Chapter 8

(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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There’s a difference between weeping and losing your sanity, and you were the latter.

You didn’t want to bawl your eyes out and grieve — you want retribution, vengeance. 

You wanted the world to bleed as you have.

You don’t care if this wasn’t holy or whatsoever — because if vengeance was heresy, then you’d rather be unholy forever.

After all, forgiveness was a luxury you could not afford — because you don’t forgive, and you never forget.

“…Tear them out, make them bleed, let them die, let them die, let them die—”

Your knees hit the floor again, and your skin split open from the repeated motion, but the searing pain that makes your whole body throb meant nothing to you now.

Pain pulsed in every single part of your body — your head, your chest, your hands—  yet none of it even bothered you as you curled into yourself and began rocking back and forth.

“Alri is dead… it’s all my fault.. no, it’s not my fault. It’s their fault. they’re the one who killed her. that’s right, why should i say sorry when it’s not my fault?”

Your lips moved on their own frantically, muttering nonsense as guilt started to swallow you whole.
“No… that’s not right.. it’s all my fault…”

Your nails dug into your own thighs, leaving pale crescent marks as you rocked back and forth pathetically.
“…No… no, it’s not my fault…”

Your eyes blinked rapidly, dry and red-rimmed, as a familiar wave of anger surged through your veins like wildfire.

“They’re the ones who killed her. That’s right. They’re the ones who lit the flame. They—”

Your voice cracked and faltered, words crumbling into silence as you blinked again and glanced down at your hands, now smeared with crimson.

The skin of your knuckles were ruptured, red blossoms of pain spreading across them, while scratch marks crisscrossed your wrists because of your own frantic self-scratching.

“No.. I didn’t even… I wasn’t even there.”

A ragged, hiccuping breath escaped your lips as you seized a fistful of your own hair.

“But I should’ve been. I should’ve been. She looked for me.”

Your stomach churned violently as your chest heaved with each labored breath.

Every inhalation felt like shards of glass scraping your lungs, and your vision began to blur at the edges with each passing second.

“Huh… what..? Did she really looked for me…?”

A hiccup escaped your lips once again, and you paused, staring vacantly at the ground as if the answers lay hidden in the dirt.

“No, she didn’t. She knew what kind of place this was. She knew what they were. So why didn’t she run? wait no.. she was unconscious…”

You bit down hard on your lip, drawing a bead of blood.

“But why didn’t she wake up, huh?… Maybe she wanted to die.”

The insidious thought slithered into your mind.

“Maybe—maybe she chose it. Maybe she gave up.”

But that wasn’t right, was it?

“No, no. She didn’t want that. I’m gonna fucking kill them all — i swear…”

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead hard against the wall, as if trying to push your thoughts out through your skull.

Blood smeared across the rough stone and you slammed your head into the wall repetitively, because maybe, if your skull cracked, maybe Yzrivis would listen better.

“Kill me but kill them too,” you murmured voice, barely audible.

“Take me, torture me, just—just take them too..make them suffer too…”

“Zha’reth al’vuren na khaelyth viir — ven’ae siraeth, ven’ae thol.. Yzrivis…” 

You recited repetitively.

Your hands trembled violently as you carved shallow lines across your forearm with a splinter from the wall — not deep enough to damage your arteries, just deep enough to offer something.

“Zha’reth al’vuren na khaelyth viir — ven’ae siraeth, ven’ae thol…” you whispered, holding your blood-slick hand up like an offering. “See me. Please. Please, just see me.”

You didn’t really know what you were saying anymore — and you didn’t realize Yzrivis was there until his arms were around you.

You just broke down like a dam cracked at the base, and you collapsed against him—sprawled, ragged, soaked in fever-sweat and dirt.

You sobbed into his chest, the pain in your throat tearing your voice ragged.

You didn’t really care about how pathetic you looked right now, you needed him — no, you just need anyone to hold you and tell you that everything’s going to be fine — even if it’s just a pretty little white lie.

“You fucking bitch. how do you feel, huh? How does it feel knowing that so many people have been killed in your name?” you choked, jaw trembling so violently as you cling to the folds of his robe.

Yzrivis blinked, and tipped his head to the side, as he watched you yap in your hysteria.

“I saw her. I saw what was left of her. She—she was so small, Yzrivis, they burned her and they probably smiled while they did it. Myron looked me in the eyes when i saw her corpse. He enjoyed it. They enjoyed it—”

Yzrivis didn’t really said anything and he just  held you while you were bawling and pouring your heart out.

