The blue sky had been a lie—a brief, mocking break in the clouds before they rolled back thicker than before, turning the world gray and damp once more. Lonir limped through the tannery yards, each step a dull throb in his thigh where the wound pulled tight like over-stretched hide, warm blood seeping through the crusted scab with every flex. The air was thick with the cloying stink of rotting animal skins and chemical runoff, now warmed by the fleeting sun into a nauseating haze that clung to his robes and scarred skin like a second layer of filth. Flies swarmed his half-healed arm, their buzzing a constant whine in his ears, tiny legs tickling the raw pink tissue before he brushed them away, leaving smears of black ichor.
The city felt wrong without the rain's constant drum—too quiet, too still, as though it was holding its breath for something worse. Lonir didn't care. The gray inside him had deepened after the fight, swallowing even the faint ache of survival. He had almost died. He should have felt something—fear, relief, anger. But there was only the vast, empty sadness, heavier now, like sediment settling in his chest.
Then it started.
A weird feeling—subtle at first, like a worm burrowing under skin, but deeper. In his head. Something nibbling at the edges of his mind, soft and insistent, like teeth on bone. Not pain. Not yet. Just… eating. Consuming thoughts he didn't even know were there. Memories flickered—his mother's face blurring at the edges, the taste of stew from Kael's shack fading to ash. Click. A faint sound inside his skull, like nails tapping against the inside of his cranium. Click. Click. Not loud. But relentless. Each one sent a ripple through his thoughts, scattering them like dust.
He stopped, hand pressing against his temple. The skin there felt warm—too warm—veins pulsing beneath like roots shifting under soil. The clicking grew louder, echoing in his ears now, a metallic scrape that made his teeth ache. Something was inside. Feeding. Growing.
He felt worse.
Way worse.
Nausea rose—not from the wounds, not from the smell. From the eating. The clicking. His mind felt thinner, stretched like melting flesh, pieces being gnawed away. Empathy—already faint—faded further. The boy from earlier? A blur. The three men in the alley? Nothing. Even the hunter—Varkis—stirred only a dim echo. But that echo was new. Sharp.
Alive.
For the first time since the pact, he felt a spark. Not hope. Not joy. A cold, thorny want. To kill Varkis. Not for revenge. Not for justice. Because the encounter had woken something—the clicking thing inside his skull demanded it. The gray parted just enough to let that want through, making him feel… present. Alive in the way a wound feels alive when it festers.
He needed a place.
To understand.
To learn what the clicking meant, what the cards wanted next.
He limped on, turning into a forgotten corner of the yards where sheds clustered like tumors. One caught his eye: larger than the stable, walls of warped wood patched with rusted metal, door half-buried in mud. No windows. No light leaking out. The air around it was stiller, heavier, as though the building itself breathed.
He pushed the door open—hinges groaning like old bones. Inside was dark, the smell of dust and decay thick enough to taste—mold on tongue, dryness in throat. Straw covered the floor in matted clumps, stained dark with what might have been blood or oil. A single lantern hung from a hook, rusted but intact, wick trimmed as though someone had left it ready. He found matches in a corner—damp, but one struck with a hiss of sulfur.
Light bloomed—yellow, flickering, casting long shadows that danced like thorns on the walls.
He sat in the center, back against a post. The clicking in his skull grew louder here, as though the quiet space amplified it. Click. Click. Like nails on bone. Eating deeper now—nibbling at edges of self. Who he had been. What he had lost.
He closed his eyes.
Reached inward.
The knowledge came—slow, carved certainty rising like bile.
The cards were hungry.
They wanted more.
The Bleak was only the first—breaking flesh to break others. But the others… they waited for him to be ready. To endure enough. To offer enough.
He touched the pact anchor.
The horned figure stared back—thorns tighter, face pleased, as though it knew the clicking was its work. Eating away the weak parts. Making room.
Lonir spoke to the empty air—voice rasping, tongue still tender from the last punishment.
"Show me."
Nothing at first.
Then the clicking stopped.
Replaced by pressure—building inside his skull, like roots pushing through soil.
Vision came—not forced, but blooming like a wound.
The other cards sharpened.
The Forgotten: a shape dissolving into mist, edges fraying like old cloth. To hide. To vanish. But the cost… forgetting himself.
The Burned: flames black as ink, eating everything they touched. To consume. To destroy. But the fire would start inside him first.
And the new one—deeper, thorned.
The Tormented.
He saw it: his body engulfed in black thorns growing from within, metal spreading like rust, nails hammering in from nowhere. A form that wasn't armor. A prison. Permanent. Like the god itself—horned, bound, satisfied in suffering.
He reached for it.
The pressure tightened.
Not yet.
The feeling came—implanted, cold.
Endure more.
Break more.
Then you may wear it.
The vision faded.
The clicking returned—softer now, but steady. Eating. Preparing.
Lonir opened his eyes.
The lantern flickered.
He felt the spark again—that cold want.
To kill Varkis.
Not because it mattered.
Because it would break something more.
Offer something more.
And the gray inside him… almost smiled at the thought.
He stood.
The city waited.
And the rain began again—soft at first, then harder.
He stepped out.
Ready to endure the pain.