The candles burned low, their smoke trailing upward in restless, twitching threads. The walls of the confession chamber were old stone, uneven and scarred by time, yet silent — as though the monastery itself was holding its breath. Outside, the muffled toll of a distant bell bled faintly through the glass.
Priest Devornor sat opposite Waelz, posture straight, his hands folded neatly atop a stack of worn parchment. His expression was calm, composed, but his eyes… his eyes watched with a weight that felt unnatural. They seemed to listen harder than his ears ever could.
"Then," Devornor said softly, his voice low and steady, "please… speak."
Waelz hesitated, shoulders rigid, fingers restless on his knees. He stared at the single candle between them, watching its flame lean and twist as if reaching for him. Finally, he exhaled shakily.
"It… always begins the same." His voice came rough, strained, like pulling splinters from old wounds. "I find myself standing… somewhere unfamiliar. Not a city. Not a forest. It feels like both, yet neither. The ground… it's stone, but alive. It pulses beneath me like veins carrying something rotten."
His brow furrowed as he stared at nothing. "And the sky — Father, the sky is wrong. Sometimes it burns with a fire that rains without heat. Sometimes it freezes solid, heavy as glass, and the stars fall dead from it like shattered teeth. And always… always the world groans beneath it. Like it's tired of existing."
Devornor said nothing, only tapped his quill twice against the table.
Waelz's voice dropped lower. "Then I hear them. The voices. Thousands of them. Some whisper my name like a prayer. Others scream it like a curse. And some…" He hesitated, his throat tightening. "…some beg me. Beg me to come to them."
His breath grew shallow. "And I don't know why, Father, but… I walk toward the screaming ones. Almost every time. I… choose them."
Devornor's quill scratched faintly against parchment. Waelz clenched his fists, nails cutting crescents into his palms.
"There's always a figure, too," Waelz continued hoarsely. "Tall. Faceless. Bound in chains that drag across the living stone. The sound of those chains…" He shuddered violently. "…it feels like thunder tearing through my skull. Every time I see it, something inside me… wakes. Something alive. Something wrong. It never speaks — doesn't need to. The chains speak for it. They promise something. Or maybe they warn me. I can't tell anymore."
Devornor finally looked up from his notes, eyes sharp beneath the candlelight. "And after this?" he asked quietly.
Waelz's lips trembled faintly before curling into a bitter, broken smile. "Then comes the rabbit."
Devornor paused mid-writing, his eyes flickering — subtle, but there. "The rabbit?" he repeated softly, almost as though tasting the word.
"It sounds absurd, I know," Waelz said, his laugh hollow, cracked. "But in the dream… after the chains, there's always this sound. A chitter. Small. Harmless. Like a rabbit's cry."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "And then it comes."
Waelz's hands tightened on his knees, knuckles pale.
"It's massive — as big as a hound, maybe larger. Its eyes burn red, like embers hidden under ash. Its horn juts out like a spear, and its teeth…" He swallowed hard. "…its teeth drip with something that's never just saliva. The way it moves, Father — fast, silent, hunting. And when it looks at me… it knows me."
He drew in a sharp breath, chest trembling. "And every time, it hunts me. Always. No matter how far I run, it follows. The forest never ends. And when I turn to face it…" His voice broke, splintering into rawness. "…I die."
He covered his face with both hands, speaking through strained breath. "Impaled. Ripped apart. Strangled. Mauled. Each time feels real. Every death feels real."
For a moment, only silence filled the chamber. Even the candles seemed afraid to flicker.
When Waelz finally lowered his hands, his voice was quiet, fragile. "But that's not the worst part."
Devornor's quill paused again, hanging over parchment.
"In the dreams," Waelz whispered, "the body I wear isn't mine. I look down and I see smaller hands. Thinner arms. Fourteen… maybe fifteen years old. Clothed in scraps of what used to be hunting leathers. Pale skin. Fragile. Young."
He looked up slowly, his wide, hollow eyes locking on Devornor's.
"But it's me, Father. I move like him. Breathe like him. Feel his pain. And yet… I know I'm not him. I'm trapped inside a stranger's skin. Forced to die in it. Again. And again. And again."
Devornor leaned back slightly, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His expression was calm, but his silence was heavy, sharp-edged.
"And when I try to listen," Waelz said, his voice trembling now, "when I dare to listen to the chains — to hear what they're trying to tell me — that's when the rabbit strikes. As though it exists only to silence me. As though I'm not allowed to know."
The final words lingered between them, frail and cold.
Devornor finally set the quill down, folding his hands neatly atop the parchment.
"These dreams," he said softly, "since when have they plagued you?"
Waelz blinked, the question dragging him reluctantly back into the present. "Eh? Since I was twelve… I think."
Devornor's gaze sharpened slightly. "Five years, then." He tapped his finger twice against the wood, slow and deliberate. "Did something… significant happen in that year?"
Waelz hesitated, his breath catching. "…A lot happened," he said softly, voice cracking at the edges. "Things of great sorrow. For me. And for my brother."
A long silence stretched between them. Devornor waited, still as stone.
"If you do not wish to speak," he said finally, "you need not."
Relief flickered briefly across Waelz's face. But then Devornor leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering into something quieter, heavier.
"However… without knowing what scarred you, I cannot help you. No scripture can cleanse a soul drowning in grief. Only truth can."
Something in Waelz's chest twisted. He stared at the candle flame until his vision blurred. Finally, he inhaled, sharp and deep, as though bracing against a storm.
"July 28th, 1,062."
Devornor's quill resumed its slow, steady scratching.
"That was the day we came home from school," Waelz began, voice detached, brittle. "Father had died when I was seven. Mother… she died giving birth to our sister. It wasn't a promising life. Just three stray brothers clinging to scraps. Dad left nothing but debts and worn books, but one of his friends — the headmaster of a secondary school — gave us scholarships. Enough for four years each. We survived. Barely."
Waelz's voice grew quieter, heavier. "The year before… my eldest brother was conscripted. The Republica was desperate for soldiers after the Mawarmar betrayal during the Oma-Emoruh conflict. He begged not to go. Begged us. Begged anyone. But it didn't matter."
Waelz's hands curled into fists on his knees, shaking slightly.
"And then came July 28th," he whispered. "I still remember the heat of that afternoon. My second brother and I had just returned from school. We were laughing. I can't even remember what about. And then…"
His voice cracked. "…we saw him. The messenger. Standing there with a folded flag. A sack of belongings. A pouch of coin."
He swallowed hard, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.
"That was all, Father. That was all my eldest brother became."
Silence stretched thin and sharp.
"And you know the cruelest part?" Waelz's lips trembled as he whispered the words. "The war ended less than two months later. Two months. My brother died for nothing."
His voice splintered. "I think… I've been dying with him ever since. Every night. Over and over."
For a long moment, Devornor watched him. Calm. Silent. Then, almost too softly to hear, he spoke:
"…Sometimes, Waelz… dreams are not dreams."
The candlelight wavered violently, throwing long shadows against the wall.