Aaron didn't wait to see what the figure would do next.
He grabbed Khaline's wrist, her grip tightening automatically in response. They turned in unison, legs moving—
But then it happened.
A sharp buzz tore through the air. Like a broken loudspeaker crackling just beneath their skin. It rattled the bones in their jaws, numbed their teeth, and made Aaron's spine feel like it was splitting into static.
The color drained from the room. Everything faded into pale gray, like someone had stripped the light from the world, soaked the space in old ash. Khaline's armor dulled to charcoal. Aaron's cloak lost its crimson. The stone under their feet turned the color of bone dust.
They both froze mid-stride.
Completely still.
Their legs refused to move. Arms locked at their sides. Even their lungs stopped obeying. Panic rushed up Aaron's throat, but he couldn't gasp. Only his eyes could move, flicking left and right in jerky motion.
Khaline stood beside him, locked in the same invisible grip. Her pupils darted frantically in her sockets.
His mind raced.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Why the fuck is Saint-Gorath Maimtongue here?!
The name crashed into his brain like a hammer. Every word was heavy.
He's marked as a Black Living Saint—canonized but a danger to enemy and allies alike, sealed under interdiction! He's supposed to be in the Vaults of Ruined Oaths on the lowest floor of Virex-Cathedralis! No one comes out of there unless deployed for a mission!
The pressure built in his chest.
Did… did that toy do this? Did the fire attract him? My blood?
He wanted to scream in frustration.
No matter what, I'm fucked. Totally, absolutely, burned-soul level fucked. He doesn't leave witnesses. He doesn't talk to people—he dissects them. Eats pieces of them. I'd rather die than—
His eyes shifted again—to Khaline. She was still trying to move. He could see it in the way her muscles flexed, even through paralysis. Her eyes snapped to him.
She's with me. She didn't ask for this. She shouldn't—
A shadow crossed his vision.
Saint-Gorath was walking closer.
His pace was slow. Each footfall sent a faint metallic shudder across the stones. His censer-flail swung lightly at his side, the burning saint-hair releasing a smoky trail.
His sewn-shut mouth never moved. But his voice came anyway.
"Wrong… wrong… wrong…"
Aaron screamed inside his own skull.
Move, damnit!
Nothing happened. Then—
A spark.
His finger, the one with the small cut he got earlier—burned.
Not from outside heat. It was inside the wound. Like something lit a match in the blood itself.
And just like that, he moved.
His whole body jolted. A breath dragged into his lungs, ragged and loud.
He spun around, mind ready to shout for Khaline—
Too late.
Saint-Gorath was already there, his long fingers wrapped tightly around Khaline's neck. Her head was twisted sharply to the side, bent. Blood streamed from her eyes, leaking slowly down her cheeks. Her mouth was open in a scream, but no sound came.
In Saint-Gorath's other hand, dangling like a withered fruit, was her tongue.
Aaron's mind blanked.
Then the saint brought the tongue to his hidden face and pushed it past the threads stitched across his mouth. The black thread snapped slightly, not enough to open, but enough to let something in.
He ate it…Slowly.
Then he dropped her.
She hit the stone floor with a thud, limbs twitching weakly.
Saint-Gorath tilted his head back slightly, like he was savoring the taste.
"Ah… such faith… such faith…"
His voice repeated the phrase like a skipping record.
Aaron backed away. His body was moving again, but he didn't know how long that would last.
He turned to run.
One step. Two—.
Then Saint-Gorath appeared right in front of him.
Without a sound and warning.
One hand grabbed Aaron's arm, holding it out straight.
The other reached for his wounded finger.
The cut was healed now. The skin smooth, not even a scar.
Saint-Gorath stared at it.
Then he sliced the whole finger off.
Aaron tried to scream.
But his mouth wouldn't open.
It was sealed.
Not physically, but somehow. His jaw felt locked shut, like his vocal cords had been dipped in cement.
He could feel the pain. Every nerve in his hand lit up. The stub of his finger bled once, then caught fire.
Saint-Gorath hissed, recoiling. He stepped back quickly, chains rattling.
Aaron's finger grew back.
Right there, in front of them both.
Bone, then muscle, then skin, reformed in less than a breath. The pain vanished.
He still couldn't scream.
But his heart was slamming against his ribs.
Saint-Gorath leaned closer again.
Slow and careful. His head tilted like he was studying something unfamiliar.
"Foreign… heretic… foreign… heretic…"
His voice scratched at Aaron's ears like glass on stone.
Then his hand moved again.
This time, he gripped Aaron's whole arm tight.
Too tight.
Aaron could feel the pressure building—bone grinding against bone.
Saint-Gorath's fingers tightened more.
"What about a bigger wound…" he murmured.
The phrase repeated itself again. Louder. Each time more distorted.
"What about a bigger wound… what about a bigger wound…"
Aaron tried to pull away. His legs dug into the floor, heels scraping stone.
But the grip didn't loosen.
Saint-Gorath's hand slid to Aaron's shoulder, as if trying to find the best angle for leverage.
Aaron's muscles locked. His vision blurred. Something deep in his arm felt like it was about to tear free from the socket.
"What about a bigger wound… what about a bigger—"
The voice echoed louder now, bouncing off the stone walls.
Aaron's breath caught again. His mouth was still sealed.
He couldn't call out.
All he could do was stare into Goraths veiled face as the pressure grew—
And then—