Father didn't even make a sound.
His eyes had already lost faith, hope, everything.
In complete silence he stood up and walked away, leaving behind the items for the blessing, leaving behind me.
I stayed there in the dark for what felt like forever. My hands shook, my chest felt hollow. Eventually I forced myself back to my room. The hallway was still cold and empty, though I swore I heard faint trembling behind one of the doors, maybe from Salomon's room.
When I opened my door, nothing had changed. The same bed, the same walls, the same emptiness.
I sighed and collapsed onto my sheets. Sleep dragged me under quickly, like it wanted me gone.
The days after that became unbearable.
Father never spoke to me. He didn't even scold me. Just glances, brief, almost fearful, then nothing more.
To the rest of the world he had to pretend, of course. He couldn't ruin his reputation as a priest. So he dressed me up in the same robes as my siblings, lined us up in front of his followers, and taught us how to praise Oeus.
He told us that if any dark spirit dared to approach, we should call upon Oeus' name.
But never once did he mention magic. Never once did he acknowledge what I had seen that night.
Maybe it was easier for him to erase me than to face me.
Weeks turned into months, and I started pulling away on my own. I still went to school and still brought home perfect grades, but when Father gathered the faithful for prayers and sermons, I kept to the shadows.
I bowed when I had to, whispered a few "prayers" for the sick or grieving when called upon, then disappeared again.
Two months passed like this, then everything collapsed further.
Janie left the church.
The one person who spoke to me like I mattered, the one who smiled at me, the one who kept me sane, gone.
She always dreamed of attending a university, and now she finally left Koburn to chase it. I didn't blame her.
But I hated the silence that followed.
Maybe Janie had been the only thing keeping Father from fully discarding me. Because the day she left, I stopped being his son entirely.
It began small, almost unnoticeable.
My room, and only my room, became a nest for rats and crawling bugs. My meals were conveniently forgotten unless I cooked for myself. At eleven years old, I was already living like a beggar. My clothes rarely got washed, and more often than not I went to school filthy.
The teachers complained, of course. They sent letters, asked Father directly about my condition. But his excuses, spoken with the authority of a priest, were always believed.
I hated this life.
Three years passed. I was fifteen.
That promise I once made to myself, to try to connect with my siblings? Worthless. The one time I tried to speak, I was ignored before the words even left my mouth. Lorna didn't even bother to look at me.
She was too busy pretending I didn't exist.
A bitch. Always was, always would be.
That year crushed me. My depression dug its claws into everything. Starting high school only made it worse.
I was bullied daily. My dirty clothes, my stench, my silence, hey mocked it all. Laughed at me, shoved me, treated me like trash.
I wanted to fight back. To scream. To kill.
But I couldn't.
I was weak.
Human.
human.
Human.
That same year I found work. Survival demanded it.
I swore with every breath I hated Father, yet I used his name like a tool. A mask. I lied through my teeth, acting as a priest in his shadow. For every "spirit execution" I performed,
I charged twenty silver. I sprinkled holy water, muttered prayers, and pretended it was all real. Most people didn't question me. Father's fame carried me through.
It wasn't enough though, so I took another job as a janitor. Scrubbing floors, sweeping
dust, draining myself in a café until my hands cracked.
While my siblings rode carriages across Koburn, Father's coins in their pockets, I walked.
Always walked. On rare weeks, if I saved enough, I could afford a single ride. But most days
I dragged my body across the city until my feet bled.
By then, coming home had become optional. Sometimes I wandered the alleys until morning, lying flat behind some broken building, too drained to move. On the darker side of Koburn, women tried to pick me up, mistaking me for a customer. I couldn't even afford that humiliation, and the boss of one of them made sure I never forgot it. His shadow still haunts me.
Two more years passed. December. I was seventeen.
And then—
BANG!
Vince shot up from a heavy slumber, clutching his head as his eyes adjusted to the gray blur of his room. A loud knock at the door faded into silence.
He glanced around, comparing the place to what it looked like seven years ago.
It had decayed along with him.
The walls were duller, stained by time. Trash piled against one corner where rats and cockroaches scurried freely, enjoying their kingdom.
The desk, untouched, still held the same notes from years past, paper warped and yellowing under old stains.
"Damn. This place just gets worse," Vince muttered.
He looked different now, older, more worn. His face carried traces of pride, but it was buried under exhaustion.
Dark bags sagged beneath dull gray eyes, his messy hair falling nearly to his ears. His cotton shirt was stained and wrinkled, his black wool pants frayed at the knees, his leather shoes scuffed with age.
Dragging himself toward the door, Vince sidestepped a pair of rats darting across his path.
When he opened it, he found a single slip of paper on the floor.
"Vince, your turn to do some work around here.
Clean the floor, do the dishes, and wipe down the doors. After that, take out the trash and place matches next to the pantry's other door.
I'll be out over the next week. Knowing you, you won't inform your siblings, so I already did beforehand."
Vince let out a long sigh and shuffled toward the kitchen.
The space was lined with dark oak, polished just enough to show someone cared—someone other than him. To the right sat a spotless stove, gleaming from his siblings' efforts, and beside it a white fridge.
Cabinets framed them on either side, with a single white sink lodged against the left wall. To the far right stood the pantry door, silent and ordinary.
Vince dragged himself over, opening it to reveal shelves lined with food, and beneath them a wooden mop and bucket.
He filled the bucket, shoulders slumping as he muttered, "Guess this is my life."
Three hours later, drenched in sweat, Vince collapsed against the mop. "Why does this damn church have to be so big?"
He fished the note back from his pocket. "Oh right, matches by the door next to the pantry."
His eyes flicked toward the far door.
"Now that I think about it… I've never been in there."
He realized how small his world had become. He only ever stepped through a cycle of rooms, his bedroom, the dining hall, the kitchen, the bathroom. Nothing else. Never more.
He grabbed a pack of matches and set them on a brown table by the strange door. His hand lingered, though.
"Father always said never go into a room he didn't approve of," he muttered.
The thought twisted inside him. Why should he listen? Why obey a man who abandoned him, who treated him like a burden?
His heartbeat quickened.
Sweat dampened his brow as his trembling hand wrapped around the cold brass knob.
Creak…
The door groaned as it opened. Darkness greeted him, thick and suffocating. Vince struck a match, the tiny flame flickering to life, casting faint light against the walls.
The room was smaller than he expected, cramped and silent.
He stepped inside, lifting the flame toward a shelf.
Then his eyes froze wide.
"What the hell…"