The void shook with whispers.
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The Saint flinched, clutching his chest. His phantom—the crucified thing he had dragged into the world—still lingered in faint echoes, dripping invisible blood. He hadn't slept since. His eyes were hollow, his lips cracked from whispered prayers he no longer believed.
I grinned at him through the gloom. "They're moving, Saint. Your precious gods can't ignore it anymore."
Above, gears ground. Chains unfurled from the ceiling of infinity, dragging something down.
Something enormous.
It landed like a corpse dropped from the gallows.
Chains coiled around it, thicker than mine, thicker than the Saint's. A dozen black iron bindings stabbed through its body, anchoring it to the spire.
It was humanoid—at least, in outline. But its skin was parchment-white, stretched tight over bones carved with scripture. Mouths gaped across its body, whispering prayers in perfect harmony.
Its head was a hollow helm, filled with light. Not holy light. Surgical light. Blinding. Unfeeling.
The Overseers spoke as one:
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The Saint reeled backward, his chains rattling. His lips trembled. "…That… that's a saint."
I spat, laughter cracking. "No, lamb. That's what a saint looks like after your god finishes chewing."
The mouths on the Confessor's ribs opened. A thousand voices whispered:
"Mercy."
"Confess."
"Bleed clean."
The Saint covered his ears. "Stop—stop it—"
The Confessor's chains tightened, dragging its body upright. Its head swiveled—no face, only light spilling.
"Child," it said, in a dozen overlapping voices. "You are not lost. You are tested."
The Saint froze. His trembling lips moved, half-reflex. "Tested…?"
"Yes." The Confessor leaned, chains screaming as they stretched. "The heretic beside you is temptation. His path is filth, blood, rot. Yours may yet be redeemed. Break your pact with him, and your god will welcome you."
The Saint's hands shook violently. "I… I…"
I laughed sharp enough to cut steel. "There it is. Their last bribe. Redemption. Purity. After they dragged you here, after they chained you like a dog. And you're still listening?"
"Silence." The Confessor's voice rolled like thunder. "You, Regression, are the Tower's mistake. But this one—" Its light flared, bathing the Saint. "—this one remains sacred."
The Saint's phantom twitched in the dark, whispering curses from its nailed cross. He doubled over, torn between two horrors—mine, and the Confessor's.
I surged forward, yanking my bindings taut, sparks flying. "He's mine."
The Confessor's chains tightened, slamming into the ground. Light lashed outward, searing against my phantoms. They shrieked, dissolving into smoke.
The Saint gasped, caught in the radiance. "It's—holy—it feels—"
"Lies!" I barked. "Look closer. That isn't holy. That's sterilization. Purity so sharp it erases everything—including you."
The Confessor's ribs opened wider, voices screaming.
"Confess. Confess. Confess."
The Saint clutched his ears until blood ran from them. His phantom writhed, ripping itself against invisible nails.
The Overseers hissed.
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The Confessor's light surged. "Saint. Do you not see? His power is mockery. Your power is penance. Come to me. Confess, and you will be forgiven."
The Saint shook, sweat pouring down his face. "I… I don't know—I can't—I don't want to see anymore—"
"You don't need to see," I cut him off, voice low and sharp. "You just need to remember. They chained you. They gagged you. They fed on your faith. And now they dangle absolution like meat to a starving dog."
He turned to me, hollow-eyed. "…And you?"
I bared my teeth. "I don't promise absolution. I promise truth. Bloody, rotten, ugly truth. And freedom if you can survive it."
The Confessor's light roared. "Lie! He offers only corruption! Saint, look at me!"
The Saint's body arched. His chains rattled violently, pulled in both directions.
The phantom crucifixion rose again behind him, bleeding light and shadow. It screamed, voice raw: "Mercy! Kill me! Kill me!"
The Confessor's voice thundered over it: "Yes! Confess! Be cleansed!"
I roared over both. "OWN IT!"
The Saint's throat tore in a scream. His phantom bent—not to the Confessor's light, not to the Overseers' will—but toward him.
It fell to its knees before him, bleeding, whispering. "Master."
The void cracked.
A third fracture split his chains, wide enough to bleed sparks like fire.
The Overseers howled in outrage.
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The Confessor's light flickered, spasming, its mouths shrieking discordant prayers.
The Saint collapsed, panting, his eyes wild. He stared at his phantom—at himself, crucified, bloody, kneeling in obedience.
His lips trembled. "…I… I didn't mean to—"
I grinned, savage. "But you did. And now it's too late."
The Confessor strained, light dimming, chains dragging it back. Its voice cracked into static. "No… no, Saint… confess… confess—"
But its authority was gone. It had lost him.
The Saint curled against the spire, weeping. "What have I done? What am I becoming?"
I leaned close, my grin a knife. "You're becoming mine."
The void quaked as Overseers screamed in mechanical fury.
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Chains across the void stirred. Not just ours. The whole prison shivered, as if preparing to crush us both.
The Saint flinched, staring upward. "…What are they doing?"
I grinned wider, eyes gleaming. "They're scared. And fear makes gods stupid."
I dragged my bloody palm across the floor, summoning another phantom, spine snapping as it rose. "Get ready, Saint. If you thought necromancy was ugly—wait until you see what happens when the gods panic."
The White Confessor writhed, chains dragging it screaming into the black above. Its mouths chanted prayers of failure.
The Saint clutched his knees, shuddering.
Three fractures pulsed across his chains now, glowing like open wounds.
He was no longer a Saint.
He wasn't a necromancer yet.
But he was mine.
And the Tower had just declared war.