You grabbed the silky veil from his face out of impulse and wiped your face against it, sobs stuttering from your chest, snot and tears smearing across the god’s garment like a wretched child—

And that’s when you looked up, by accident, and your breath caught.

You paused, shaken, and embarrassed — in the way grief humbles a person. 

You had never seen his face before — neither did you  think you ever would — because he’s pretty much too reluctant to show it to you.

But now—now, with his veil nudged aside by your own shaking fingers—he looked down at you with a face carved from divinity and dusk.

He was luminous.

Luminous.

Like actually luminous glowing like an anglerfish’s light.

His skin was so pale it glowed faintly with a moonlit hue, and his hair spilled like liquid silver past his shoulders.

His lashes were long and white, and his eyes were colorless — it’s just a glossy, luminous white.

Pupil-less and unblinking.

He gazed down at you with a faint glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes.

“You have become quite the mess, little wolf.”

Jolted from your trance-like state, you attempted to muster a response, but the searing pain in your throat was too intense.

So instead, you leaned into him once more, your fingers knotting desperately at the fabric of his sleeve.

“Would you have me burn them, little wolf?” he inquired smoothly. “Would you offer your soul in exchange for their blood?”

You nodded frantically, too consumed by desperation, hatred, and rage to even pretend to be sane.

“If you won’t,” you croaked, “I will.”

“I will kill them all—Myron, Halren, everyone—I’ll burn the temple, I’ll gut them and paint the walls with their insides, I’ll make all of them watch before they die—”

You were panting now, chest heaving with rapid, labored breaths, with each inhale feeling like a jagged edge tearing at your lungs, while Yzrivis only chuckled softly.

“You are so quick to hate…” he murmured softly. “So quick to resemble the very thing that broke you.”
“But if you do want to kill them, I can help you do that, hm?”

Yzrivis pressed his forehead against yours, his words held a subtle venom to it but you really didn’t paid much attention to it.

You started laughing like a madman.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck—I knew it. I knew you were listening. I knew it!” Your voice wavered, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

“They thought I was crazy. They all fucking did, said i was hallucinating or something. But you were there. You heard me, didn’t you?”

“I heard every word.” Yzrivis’ replied, a smile forming on his succulent lips.

“Every single one?” You whispered, eyes wide, fever-bright and glistening with a frantic intensity.

“Even the ones I didn’t mean to say?”

Yzrivis hummed and nodded. “Especially those.”

Your gaze fixed on him, eyes dilated, lips parted as your breath came in shallow, trembling gasps.

“I—” you tried to say something, anything, but the words caught like there was a barbed wire stuck in your throat.

He brushed his knuckles along your cheek, and despite everything — the filth, the blood, the madness clawing at the edges of your mind — you leaned into it like a starving thing.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice as smooth as satin. “You poor, poor thing. So fragile… and still standing.”

A broken laugh scraped out of your chest.

“Standing?” you echoed breathlessly. “I’m on my fucking knees.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged with a soft and tender smile, “and look how heavenly you are on them.”

A sharp, unhinged laugh erupted from you, and you covered your face with one trembling hand.

“Gods. I sound like them. I sound like them, don’t I?”

“You sound like yourself,” he corrected gently.

“Just… unbound.”

Your chest heaved again, and you clawed at your own arms, the jagged edges of dried blood flaking under your nails.

“I think you’re beautiful like this. You’ve never looked more exquisitely divine.” Yzrivis murmured, pressing his lips to your brow with a gentleness that felt like a benediction

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒

The first time Lysara noticed the way that you looked at her with pure, undiluted abhorrence, she tried to convince herself it was nothing.

You were perhaps just… disoriented and it was just the trauma skimming along the surface of your soul. After all, anyone would be — especially after experiencing viticudrix.

Her heart wanted to claw out when she saw you being dragged by the guards in rusted, spoiled iron chains — the ones she has seen more than a hundred times.

It was strange, because when those chains were used in other people — she felt no pity for them — in fact, she found beauty in someone else’s suffering.

But when it was you…  it felt sickening — and it festered something heavy within her heart.

What a strange thing it really is — to witness such horror and call it holy and beautiful — until it touches someone you care about.

The way your face was contorted with anguish, eyes bleeding tears and looking so shattered when you find out about what happened to the kid.

She never realized how cruel it is to do those things to other human until the world treated you as less than a human — and more of a ferocious animal.

She didn’t like seeing you so defeated — because she didn’t even recognize you anymore — it felt like you were just a hollow vessel at this point.

