Desecration of a saint

I stood in the center of our makeshift camp, feeling scared and awkward. My hands fidgeted incessantly, restless without purpose. When I felt a hand on my shoulder, I flinched, spinning around to see Lord Thorne standing beside me.

The firelight danced on his dark skin, the faint gold piercings shimmering like embers. Despite his usual commanding presence, his face was etched with something raw—fear. In his other hand, I noticed the hammer I had used to kill the goblin. The head was spotless, gleaming in the fire's glow, but the wooden shaft still bore dark stains of gore, stark and unclean against the polished metal.

"They don't care," Lord Thorne said, his voice low and steady, heavy with meaning. "Age, gender, race, weak, or strong—it doesn't matter to them. If something happens tonight, fight for your life. We can't save you if they come for you."

His words settled over me like a cold shroud. He extended the hammer to me, and I took it with trembling hands. It felt… small. Weak. Like the wielder.

I wasn't ready.

Even if Lord Thorne hadn't said it, I knew. Should something happen tonight, I wouldn't survive. My hands tightened around the hammer's shaft, the slick stains of old blood rough against my fingers. What chilled me more than the thought of dying, though, was the uncertainty of what came after.

"Look, it's Chadwick!" the guard who had been screaming for his friend shouted, his voice cracking with a mix of hope and desperation.

Everyone froze, then turned toward where he pointed.

"Come on, brother, I knew you'd be okay! You made us so worried for you. You better have a good reason for leading us on like that."

The figure of the missing guard lingered just beyond the firelight, his form barely visible in the shifting shadows. The flickering flames cast his silhouette in sharp, eerie relief. Something about the way he stood was off—his posture too rigid, too unnatural. I wasn't the only one who noticed. The other guards, tense and silent, raised their weapons as unease spread through the camp like wildfire.

Then, the figure spoke.

"Don't worry, I have a reason. It's over here. I'll show you."

The voice matched Chadwick's perfectly, but there was something wrong about it. The tone felt hollow, like a puppet mimicking words without understanding them. It lacked air, as if forced through lungs that didn't exist.

When no one moved, it spoke again, louder this time.

"Come on, it's over here. I'll show you. Follow me, it's over here. Come here. Come here. Come here."

The words started to loop, faster and faster.

"Come here, come here, come here, come here, come here, come here, come here, come here!"

The voice became a relentless chant, unnatural and grating. The air seemed to vibrate with its insistence.

Lord Thorne acted swiftly. Without hesitation, he drew a hand axe from his belt and hurled it with precision. The blade struck true, burying itself deep into the figure's skull. The sound was sickening—the crack of bone giving way, the wet squelch of torn flesh. The force of the throw sent the figure swaying slightly, its balance teetering.

I stared in shock. What stunned me most wasn't the grotesque display but the sheer strength Lord Thorne had displayed. His body, though thick with fat, carried a power I hadn't expected.

But then, impossibly, the figure remained standing.

Its head tilted slightly, the embedded axe shifting grotesquely as it spoke once more.

"Why did you hurt me, Lord?"

Before the words could fully sink in, the cry came again—the scream we'd heard the first night. But this time, it was closer, as though it was part of a chorus. The shadows moved, undulating like waves. Smiles gleamed in the dark, jagged and too wide. White eyes glared from the void, unblinking. The air felt alive with their presence.

The voices began to call out, weaving through the camp like a poisonous fog.

"Come on, look what we have to show you! Your friend Chadwick needs help—go to him, Richard. Don't you dream of becoming a knight?"

"You left him to die!"

"You didn't even look for him, COWARD!"

"Still afraid of the dark? You're less of a man than the boy! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

The taunts came in a relentless barrage, each one aimed at the guard who had been calling out for Chadwick. His face twisted, torn between despair and anger, his hands trembling on the hilt of his weapon. He looked as though he might break at any moment.

Then the voices shifted, their tone darkening, dripping with venomous accusation.

"You left me to become this, Richard. How will you tell my wife? My daughter—she just turned five. Will you look her in the eyes and explain that you still serve the man who killed her father?"

Killed? The word struck me like a thunderclap. Killed? But wasn't Chadwick still speaking? My gaze snapped back to the figure standing in the shadows, my chest tightening.

That's when I noticed it.

It hadn't moved. Not a single muscle. Its posture was frozen, unnaturally still. The axe was still buried deep in its skull, and yet… it spoke. The words weren't coming from its mouth.

It didn't try to pull the weapon free. It didn't weep. It didn't plead.

And the voices… they didn't stop.

"Edric, we have your father. Don't you want to know who he… it was?"

"Your mother was crazy, boy. Didn't you know? She was nothing more than a lunatic. And you… you'll be nothing more than a failed attempt."

My breathing quickened, the words clawed at my mind. I pressed my heel into the ground, rocking it up and down in a desperate attempt to steady myself. The voices wanted me to react—I could feel it—but I held firm, forcing the tension back down.

Then the voices shifted again, their venom dripping toward another target.

"Rich, the boy is stronger than you. Look at him."

"You're nothing. Your lord would sacrifice all of you just to protect him. That's not fair, is it? He's just a slave, and you—you're a citizen. A hero."

The tone grew darker, more insistent, trying to wrap itself around the guard's mind like a vice tightening with every word.

"Teach him a lesson. Show him you're better. Show him you're stronger. Show him that you're Mooooorrreeee…"

The voice dragged out the final word. I glanced at Rich, his face taut, every muscle in his body coiled with tension. The tremor in his hands showed the storm raging inside him. His eyes darted toward me, then back to the shadows. His jaw worked as if he were trying to speak, but no words came, only the shallow rasp of his strained breathing.

Then, suddenly, his voice cut through the suffocating silence:

"No!"

It wasn't just a word; it was a declaration, raw and defiant. Rich seemed to draw himself up, his will unshaken by the venomous whispers. I felt a flicker of admiration—he was stronger than I'd thought, resisting the pull of the shadows.

But his resistance seemed to provoke them.

The forest stilled for a moment. Then, the nightmare truly began.