The whispers began within a week.

At first, it was only a handful of people—the desperate, the lost, the ones clinging to the edge of faith and reason. They had seen what Thomas could do.

A blind woman had regained her sight.

A dying man had risen from his bed, stronger than before.

A mother had cradled her lifeless child—only for the girl to gasp and return to her.

They called him a prophet.

They called him The Unbound.

Thomas never asked for followers. But they came anyway.

And something deep inside him—something dark, something ancient—welcomed them.

The Mark of the Unbound

It started with Elias.

He had been the one at death’s door, the man Thomas had saved.

Days later, a twisting black sigil appeared on his chest, just above his heart.

Thomas had seen that symbol before.

It was the same one on the seal he had broken.

Elias wasn’t alone. Others soon bore the mark, some carving it into their skin, others waking to find it there. They claimed it made them stronger.

And maybe it did.

But it came at a cost.

They spoke of whispers in the dark. Of shadows stretching too far, lingering even when no one stood there.

Yet, they did not fear it.

They embraced it.

They called it a gift.

A Visitor in the Night

The first time Thomas met Sister Clara, she was waiting for him outside the church.

She stood in the moonlight, her habit worn and frayed, eyes dark with something he couldn’t quite place.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” she said.

Her voice was calm, but her words cut deep.

Thomas studied her. Something about her felt… familiar. But she was different from the others. She did not bow. She did not call him “Prophet.”

She knew.

“You should leave,” he told her.

But she didn’t move.

Instead, she reached into her robe, pulling out a small wooden cross. The surface was cracked with age, but etched into the center was a second seal.

Thomas felt his stomach drop.

Clara watched his reaction carefully.

“You weren’t meant to break the first one,” she said.

His throat tightened.

“How do you know about the seal?”

Clara’s grip on the cross hardened.

“Because I was raised by the ones who tried to protect it.”

The Cult Takes Shape

By morning, his following had grown.

Dozens gathered outside his makeshift church—a crumbling warehouse on the edge of town.

They knelt before him, heads bowed, bodies marked with the sigil.

Their whispers did not sound entirely human.

And when Thomas stepped forward, they reached for him.

Their fingers were too long.

Their eyes, too dark.

Their smiles, too wide.

He should have been afraid.

But he wasn’t.

Because when they called his name, it felt… right.

Like he had finally found where he was meant to be.

Clara’s Warning

“You need to stop this.”

Clara stood at the entrance of the warehouse, her voice firm.

The room fell silent.

The followers turned toward her in unison.

Some hissed.

Thomas raised a hand, and they obeyed.

Clara met his gaze.

“You think you’re saving them,” she said, “but you’re leading them to slaughter.”

Thomas smiled.

“I’m giving them a purpose.”

“No.” Clara took a step closer. “You’re giving her a body.”

A cold sensation curled in Thomas’s chest.

The air around them dimmed.

Candles flickered—then burned black.

Clara’s voice lowered to a whisper.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “Mara isn’t trying to destroy you—she’s trying to become you.”

Thomas stared at her.

The words should have unsettled him.

But instead…

They felt inevitable.

The Ritual Begins

That night, Thomas did not sleep.

He sat before a mirror, staring at his own reflection.

His breath was slow, measured.

But his reflection’s was slower.

And when he finally turned away—

It kept staring.