The Ruins of Faith

The church was gone.

Where once there had been towering stone and vibrant stained glass, now only ruins remained—a broken monument to a faith that had twisted into something unrecognizable. Above, the sky churned in unnatural shades, the eclipse casting an eerie, endless twilight over the wreckage.

Clara stood amidst the debris, hands trembling, breath shallow.

She had won.

Hadn’t she?

At her feet lay Thomas, still and silent, the bone dagger buried deep in his chest. His face, once tormented by unseen horrors, now held an eerie peace—his suffering finally over.

And yet—

The air still pulsed.

A slow, rhythmic thrum.

Mara wasn’t gone.

Not entirely.

The Prophet’s Last Disciple

A sharp, wet cough broke the silence.

Elias.

Clara turned, finding him struggling to rise from the rubble, his robes drenched in sweat and black ichor. His breaths came ragged, his body shaking as he forced himself onto his knees.

"You..." His voice was hoarse, raw with exhaustion. "You don't understand what you've done."

Clara tightened her grip around the dagger’s hilt, pulling it free from Thomas’s chest. The weapon was still warm. Still alive.

"I stopped her," she said, her voice firmer than she felt. "I stopped you."

Elias laughed—a hollow, broken sound.

"Stopped her?" His lips curled, revealing blackened teeth. "Then why do you feel it?"

Clara didn’t answer.

Because she did feel it.

Something shifting inside her.

Something coiling.

Elias pushed himself up, eyes gleaming—not with rage, but something far worse.

Reverence.

“She doesn’t die,” he whispered. “She simply moves.”

Clara’s breath caught.

Her gaze flicked downward.

Her own hands.

The veins beneath her skin were dark.

Not much—just the faintest trace, curling along her wrist. But it was there, bleeding through her like ink in water.

She took a step back, heart pounding.

No.

Elias smiled.

“You broke the seal,” he murmured. “You took the dagger. You cut her vessel apart.”

He tilted his head, his voice reverent.

“And now, Clara… you are what’s left.”

A Choice Written in Blood

Clara’s pulse thundered in her ears.

This isn’t right.

She had fought against Mara. She had stopped the ritual.

She couldn’t—

A whisper.

Not like before.

Not the cruel, taunting voice that had haunted Thomas.

This whisper was softer.

Gentle. Welcoming.

She felt warmth spread through her chest—like an ember, glowing.

Elias was still watching, still waiting.

“She speaks to you, doesn’t she?” he murmured.

Clara didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

He already knew.

Elias stepped forward, then knelt.

Before her.

Head bowed. Hands open.

“She does not punish failure,” he whispered. “She rewards survival.”

His voice trembled.

“She chose you.”

The Burden of a God

The world had slowed.

Clara could hear everything.

The wind shifting through the ruins.

The blood cooling in Thomas’s veins.

The heartbeat of Elias—steady, hopeful.

The voices.

Mara’s voice.

She could end this.

She could stop it forever.

Her fingers tightened around the dagger.

Elias closed his eyes.

A willing sacrifice.

A devoted disciple.

One cut.

That was all it would take.

To sever this.

To silence Mara forever.

Her hands shook.

And then—

She lowered the blade.

The Final Truth

Elias’s eyes flickered open.

Confusion.

Then… understanding.

Clara smiled.

A sad, knowing smile.

"You were right," she whispered.

Elias exhaled, relief washing over him.

“You accept it,” he murmured.

Clara nodded.

“I do.”

And in that moment—

The ruins trembled.

Elias’s body contorted before he could scream.

His flesh peeled away in ribbons, dissolving into the air like wisps of smoke.

His bones crumbled to dust.

And Clara—

Clara breathed in.

And let Mara in fully.

A rush of power flooded her veins.

She understood now.

Thomas had been weak. Torn between doubt and faith.

She was not.

There was no good or evil.

No morality. No false gods.

There was only power.

And only what one chose to do with it.

The world was a broken thing.

And she—

She would remake it.

With faith.

With devotion.

With blood.

She turned from the ruins, stepping into the dark horizon.

And the eclipse lingered.

Longer than it should have.

As though the sun itself feared to shine upon her again.