding balconies formed a perfect circle above it, with tiered rows of the faithful murmuring prayers, swaying, humming, watching.

Lysara was among them, her face pale but still, lips moving in rhythm with the others.

You were sat in a stone seat high above the pit — shackled this time. 

Two guards stood on either side, and you could feel their gaze, but they didn’t speak.

That’s when the priest’s voice rang out.

It wasn’t Halren this time.

It was Father Myron.

“In the Book of Salvation,” Myron intoned, “our lord Yzrivis spoke thus: ‘When the decay on the tongue spreads, cut the head at the stem and feed the soil anew.’”

The crowd murmured their assent as dozens of silver censers swayed in synchronized rhythm.

You blinked slowly and your stomach knotted as two men were dragged into the pit.

One was limp already—bleeding from the face, barely conscious. The other was screaming and pleading. 

“They lied,” Myron called, pacing before the pit like a man addressing students.

“One missed eight confessions, and is blasphemous. The other falsified a prayer record — and in doing so, they endangered the integrity of the settlement.”

The crowd went wild, voice rising in zeal and spewing phrases such as “they deserve to be executed” and “filthy”

“And for this,”  Myron said with a beatific smile, “they are blessed. They shall be purified.”

One of the guards leaned toward you and whispered, “Watch closely. It’s called Zyval’korr, it happens to liars.”

You didn’t want to see, but the guards held your head forward when you tried to look away.

The executioners stepped forward.

They wore robes that shimmered like oil — black and violet with silver veils obscuring their faces. Each carried a long hooked blade shaped like a shepherd’s crook, but serrated. 

The priest kissed the hilt on one of the executioner’s blade hilt.

The first man—the one who screamed—was pinned down across a low altar of cold stone and straps were tightened across his wrists and ankles, spine arched.

The executioners did not speak, and they began with the man’s tongue.

Zyval’korr, you realized, wasn’t meant to be fast.

The crowd chanted prayers while they split the man open slowly, removing the man’s tongue, holding it up to the sky as blood poured from his mouth.

Then, Myron took a flask from his robes, uncorked it, and doused the man’s face with clear liquid — Gasoline, you noted.

You knew what was coming.

Still, you flinched when the fire bloomed.

The second man didn’t scream at all because he was already gone, neck bent the wrong way.

But they still went through the motions with his corpse and dissected him.

Overwhelmed with revulsion, you swiftly clasped your abdomen, succumbing to its intensity and disgorging the contents of your stomach.  

Your throat was set ablaze from the corrosive stomach acid that accompanied the vomiting. 

They didn’t even looked bothered by your reaction at all. 

Lysara only gave you a glance before looking down at the pit once again.

Myron though, looked directly at you and narrowed his eyes, lips twitching slightly in disgust.

“How unholy,” his nose wrinkled as he motioned for the guards to wipe your mouth.

Spit and bile clung to your chin and one of them wiped your mouth with a stained cloth like you were an unruly child.

“Even animals do not defile ritual with such weakness,” Myron said slowly, grimacing, as if your presence alone contaminated the very air.

“You pity them, don’t you?“

You didn’t respond because your throat was still raw, and your mouth was dry, your muscles frozen in place.

But Myron reached out anyway. Two of his fingers pressed beneath your chin and lifted it, while his thumb caressed your cheek..

“Don’t worry, Vaelix. their deaths cleanses us,” 

“They give their blood to till the soil. It’s gonna look beautiful… once your soul stops resisting.” Myron continued.

He straightened his back and dusted his robes with exaggerated care, flicking away at invisible specks as if your proximity had left filth clinging on his robes.

“Unfortunately, you still haven’t come to your senses when we were purifying the child. It’s a shame that you didn’t get to see it, she was beautiful when she burned.”

Myron saw the way the look on your face shifted. He saw the way your irises began to dilate, your mouth getting slack and your face getting pale, snd it only made him smile wider.

“Now, you’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you?” He let out a sigh.

“If you continue to neglect your prayers, to lie, to claim the Lord walks among you in ways unpermitted, then you shall take their place next.”

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 ! !

Viticudrix
—It is a high-tier psycho-ritual punishment practiced within  sects that follow Yzrivis, reserved for heretics, dissenters, or those whose faith is “full of doubts.”
Unlike public executions,  Viticudrix is a silent sentence — conducted in isolation and without witnesses.
The subject is placed in a sealed chamber completely covered in high-polish reflective glass — walls, floor, ceiling.

Another type of a Viticudrix punishment is through music: specifically a chant that is looped continuously. It often features sacred hymn fragments, intentionally slowed or distorted and layered with reverse harmonics.

Zyval’korr

—A brutal form of execution.
This punishment is reserved for traitors, heretics, and those who commit grave blasphemy. The faithful gather to witness and participate, believing that with each strike, Yzrivis’ judgment is being carried out. It is said that the longer the sinner survives, the greater their sin, as Yzrivis refuses to grant them a quick death. 

Additional Facts:

—Vaelix was only supposed to be subjected to music torture — but since Myron and Halren has a beef with him, they gave him both.

—Vaelix hates mirrors, looking at them makes his head hurt because he has unresolved identity fragmentation. In chapter one, it’s also stated that he recoiled the moment he saw his own reflection, and avoids mirrors at all costs because it makes him hallucinate.

—Yzrivis is fond of flowers that are poisonous and dangerous.

—Yzrivis has the inability to lie — meaning that he can never lie, and only says the truth. That doesn’t mean he can’t avoid answering questions though.

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⤷ꫂ ၴႅၴ₊✦── .✧ 𝐘𝐙’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 ˎˊ˗ᯓ

⊹₊ ⋆𝐇𝐄𝐘 my lil puddings! I just realized this book has reached 141 pages… I might’ve gone a little overboard with the slowburn pacing, lmaoo. But honestly, My hand’s been itching to get into their relationship development, so… I guess it officially begins now.

Anyway, special thanks to vayapoo ( Terrorbladewho ) for helping me write parts of this story, please do support him too.<3

Erm…also, I started a brand new bl book called “Trust No One”. It’s got that same religious horror vibe, but this time it’s about a game creator who gets transmigrated into his own game about corrupted angels. Check it out!

Lastly, please do leave a comment if you can—reading your thoughts about the story keeps me going ! ! (⁠〃ﾟ⁠3ﾟ⁠〃⁠)

PS; Join my discord server! It’s free!

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