"...Until next time."
Erika violently jerked awake.
He pitched forward off his thin straw pallet, gasping for air as if he had just been dragged from the bottom of a frozen lake. His right hand instinctively clamped down on his left forearm, his fingers digging painfully into his own flesh.
It burned.
He crouched in the dark, shivering in the damp morning air of the hut, waiting for his racing heartbeat to slow. He looked down at his left arm. It was smooth. Unblemished. Normal. There was no carbonized flesh, no golden light of annihilation, no mechanical voice pronouncing his survival probability as zero.
Just a dream. Another hyper-realistic, suffocating nightmare.
Erika dragged a trembling hand down his face, wiping away the cold sweat. He needed something tangible—the smell of wet earth, the biting shock of cold well water—to wash away the lingering stench of ozone and burnt blood that seemed permanently etched into his sinuses.
He pushed open the creaking wooden door of his meager hut and stepped out into the pale dawn.
The village well stood in the center of the packed dirt square. Usually, it was a place of tired murmurs and the familiar rhythm of morning labor. But lately, a creeping, unnatural fervor had infected the routine.
Then he noticed Old Sackman.
Unlike the others scrubbing dirt from their limbs, the old man first filled a chipped wooden bowl. His clouded eyes turned toward the distant Feather-Gone Grounds, before he carried the bowl to a dry patch of earth and poured the water out in a steady stream.
The ground drank it silently.
Only then did he return to clean his tools. A nearby villager glanced his way—then quickly looked elsewhere.
Erika took his place at the well, drawing water. Beside him, young Leaf was carefully measuring out glittering powder from a small pouch—the church's Consecrated Gold-dust.
After a moment's hesitation, Leaf stirred the powder into his bucket. The water took on a metallic sheen. He scrubbed his face with determined, almost frantic vigor.
"Does it help?" Erika asked casually.
Leaf looked up, water dripping from his chin, his eyes feverish. "The priest says it purifies. Makes one cleaner... closer to the Light."
He puffed out his chest, grabbing his bucket. "I'll show them. We don't need the old dirt anymore."
Erika watched Leaf march toward the village edge, hefting his own bucket of clear water to follow.
The marketplace breathed its evening smells—baked bread and damp soil—now threaded with the cloying sweetness of church incense.
At the herb stall, the tight-lipped woman had arranged her wares on a rough cloth embroidered with a golden circle. Yet, when old Grigor approached coughing, her hand darted beneath the stall, pressing forbidden Moanweed roots into the woodcutter's calloused palm in a silent exchange.
As Erika passed, she swiftly flipped her cloth over, hiding the golden emblem.
Beneath the great oak at the village's edge, the elders sat in unusual silence. The Old Pedant drew intricate, bird-track symbols in the dirt with a twig, a silent prayer to the earth, his gaze fixed on the distant new altar.
"New fire sweeps the plain," he murmured. "Does it consider the eggs in old nests?"
Before anyone could answer, heavy footsteps crunched on the gravel.
Leaf pushed his way into the circle of elders, his face still gleaming with gold-flecked water.
"Enough of this rot," Leaf spat out.
With a deliberate, heavy scrape of his boot, he kicked dirt over the Old Pedant's markings, wiping the bird-tracks from the earth. "The Light is here. Stop inviting the shadows back."
A collective gasp swept through the elders. The Old Pedant dropped his twig, his hands trembling. A dozing woman snapped awake, clutching a polished bird skull beneath her robes.
Erika's jaw tightened. He wanted to speak, to pull the boy away, but the stifling silence of the village held him fast.
The Pedant met Erika's gaze with clouded eyes that offered no answers, before slowly shuffling away into the dusk.
From the altar site came the measured tread of the Auric Guard.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
It was a sound that mapped, rather than protected.
Erika finally reached the edge of the village and pushed open the creaking door to his own meager hut.
Inside, familiar darkness welcomed him. Outside, the church's golden light cast barred shadows through the cracks in his own walls. The unmoving golden bars of light slicing through his quiet sanctuary felt more suffocating than the guard's footsteps, carving apart the village's past and future.
He walked to the cold hearth of his home, crouched, and let his fingers trace the loose soil in the corner.
There was nothing there. Just dirt.
Then—
Bang. Bang. BANG.
Heavy, urgent pounding hammered against the door, brutally shredding the night's quiet. The wooden plank groaned.
"Open up! In the name of the Golden Light! Routine inspection!"
Erika's breath hitched. He forced his hands to unclench, wiping the dirt from his palms onto his trousers. He instantly settled his face into the mask of vague confusion and mild fear common among the villagers, and walked over to draw the bolt.
The door was nearly shoved off its hinges.
Two soldiers of the Auric Guard filled his doorway. Their gazes pushed him aside without ceremony as they strode into his small room.
"We have a report," the lead soldier said flatly, not looking at Erika, "that items defiling the Light may be hidden here."
The other soldier was already moving. He used his scabbard to overturn a pile of straw. Kicked over Erika's rickety table. A clay pot shattered.
Erika's few worn garments were shaken out and trampled under boots.
Erika stood by the door. He felt the cold draft from outside against the sweat prickling on his neck. He said nothing. Just watched his hard-earned sanctuary turned inside out.