The fire in you— the questions, the curiosity, the persistence to prove everyone wrong…

Where did it all go?

Your head hung so low that time and Lysara was afraid it would drop off anytime — your limbs were loose and tired as if you were just a sack of meat with no bones or tendons.  

She watched the fire in you die — and it felt like her heart only began to beat when yours began to slowly wither.

Her fists clenched at her side when the guards threw you at the corner of her home, your body curling on itself as not even a single sound came out of your throat.

Lysara expected you to scream, to curse at everyone —  for melding the mellow words of utmost blindness as divine worship, for making people go through such meticulous and wretched torture in the name of a god for just a simple mistake.

Funny isn’t it? Even she has begun to think like you. 

Lysara noticed how you didn’t move even when they tugged roughly at your chains, binding them to the grills of the window — instead, you just sat there quietly.

You didn’t speak, and you didn’t even weep. Even when they starved you, you looked like you were never hungry at all, and would sometimes talk to yourself — Lysara had never told people about it though.

She once asked the other priests about it — Tzalekh called it a blessing, that your spirit had been broken, that the corruption that was holding you back was seared away, while other priests such as Myron had said that Yzrivis had finally hollowed you out.

The others began to call you docile, and reformed — and claimed that Alri was the only one holding you back from fully submitting to Yzrivis.

And now that she was gone, now that her ashes were scattered in the pit, there was nothing left to stop you from joining the fold.

But Lysara wasn’t convinced, not really because she doubts — but because everytime time she passed your chamber, she felt that stare.

Sometimes she refused to look, only to glance down the hall moments later and catch you staring at her while your eyes burned in detestation.

It was the kind of look that made her remember everything she’d done wrong.

And when they finally removed your chains two weeks later, it got worse.

The first night, Lysara told herself it was just the wind — that perhaps, it was just her imagination.

But on the third night, she opened her eyes slowly to see a shadow standing in her threshold, she saw you watching her blankly, standing there like a statue. 

Her breath caught in her throat that time, pulse starting to flutter erratically.

“Vaelix,” she had said, brows furrowing as she rubbed her eyes tiredly. “What… what are you doing?”

But then, without a word, you turned and walked away.

It was so fucking creepy and it made her skin crawl.

After that, Lysara started locking her door, bolting it, piling old hymnals and brass relics against the bottom seam so she’d hear something if it moved.

But sometimes, she would also see you looking at her from the window outside, and god did it creep her out.

So here she was, she stood at the edge of the sanctum with her hands clasped neatly in front of her robes, posture straight, chin lifted in that impassive, austere way she always carried herself.

One of the high ranking priests — Father Geovani, sat in the crimson-draped alcove at the center. He finished scrawling something into a record scroll before setting the quill aside, eyes finally lifting to meet hers.

“Lysara,” he chirped, a smile making its way to his lips, though his eyes was blank. “You have the look of someone with a stone beneath her shoe.”

She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment. “It’s regarding Vaelix.”

Geovani raised an eyebrow, expression shifting with vague amusement. “Ah… i do not know him that much. does he still refuse to speak?”

Lysara’s lips thinned and she averts her gaze. “He is… compliant. That much is true. But his presence has become disruptive.”

She murmured, a slight edge in her tone. Geovani leaned back slightly, fingers steepled as his eyebrows raised in confusion.

“Disruptive? He hasn’t uttered a word since the Zyval’korr rite nor had he lifted a hand in offense.”

Exactly. he acts like a doll and is not acting like himself anymore. That was what Lysara wanted to say, but she bit her tongue down, instead, she nodded, expression unreadable.

“That is precisely what concerns me.”

Lysara’s fingers interlaced as  she looked at the ceiling. “I know vaelix since he’s been in my care ever since he was brought here, and i’ve already memorized his patterns…” Lysara trailed off stiffly.

Geovani studied her for a moment, then gestured lightly for her to continue.

“But the way he’s acting is quite strange — i know that he has some of his unusual quirks… but this is too far… I’ve caught him standing in my threshold on three separate occasions. He doesn’t speak, does not knock, and only watches.”

Geovani let out a soft chuckle. “Perhaps he finds comfort in your devotion. You did help guide him back to the fold.”

Lysara’s face didn’t change, but something about her eyes cooled further, like frost settling behind glass.

“With respect, Father,” she huffed, “this is not a matter of spiritual affinity. It’s behavioral. He doesn’t avert his gaze when caught.. he does not seem… aware of boundaries, or chooses not to honor them.”

