And so the first who bore it was not burned,
nor chained,
nor killed.
They did something worse.
They let him live—
long enough to spread the contagion of doubt,
long enough for his words to infect the marrow
of those who once thought themselves holy.
And when the time came to silence him,
he did not resist.
He only smiled and said:
"Do you know what is louder than your gods,
sharper than your punishments,
stronger than your faith?"
He leaned forward.
The crowd hushed.
And just as the executioner's blade rose,
he whispered a single answer—
"…memory."
The blade fell. His head rolled.
His lips trembled in their final twitch,
terror etched into his face.
But the word remained.
And it would not die.
— Fragment of the Severed Testament
---
The rain grew heavier.
The wind whistled through the gaps in the wood.
The crickets stopped their song.
Somewhere, through the numbness of exhaustion,
I heard it.
Daemon.
Daemon.
Daemon.
DAEMON.
A hand gripped my shoulder.
I flinched.
"Oi. Daemon."
I looked up—
Patrick's pale blue eyes burned into mine,
rain dripping from his bald head,
the drizzle washing his knife clean.
I had forgotten.
I was not Feydur anymore.
The mask of that name was long gone.
And yet some part of me still resisted,
clutching at the shadow of a boy who once begged his father to value him.
I felt my lips quiver.
My eyes shook as though some old horror welled up.
Patrick's face hardened.
Compared to me in my muddied suit,
he looked like ruin made flesh:
brown rags, red blade, rain-streaked skin.
He saw through me.
Saw a frightened man who wanted to be anything but himself.
"Kid," he muttered,
voice flat, iron in the rain.
"Stay strong. You'll be doing worse than this. Far worse."
He sheathed the knife.
"The rain's getting heavier. Move."
And so I moved.
Into the carriage.
---
The air inside was fetid.
The stench hit first—
rot, blood, sweat, the sharp tang of rusted iron.
My muddy boots pressed down on the boards.
Through the gaps, I felt them—
the bodies below,
slaves packed into coffins of wood and nail,
moaning through holes bored for air.
Blood and mud dripped between the cracks,
streaking down into their eyes.
One coughed.
Another whispered a prayer.
Chains rattled, echoing beneath my feet.
Above, in the dim light of lantern flame,
the men played their game of cards.
The deck was thick with strangeness.
A goblin's grin.
A Siren's eyes.
A Dragon's maw.
"I'll take your Siren," one growled,
"but I'll borrow your Minotaur till sunrise."
"You've cursed yourself, fool."
The other spat, slamming down a card—
a knotted tongue, painted black.
"Speak, or stay silent. Either way, you're mine."
A boy laughed, drunk on the play.
He flashed a card of a mother—
a pale woman holding a child.
"All debts vanish but the borrowed. Read it and weep."
"Bah. You cheat,"
another cursed,
his scarred hand shoving the table.
Cards fluttered like dying birds,
monsters grinning from the floorboards.
The laughter, the curses,
the sound of dice and shuffled parchment—
all of it rose above the moans below.
It was a chorus of cruelty.
I sat in silence.
Staring at my bloodied boots.
Thinking only:
If Father valued me more, I would not be here.
---
The driver was quiet, silver watch strapped to his wrist.
When I offered him my rain-soaked coat,
he looked at me strangely,
as though weighing my worth.
"You're a slaver then," he said,
not a question.
His tone sought a reaction.
"Yes."
That was all.
I looked forward, face blank.
The twilight swallowed our silence.
When dawn broke, I told him to stop.
I waved him off, walking into the trees.
Patrick called after me—
"Hurry up. We need them in the dungeon before nine."
But the forest drew me in.
Thinner roads.
Crooked signs whispering warnings.
Barbed wire snarled like a beast in the dark.
And then the house.
No doors.
No windows.
Only the old water tank.
I slipped beneath,
lifted the hatch,
descended the stair.
Home.
---
The house reeked of insects.
Chittering in every corner.
The air alive with crawling wings.
I lit the herb-candle,
symbols inked in its wax.
A little oil to coax it aflame.
The runes bled,
golden ink flowing into each other.
Then fire.
Smoke.
And I coughed, smiling.
At least it worked.
I stripped my coat,
dropped it in the basket.
Lit my pipe.
Sat in the rain.
The memory came.
Me.
Naked.
Crawling the flood.
Hands cupped to cover shame,
red liquid flowing from my lap.
A girl's laugh.
High, cruel, echoing.
The voice blurred.
Then silence.
Only the black sky above.
I told myself:
Sleep.
---
But instead I bathed.
Combed my browning hair.
Brushed my teeth with ash and solvent.
The mirror blurred with blood.
My gums torn by rune-carved teeth.
Lines of dread etched into every edge.
I grinned, lips scarlet.
"The ladies won't like this."
I stared at my scarred wrist.
Another rune.
Another mistake.
I swore I'd stop carving them into my flesh.
But the pain was part of the power.
---
The desk waited.
Carved in runes,
scratched raw with symbols.
I swept my hand across it.
Fourteen cards rose,
semi-translucent.
Only two revealed their face.
One—
a sphere of light, runes dancing within.
Fairy.
A joke.
A broken wish.
The other—
a small rodent,
part hunter, part carrion,
dead eyes staring from an undead face.
Cute, grotesque, inevitable.
I laughed.
Nothing changed.
Nothing mattered.
Then the diary.
Names written in cursive,
some crossed in ink.
One name remained:
Serwyn Galmort.
I giggled.
Her child's blood still stained my hands.
I expected great things of her.
Her vengeance.
Her hate.
The blood from my mouth dripped down my chest.
I leaned on the desk,
laughed like a maniac,
the sound echoing off the insect-ridden walls.
My finger stopped.
Tapped the wood.
"I wonder. what's my third wish to BE."
End of Chapter II