The warmth under Aaron's fingers disappeared, sudden as a snuffed match. His breath caught halfway in his chest. Something in the air had shifted—it felt heavy now, thick like smoke, as if the room itself had sunk into water.
"...Ugh."
The sound barely left his mouth before the wooden toy slipped from his fingers. It didn't fall violently, just quietly let go, like it had decided it didn't belong to him anymore.
His knees buckled.
He might've hit the floor if Khaline hadn't stepped in. She moved quickly and without hesitation, catching him under the arms before he could collapse. Her grip was strong and steady, a soldier's response, trained and sure. There was no panic in it. Just control.
"My lord," she said sharply, her voice clipped. "My lord, are you hurt? What is happening?"
Aaron didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was too dry, and his tongue felt heavy. His knees wobbled as if the floor wasn't quite steady anymore. The only thing holding him upright was her.
The toy hit the ground with a soft clunk. It bounced once. Then again. It rolled gently to a stop beneath the dim light of a hanging candle.
Then it caught fire.
It ignited all at once, like something inside it had been waiting for permission. A narrow burst of flame rose straight up from its center, burning tall but without smoke. There was no heat from it—no warmth against Aaron's skin, though the light lit up the room.
Khaline stepped back, startled, one hand already moving to her sidearm. She didn't draw it, but she was ready to. Her face stayed calm, though something flickered behind her eyes. She didn't understand what she was seeing. Neither did Aaron.
The fire didn't stay.
It collapsed inward, vanishing like a flame pulled into a vacuum. In one quick motion, the fire was gone, and the toy lay still.
Then it started changing.
The wood twitched, like something inside was trying to get out. The grain stretched and shifted. Where there had been carvings, skin started to form. Tiny veins appeared, crawling under new flesh. Muscles grew. The arms thickened. The chest swelled slightly. A pulse fluttered once.
The body filled in slowly, like it was becoming real from the inside out.
Then came the face.
It wasn't quite finished. The details were soft and strange, like someone trying to remember a child's face from a dream. The proportions weren't right. The mouth was too small, the eyes too large. But they blinked.
Two black, glossy eyes, too wet and too wide, opened and stared up.
Then it screamed.
The sound wasn't normal. It didn't come from a voicebox. It didn't even make air move. It was more like a sound that happened in the head—a pressure, a ringing cry. Aaron felt it in his chest, like someone had knocked on his heart.
The mouth opened wider than it should have, jaw stretching to a painful angle. Blood leaked from its eyes. Then from its nose. Then its ears. Fat, slow drops that stained the stone beneath it. Its limbs twitched harder now, shaking in short, sharp jerks. It looked like it wanted to move but didn't know how. Or like it wanted to stop something that had already gone too far.
Its back arched.
Its mouth moved again, but this time there was no scream. Just a small, quiet shape of sound, like a whisper not spoken.
Its expression changed.
No longer pain but confusion.
Like it didn't understand why it was hurting.
Why it had been made.
Then it came apart.
It just broke. Flesh tore open along the seams. Skin split. Little limbs burst. Bones cracked and scattered like dry sticks. Bits of tissue flew into the air—small pieces, like fruit smashed underfoot.
Blood sprayed in sticky mist. A chunk hit Aaron's collar. Another slid down his cheek and stuck to the corner of his mouth. He didn't flinch.
He just stood there, silently.
Khaline didn't move either—not at first. Her hand was still near her weapon, but she was staring at the mess with wide eyes.
Then she spoke, quietly but clearly.
"My lord. Your Eminence—look at me…..What was that?"
Aaron blinked. His body twitched like something had turned back on inside him. He turned toward her slowly. His lips parted,
Then he smelled it.
It hit the room like a slow leak—burnt parchment, iron left too long in water, and something sharp and clean, like old medicine. The scent wrapped around the space like a blanket soaked in mold and smoke.
Aaron coughed. His eyes watered. His throat burned with it.
Then he heard a step.
Slow and dragging, like someone being pulled forward by chains.
