The First Sacrifice

The body lay on the altar, its pale skin glistening in the dim candlelight.

Thomas stared down at it, his hands trembling.

Jonas. One of his first followers. One of the faithful.

He hadn’t killed him. He was sure of that.

And yet, Jonas’s chest was split open, his ribs pried apart like the bars of a cage.

Inside—something moved.

A mass of black, veined flesh pulsed within the cavity, writhing in slow, deliberate motions.

Like it was breathing.

Like it was waiting.

All around him, the others knelt, their whispers slithering through the air in voices that didn’t belong to them.

They didn’t mourn Jonas.

They revered him.

“This is the way,” Elias murmured.

Thomas swallowed hard. “The way to what?”

Elias lifted his gaze. His lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite belong on a human face.

“To her.”

The Mark of the Devoted

By dawn, the others had heard.

Jonas had been the first.

And more were willing.

Some carved the sigil deeper into their own skin, letting the dark veins spread faster.

Some stopped speaking altogether, their lips stitched shut by unseen hands.

Some simply stood in corners, whispering to shadows that whispered back.

Thomas watched them, feeling something stir deep inside him.

Not fear.

Not guilt.

Something else.

Something that felt like hunger.

Clara’s Discovery

Clara had spent days searching.

She hadn’t eaten. Had barely slept.

There had to be a way to stop this.

And then—

She found the door.

It was hidden beneath the warehouse. A rusted hatch, the metal corroded, covered in black sigils.

She hesitated.

Then she pried it open.

The stench of blood and rot hit her immediately.

Clara swallowed her fear and stepped inside.

The stairs groaned under her weight.

Each step led her deeper, down into the dark.

Until finally, she reached the bottom.

And her breath caught in her throat.

The Chamber of Flesh

The walls moved.

A slow, sickening twitch, like muscle under a surgeon’s knife.

They were alive.

Black veins pulsed beneath the surface. From the ceiling, organs hung like grotesque chandeliers, slick with blood.

And in the center—

A massive heart, its flesh stitched with the same sigil Thomas’s followers had burned into their skin.

It throbbed with every breath she took.

Clara stepped forward, her stomach twisting.

Then she heard it.

A whisper. Right against her ear.

“You’re too late.”

She turned.

And there he was.

Thomas.

The Prophet’s Command

He stood in the doorway, watching her.

His eyes were different now.

Darker. Too dark.

His veins shimmered, branching beneath his skin like roots burrowing deep into the earth.

He didn’t look sick.

He looked whole.

Clara tightened her grip on her dagger.

“This isn’t you,” she said. “This is her.”

Thomas smiled.

“But I am her,” he whispered.

The words didn’t sound like his own.

Clara lunged, aiming for his heart—for the scar where the second seal had been hidden.

But before the blade could strike—

The walls screamed.

The room convulsed. The veins writhed, spasming as if in agony.

And behind her—

Hands.

Too many hands.

They grabbed her wrists. Her ankles. Her throat.

And began to pull.

The Blood Ritual

Thomas watched as the shadows took her.

Watched as the walls drank her screams.

He should have felt something.

But he didn’t.

Only calm.

The ritual had begun.

And soon, Mara would walk among them.