Lysara’s gaze drifted down to her trembling fingers as her teeth sank in her lip. 

“He has been baptized. He has completed his penance. I believe it would be appropriate to reassign him to a different quarter…”

Geovani looked amused again, and he chuckled softly, and derisively. “And here I thought you were immune to fear, Lysara.”

“I’m not afraid, I only fear our lord Yzrivis.” she replied evenly. “But I am not blind. If he is healed, then let him be treated as such, not coddled in my home. It’s unnecessary — we’re not related, and he is already… appropriate for having his own place”

A silence stretched between them, before he nodded slowly.

“Very well,”  the priest sighed. “We’ll have him moved to the east side. There are unused homes near the old observatory.”

The east, huh. The east was not really a safe place in the settlement — because it has many broken stuff in there, and the undead sometimes manages to go in on that direction.

But still… you know how to fight anyways — it probably wouldn’t bother you.

Moreover, if you’re feeling murderous and feels like staring someone down to creep them out, then you can just join the lookouts.

Lysara gave a shallow bow. “Thank you.”

“But Lysara,”  Geovani added as she turned to go, “should you see him again—should he stand in your doorway—do not shut the door so tightly. Let him in, Yzrivis tells us to welcome everyone — even the heretics.”

“Zyvarin’eth, sister Lysara.”

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒

They gave you a new corner in the settlement.

They said it was a blessing — that after witnessing Zyval’korr, you had been reborn — a vessel scraped clean of impurity.

Lysara didn’t protest, she didn’t even look at you when they led you away — not that you care anymore, you felt nothing for her anymore.

You find her repulsive and treacherous. But maybe the tactic that Yzrivis told you was right — that if you stare at Lysara long enough and say nothing, she’ll get creeped out and start to fear you.

And it was working, and oh, how you loved the sight of her getting all nervous whenever she’s around you.

You watched her hands fidget as you passed, watched the way she refused to meet your eyes, watched the way her lips moved in silent prayer, like you might be contagious if she didn’t speak fast enough.

Although, you were kind of annoyed that they made you move out, because that meant that you can’t torment Lysara psychologically anymore — like the same way they tortured you until your psyche start to crack.

The new space was smaller and colder, and sometiems you would hear the groan of the undead — so you’ve always kept a hammer under your pillow — just incase.

Well, you don’t really need those, since you can just pick up a rock and smash their head until their brain spurts out — like what you did back then before everything went spiraling when this fucking cult took you in.

But still, a part of you hoped that the undead would  manage to break through the defenses of the settlement and stain everyone here so they wouldn’t be able to get purified.

So they won’t be deserving of Yzrivis’ grace and they’ll be stained and filthy forever.

Stained like Alri.

Or maybe it was just your bloodlust speaking, because your hands are itching to kill something, or rather someone — specifically the three people that you hold the most abhorrence for — Lysara, Halren, and Myron.

The days returned to their rhythm though, prayer, work, prayer, hymns, sleep and repeat.

They gave you menial tasks again—sweeping the stone paths, hauling firewood, washing the censer cloths — the things that you’ve done before everything went wrong.

Everyone avoided you now, Elya stopped bringing you dried berries from the kitchen, hell you saw her tuck the pouch back into her apron when she spotted you.

Novan used to joke with you while you cleaned the statues in the prayer hall, and he stopped making eye contact entirely now. 

Not that you care anyways,

Why would you need their opinion? The world is still spinning even if the people around you loathes you anyways.

Besides… why would you need their approval when the very god they worship — holds you whenever you get lonely?

Yzrivis stayed with you, not always seen, but you felt him.

And each time, you buried yourself deeper into the comfort of him—even if he was the last god you should trust.

Because who else was there to hold you? Every single one of them betrayed you — turned their back on you for just being human and having complex emotions.

He was the only one that stayed — it was funny, really. 

You never really believed that Yzrivis is true until now.

You’re sort of starting to understand why those people loves him so much and devotes themselves to him.

He was ethereal.

A cold wind gusts off the jagged cliff and the mist is thick, coiling like living smoke along the flagstones as you quietly sat on the stone bench near the outer gate where new survivors would get in, mind still thinking of Yzrivis. 

He told you to calm down and supress your anger, or else it would lead you to harm and that you won’t be able to get the revenge that you had been craving for, so you followed his instructions and tried to act normal.

But then, your mind shidted to what the zealots have informed you before — they  told you there was a new initiate — that it was your duty now — to shepherd him the same way Lysara once did for you as if he was a lamb.