The loose soil in the hearth corner was kicked aside, revealing nothing but packed earth beneath.
"Report. Nothing found." The leader's helmed gaze finally fixed on him. "You're very calm."
A peaceful voice cut in. "What is happening here?"
Priest Balthasar stood in the doorway, his spotless white robes stark against the chaos within. He surveyed the wrecked room, his brow furrowing with precisely measured authority and sorrow.
The guard captain immediately bowed. "Your Grace, we received a report—"
"I am aware." Balthasar raised a hand gently. "But in executing your duties, remember the mercy of the Golden Light. We must not unduly frighten our flock."
He turned to Erika, his face softening into a warm smile. "Erika, my son. This must have given you a fright. It is all to ensure the village's purity. I trust you understand."
Erika lowered his head, keeping his eyes on the shattered clay pot. "Yes, Your Grace."
Balthasar stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I have always had an eye on you, Erika. You are steady. Resilient. Like this ancient land itself. The village is changing. We need young people like you—as bridges between the past and the glorious future."
He drew an object from within his robes—a small badge made of dull yellow metal, shaped like three interlocking rings.
The Mark.
"Take it, my son. It is a talisman of the church. Wear it. The Light will guide you."
Erika looked at the badge. He hesitated, then reached out. The metal was shockingly cold and heavy in his palm, biting into his skin like a warning.
"My thanks, Your Grace," he murmured.
Balthasar nodded, satisfied, and turned away. The two soldiers followed.
Erika closed the door and leaned his back against the cold wood. He held his breath.
Outside, the Priest's retreating footsteps paused.
"The soil here is sour, Captain," Balthasar's voice drifted through the wooden planks. The warm, grandfatherly tone was gone, replaced by the chilling resonance of absolute, unquestioning faith. "The roots of the old rot go deeper than I feared."
"We await your command, Your Grace."
"Send word to the Clerical Division. The villagers' minds are still shackled to the dark. They require the holy fire of correction—confessionals, penitence, absolute spiritual realignment. We will save their souls, even if we must break them first."
Erika felt his blood run cold.
"And the old burial grounds, Your Grace?" the captain asked. "The Feather-Gone Grounds?"
"The false idols will starve as we cut off their worship," Balthasar replied calmly. "But hunger breeds desperation. If the skeletal beasts—these 'Deathbirds'—stir from their graves to reclaim their lost tithes, you know what to do. Grant them the Light's ultimate mercy. Leave nothing standing."
"By the God's decree!"
The footsteps receded.
Erika stood alone in the dark, the Auric Mark clenched so tightly in his fist that it drew a drop of blood.
He didn't need to guess anymore. To wear this badge was to submit to the holy fire. To refuse was to become the rot they intended to burn.
That night, a wailing came from the direction of Echo Canyon.
It wasn't the cry of a beast, nor the wind—it was a drawn-out, twisted shrieking, like the sound of countless bones grinding together. Dogs in the village cowered and whined; livestock threw themselves against their pens.
Erika lay on his cold pallet, the memory of Leaf wiping away the bird-tracks replaying in his mind like a curse.
The next morning, the panic finally broke.
Leaf's field, once thriving, was utterly ruined. The soil was churned up, the green crops severed at the base, leaching into an unnatural grey.
And amidst the wreckage—several immense, unmistakable claw marks were gouged deep into the earth.
Their shape was a perfect, monstrous match for the symbols Leaf had erased from the dirt the day before.
Villagers gathered at the edge of the field, their faces etched with terror.
"It's the Lord-Birds! They've come for vengeance!"
"Leaf cursed us! He angered them!"
As fear tightened its grip, the hunter pushed through the crowd. He held up a rabbit—its fur matted with blood, yet showing no visible wound.
"Your Grace!" His voice trembled. "It's not just the fields! I found spots like this by the woods... just pools of blood. The game is gone. Not a trace!"
"My hens!" a woman shrieked. "Two missing, just blood left behind!"
The Deathbirds—creatures once content to quietly gather anonymous bones in the wilds—had changed.
Priest Balthasar arrived, flanked by his Auric Guard. He raised a hand for silence, his face glowing with a terrible, righteous triumph.
"Behold, my children! This is the backlash of the old shadows!" His voice rang out, vibrating with fervent power. "They fester with malice because we have shown them the Light! What happened to Leaf's family is a revelation!"
He pointed an accusatory finger at the giant claw marks.
"They are no longer satisfied with the dead. They covet our lives! They are afraid of our purity, afraid of us breaking our spiritual bondage! This frenzy confirms we are on the right path!"
"We must not retreat! We must unite more devoutly around the Golden Father! Only a greater Light can scour away this Darkness!"
His words fell upon the terrified crowd like sparks on dry tinder.
Erika stood at the edge, watching raw fear curdle into a desperate, fanatic dependence on the Auric Creed.
He looked down at his own empty palm.
The symbols Leaf erased. The hunter's account of blood without bodies. The Priest's swift, convenient verdict.
It wasn't the wrath of an offended god. Erika could see it clearly now.
It was the desperate, brutal flailing of a cornered, starving creature fighting for survival.
And Balthasar was using that very desperation to forge the chains that would bind the village forever.