The door creaked.
Aaron turned his head.
Something stepped through.
It was tall and thin, covered in stained cloth that dragged behind like bandages soaked in oil. Rusted links of metal clung to its body, as if the chainmail had grown into the skin over time. Its face was mostly hidden beneath layers of wraps and old veils, though a few spots of gray skin peeked out—wrinkled and dry.
Its mouth had been sewn shut with black thread, long and tight. But it still spoke.
The voice didn't come from the mouth.
It came from somewhere else. From the walls, maybe. Or the stone. Or the space between Aaron's ears.
"You smell wrong-wrong-wrong-wrong."
The words came in a whisper, repeated again and again. A murmur like water dripping into a deep drain.
The thing moved forward. In one hand, it held a long chain. At the end of it swung a censer—round, dented, filled with burning ash and hair. The smoke coming from it smelled like scorched incense and old leather, bitter and sharp.
Khaline moved in front of Aaron, sword half-raised.
Aaron took a step back.
".....Sain—saint Gorath?" he said quietly.
The figure kept walking.
It tilted its head toward him, as if smelling something in the air. The whisper came again.
"Graves. Graves. Graves…"
Aaron froze. His name in that voice made something crawl across his skin.
Khaline's stance tightened. Her foot slid an inch forward, like she was bracing for impact.
But Aaron knew.
"Of all the saints in this cathedral…" Aaron said, his voice rough and tired. "Why this lunatic…"
The creature, which supposedly was a saint, stepped again. The flail swung, hooks rattling.
"Wrong-wrong-wrong-wrong,….YOU SMELL WRONG! Burn the soul, flay the soul, find the truth, find the bone."
Aaron's heart kicked harder in his chest.
He grabbed Khaline's wrist.
"Run," he whispered.
Then louder. "Let's run—now!"
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[Lesson Time]
(Types of Saints and How They Are Canonized):
[1. Martyr-Saints (Red Saints)]
Saints who died brutally for the faith, on the battlefield, in martyrdom engines, or torn apart by heretics and demons.
They are venerated for their sheer suffering and loyalty. Their remains are often considered holy relics.
Example: Saint-Excoriant Reskael the Severed, who died chained and crucified during the Siege of Gathom-Reign in 1637.
(This is the same guy who appeared and disappeared in Chapter 10, the guy Aaron called a "show-off.")
[2. Crowned Saints (Service Saints / Gray Saints)]
Saints canonized through merit and long service, decades in the trenches, surviving the unsurvivable, and performing relentless devotions.
Usually canonized posthumously by the high clergy or through battle-vote.
They are regarded as paragons of endurance and duty, though their sainthood is often the result of political maneuvering.
Example: Saint-Captain Hema and Father Dren, both granted sainthood after many decades of faithful service.
[3. Anointed Saints (God-Favored / White Saints)]
Declared saints while still alive, often after performing miracles, surviving divine ordeals, or being marked as "chosen by Heaven."
Surrounded by myth, madness, and cult-like reverence.
Not always stable. Sometimes not even willing.
Example: Saint Grave (Aaron), resurrected in the trenches by fire, believed to be the prophesied living prophet and declared a walking miracle.
[4. Relic-Saints (Saints-in-Parts)]
Saints whose bodies were divided into relics and scattered.
Often cases of constructed sainthood, where myth grows around a body part or sacred object that performs miracles.
Some may not have existed as whole persons at all.
Example: The Blessed Hand of Saint Lira, a mummified limb that miraculously oozes oil once a year.
[5. Saints Beneath Scrutiny (VERY Controversial / Black Saints)]
Rare and often feared. These saints walk the line between prophet and heretic.
They may be infallible, insane, possessed—or all three.
The clergy treat them with awe, terror, and sometimes secret revulsion.
Example: Saint-Gorath Maimtongue, the Eater of Vows, known for mutilating both enemies and allies, ("sacrifices of purity," he claims). Can easily be distinguished by his appearance and the repeated words he speaks.