Desecration of a saint

The world swayed beneath me, rocking like a ship adrift in the wind. My stomach churned, a nauseating lurch that made me feel as though I'd swallowed something rotten. My head pounded in time with my heartbeat, each throb sending waves of pain that blurred the edges of my thoughts. I tried to breathe, but my lungs would only accept short, ragged gasps.

I forced my eyes open, desperate to make sense of the chaos, but the world around me was a murky smear of dark red and black. Shadows and shapes twisted at the edges of my vision, their movements blending with the flickering flames. Distant voices echoed, muffled and warped, like hearing a conversation underwater.

The sharp buzzing in my head began to fade, but it left behind an ache so deep it felt as though my skull were splitting. Slowly, the voices grew clearer, pulling me back from the void. Before I could focus, my head was wrenched upward.

Lord Thorne loomed over me, his features hazy and distorted. Firelight reflected off his dark skin and the faint gold of his piercings. I tried to focus, squinting to make sense of him, but the harder I strained, the worse the pounding in my skull became. My body begged for rest, my eyelids growing heavy.

As they began to close, something tapped my cheek, snapping me back into the present. My eyes fluttered open, and there he was again. His mouth moved slowly, deliberately, but his voice was sharp and commanding, cutting through the fog in my mind.

"Edric! Look at me! Let me see your eyes…" He leaned closer, his gaze scrutinizing. "Mmm, one's off-sized."

His hand gripped my face firmly, forcing my eyelids wide as he lifted a torch close to my face. The light pierced through the haze, making me squint and flinch, but I couldn't pull away. His gaze bore into mine, intense and searching.

"And it's not shrinking in the light," he muttered, almost to himself. His tone was low, but the worry was palpable.

He released me and grabbed one of the guards, pulling him over. "Keep him awake and focused on you—head injury."

I tried to listen, to make sense of what he was saying, but the throbbing in my head drowned out his words. The guard, younger than most in the group, knelt down to my level. His face was pale but determined as he tried to engage me. His voice was steady, but the words barely registered. My gaze drifted into the darkness, unable to resist its pull.

Each time I looked away, the guard grabbed me, his firm grip dragging my attention back to him. This happened again and again, until finally, his voice cracked with urgency.

"My lord! His condition is very dire. He won't last through the night."

Lord Thorne froze, his jaw tightening as his gaze locked onto me. His expression darkened, and he muttered a sharp curse under his breath. Without hesitation, he turned and marched toward the contractor cloaked in thick, tattered robes. Grabbing their arm, he dragged them closer, his voice low and commanding, leaving no room for objection.

The contractor hesitated, their steps reluctant as they allowed themselves to be pulled. As they stepped away from their position, their chanting ceased. Instantly, the air around us shifted—the oppressive darkness pressed closer, more tangible, as though it had been waiting for this exact moment. The flames surrounding the camp flickered and dimmed, their glow no longer strong enough to fully hold the shadows.

Lord Thorne leaned in close to the contractor, his words quick and urgent, but his tone was unmistakably firm. Whatever he was saying seemed to spark resistance. The robed figure stiffened, shaking their head slightly, their posture defiant. A tense back-and-forth ensued, the contractor gesturing faintly, their movements tight with unease. Still, Lord Thorne remained unyielding, his voice cutting through their hesitation like a blade.

Finally, after a long pause, the contractor relented. Their shoulders slumped as they knelt down in front of me, their movements slow and deliberate. Reaching up, they pulled back their hood.

It was a woman. Her hair reminded me of bread fresh out of the oven—soft and warm in color, and it fell over her shoulders in smooth waves like it belonged in a picture. It caught the firelight and moved gently, almost like it was alive. Her skin was the kind of tan you'd see on someone who spent their days in the sun, but it didn't look rough or worn. It was smooth, almost too perfect, like a statue of someone important.

Her nose was straight and neat, with just a little tilt at the end that made her face look kind of cheerful. I noticed her ears peeking out from her hair, and they weren't like mine or anyone else's I'd seen before. They were pointed, not much, but enough to look strange and sharp, like little arrows.

Her lips were a soft red, like the berries I'd sometimes see growing on bushes before the harvest. They looked gentle, but something about them made me think she could talk you into anything if she really wanted to. And her eyes… her eyes were the kind of blue I'd only seen on the clearest summer days, the kind where the sky felt like it went on forever. But there was something strange about them too—like they could see right through me, even if she wasn't looking too hard.

Everything about her seemed a little too much—too smooth, too perfect, like the way the masters always seemed different from the rest of us. But there was something else, something in the way she moved or held herself. I couldn't put it into words, but it felt like she didn't belong here.

Her hands, soft and warm, cupped my face as she leaned closer, her piercing blue eyes searching mine. There was something strange about her touch—it didn't carry the cold detachment of the other contractors. It was calm, steady, and... almost kind? It caught me off guard. I didn't feel the gnawing hate I usually felt for them. With her, I felt something different—something close to happy, though I couldn't name it.

Her gaze sharpened, and whatever she was looking for, she seemed to find it. Her expression scrunched in mild frustration before she pulled a knife from her belt and called over the guard who had been speaking to me earlier.

"I need you to hold him still for me," she said, her voice steady but firm. "And open his mouth... Thank you."

I didn't understand what was happening, but the guard obeyed, his rough hands gripping my shoulders tightly as he pried my jaw open. I squirmed, my breaths coming fast and shallow, but there was no escaping the firm hold.

She held her palm over my mouth and drew the blade across it without hesitation. Dark red blood spilled from the cut, dripping into my mouth. The taste hit me immediately—a metallic tang that was strangely sweet, like honeyed tea. It coated my tongue, thick and warm, and I tried to turn my head away, but the guard held me firm.

"Swallow," she ordered, her bloody hand pressing against my mouth to force it shut. The warmth of her palm mingled with the sticky wetness of her blood, leaving me no choice but to obey. I swallowed, the thick liquid sliding down my throat.

With her hand still firmly over my mouth, she began to chant. It was different from the chants I'd heard from the others—simpler, quieter, but it resonated in a way that made the hairs on my arms stand on end. The words seemed to settle into my chest, vibrating like the low hum of a drumbeat.

The change was immediate. My vision cleared, sharpening with startling clarity. My shoulder, which had been mangled and throbbing, felt whole again. Every ache and pain I had collected in this trip and before melted away, leaving behind a strange sensation I couldn't place.

But as the pain left me, something else took its place. A weight pressed down on my thoughts, coiling in my mind like a serpent. It was anger, raw and unbridled. Malice, sharp and suffocating. It was disturbingly familiar—like the feeling that had guided me in the fight with the goblin. Only this time, it felt stronger, more insistent, and harder to ignore.

Along with the feeling in my mind, I became aware of something etching itself into my skin. It was subtle at first, like a faint burn or the slow crawl of an insect under the surface. I couldn't see it in the dim light, but I knew something was there—lines or patterns being carved into me, unseen yet undeniable. The sensation wasn't entirely painful, but it wasn't normal either. Whatever she had done to me, it had left a mark.