You weren’t fond of it, but still, you obeyed — after all, you still need to buy time before you eventually burn this place down.

You just need to know where they keep the gasoline — you’ve tried searching for it in the weapon room before, but you unfortunately got banned when a kid saw you trying to pry a certain cabinet open.

You stare skyward, lost in the blur of roiling gray clouds, until a voice slices through the fog in your mind.

“[Name]?!”

Your body tensed, and you turned your head sharply toward it, every nerve alight with alarm, as though icy needles had skittered down on your spine.

Why did that name somehow sound so familiar — but unfamiliar at the same time?

A black haired boy stood just past the gate, looking like a storm-beaten mutt, trembling beneath a cheap silver emergency blanket.

“It’s you!” 

A  gasp escapes his lips as his brown eyes locked onto yours like he’d seen a miracle or something.

And then the guards shoved him forward hard.

You heard the smack of his face hitting the stone, and your gaze didn’t even flicker — though, you supposed that you still feel a little pity for him because that must’ve really hurt.

“You can go treat his wounds, Vaelix.” One guard nods at you once dismissively and stalks away.

The boy groans, props himself on trembling elbows, and stared at you with a grateful, dusty smile.

“Holy shit, it’s really you,” he whispered through a breathless grin.

Your tilted your head inquisitively, and lifted a single brow. 

What the fuck is this weirdo saying?

Who the hell is he and why the hell was he looking at you like that?

Like… like he knew you?

Do you know him and just forgot about him? Your memories of the past was quite literally a void after all.

Your gaze hardened as his words sank in. Your eyes darted, trying to see if anyone heard him curse — and when it was clear, a deep exhale of relief escapes you.

“I don’t mean to discourage you, but you probably shouldn’t say that out loud,” you murmured and rubbed your temples. “They’ll mark your tongue and offer you up to Zyval’korr.”

Some tongues are better torn out than heard, that’s what Yzrivis told you when you asked him why the devotees tear their tongue out to honor him.

The boy blinked, confused as craned his neck to meet your gaze, staring at you as if you had grown two heads. “Zyval—what?”

“…They’ll think you’re impure if you curse especially in our god’s name,” you murmured softly, not looking him in the eye.

“Blasphemy is a punishable offense here.” You explained.

“Haah.. alright, noted..”

He stood, wincing, brushing off his pants like the floor hadn’t just kissed his teeth.

He straightened, wincing as he brushed gravel from his pants, as if the ground hadn’t nearly knocked his teeth loose.

“But seriously.. I’m glad that you’re alive.”

“You’ve been repeating that phrase too much..” You scoffed.

“Do i know you?” Your eyes narrowed slightly as confusion settled within your mind once again. I don’t understand this guy, you thought as you interlaced your fingers together.

He took a cautious step closer. “It’s me. It’s—Theo. You seriously don’t remember?”

Your brows furrowed. Theo, huh. you didn’t really remember anything — that name didn’t ring a bell in your mind.

You tilted your head slightly, as though the name might sound different at another angle.

Maybe it would ring a bell if you just squinted at him long enough, like a smudge you might wipe from memory’s mirror. 

Is he… trying to solidify a false narrative for emotional regulation? You wondered.

It was common in trauma survivors who fixate on memory as an anchor after all — maybe you looked like someone he knew, so that’s why he thinks that he knows you.

Is he using me as a placeholder for someone he lost or something? He’s probably attributing memory onto a vessel that doesn’t match, because it’s easier to grieve someone if you find them again.

You massaged the back of your neck to ease the tension.

“Theo…” you echoed, rolling the syllables on your tongue.

“Yeah.. it’s me” he smiled optimism radiating from him.

He laughed, a little shakily, then rubbed at his face. “God, you still look the same. Just… thinner. Gaunt. Dead in the eyes, kinda. But yeah, that’s definitely you.”

Your brow twitched and you frowned, eyeing him up and down as if he was suspicious.

Dead in the eyes? Who the fuck is he to say that?

You studied him harder now. His nervous energy, his hopeful eyes, and the tiny tremor in his hands, even when he tried to look confident.

He was too lively. Too… unscarred.

You… envy him.

You frowned and asked softly. “Sorry.. i don’t think i know you… Who are you?”

Theo’s eyes widened and he seemed to freeze at that, like a dog mid-step, realizing the food it ran toward might not have come from a kind hand.

“What are you talking about?” he uttered slowly.

“We—we were best friends. Before. Before all this freakshow apocalypse.”

“Back when we used to hang out at that shitty arcade behind the convenience store. You remember? You used to always draw dicks on the walls on our classrooms, and I always got blamed ‘cause I looked more suspicious—”

He kept going and babbling.

“God. Do you remember night we set that guy’s car on fire Remember? He was being a dick to your sister or something. We soaked his tires and the whole thing caught way faster than we thought it would, and then we both ran like hell—”

You said nothing, but your heart started pounding.

Something in his voice — the specific, absurd clarity — made your throat feel tight, like trying to swallow around a stone.

What was he doing, smiling like that? Acting like this was some happy reunion?

Like you were long-lost buddies catching up after summer break — not in the middle of a cursed sanctum?

You stared at the dirt still stuck in his hair, the bruising on his collarbone, the blood crusted under his lips.

He looked like shit.

You narrowed your eyes, watching the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot, fidgeting like he was nervous — or maybe trying not to cry.

“I’m sorry, but you’re too loud,” you muttered, finally. “And you’re drawing attention.”

Then, without another word, you seized him by the elbow.

His blanket slipped, and he stumbled, letting out a surprised little noise as you began dragging him toward your quarters.

He struggled to keep pace, nearly tripping over the uneven stone path. “Hey—hey, wait. Where are we going?”

“Sorry.. was I too rough?” You questioned, and  he shook his head.

“We’re going somewhere private, they told me to take care of you.” You explained.

As you reached the small cell they assigned you — cold, empty, and walled in silence — you shoved the door open and pushed him inside gently.

Theo stumbled in, still panting slightly, as you slammed the door shut behind you.

“Tell me to stop if I’m being too invasive.”

Your voice was firm but gentle as you placed your hands on his shoulders, feeling the tension beneath your fingers.

With swift, practiced movements, you began your search, running your hands over his collar, down his arms, and around his ankles, methodically checking for any signs of infection.

“Wh—hey! Dude, what the hell? What are you doing? he exclaimed, his voice a mix of confusion and irritation.

“Looking for a bite.” You replied, voice steady and low while his body went rigid.

“I’m not infected,” he muttered, his voice a little softer now as he scratched his neck.

“Fuck, you think they’d kidnap me just to spread it?”

Your hands paused as you discovered a long scratch on his shoulder.

You twisted his arm gently yet firmly, inspecting for any swelling or signs of infection.

There was nothing alarming, really. there’s just rawness of blood and the dark hues of bruises.

He winced sharply as your fingers pressed against a particularly painful spot, and you instinctively stepped back, giving him space.

His breathing was uneven now, the blanket had fallen to the floor, leaving him in that ratty shirt and dirt-smudged jeans.

“Sit,” you instructed softly.

Theo blinked, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Why—?”

A flicker of irritation shoot through you and your mouth contorts into a scowl.
“I said sit.”

He complied, lowering himself onto the ground, his fingers fidgeting nervously.

You retrieved the small med-kit hidden in the wall crevice, pulling out old bandages, herbs, and salves that carried a shitty, pungent, and earthy odor.

It wasn’t much, but it would fend off infection.

Kneeling in front of him, you dipped the cloth into a basin of water and began to scrub the wound while his face contorted with pain.

“Shit, that stings.”

Sympathy tugged at your heartstrings and you softened your touch, tending to the wound with more care. “Sorry,” you murmured.

Silence filled the space as you quietly tended to his wounds, that is until he began to yap randomly again — as if he would die if he didn’t open his mouth to babble or something.

“You know. I—I woke up in a collapsed tunnel,” he said, voice quieter now, a little shaky.

This guy is so random and shameless, you thought as you began dabbing the salve on his wounds.

“It was months after the outbreak. I thought you were dead. I was eating rats, man. Rats. Until they found me.”

He gestured vaguely around the room, then frowned, a shadow crossing his features.

“…though honestly, I kinda wish the rats came back. Because this place? It’s uh—” he lowered his voice and leaned in nervously.

“—[Name], be  honest with me. Is this a cult?”

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 ! !

Zha’reth al’vuren na khaelyth viir — ven’ae siraeth, ven’ae thol.
—It’s a chant that means listen to my voice and hear my prayers. It’s a chant that the devotees mostly use during morning prayers. 

Vern Aesthyrn
—It is located in the east, and is where currently he is residing. It’s the outermost limb of the Sanctum’s reach and the undead broke in often there — that is why it’s heavily guarded and there would always be the sounds of gunshots and groans of the undesd reverberating through the night. It’s also the place where Alri used to live when she was still alive. 

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𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒:

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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.