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They say, when you hunt and kill prey, an offering must be made. An offering to the earth; of blood, water, and flesh. To wash away the scent of ash and death, to repay the hunter’s debt. And when it is time for the hunter to collect the cadaver and return home, they should enter from the highest window, to prevent the souls of the dead from haunting their dwelling.
At least, that’s what the legend says. Olrox had never been inclined to believe in such tales, dismissing them as trifles for children and the superstitious. And yet, as his gaze lingered on the fractured light spilling through the church’s stained glass, he felt the faint stirrings of doubt. What if those old legends held truths he could no longer see? What if, in his godless existence, he had overlooked some fleeting chance for redemption? These questions gnawed at the edges of his mind, a slow erosion of certainty that he couldn’t quite shake. And yet, in this moment, standing at the threshold of the church, he found himself hesitating.
It hadn’t been too long since Mizrak had died. Almost a week now, his body lying after Olrox gathered him in a remote church deep within the woods. The place was untouched by the chaos of the outside world, and Olrox had ensured it stayed that way—a sanctuary for this macabre ritual. Olrox stepped inside cautiously, the door creaking on its ancient hinges. The air was thick with incense and the cloying sweetness of white lilies and carnations, placed around the open coffin in a vain attempt to mask the scent of death. The smell was overpowering, making Olrox’s head swim. He preferred it, though, to the reek of decay that should have overtaken the body by now. Yet, Mizrak looked untouched by time, as though he were merely sleeping. The monk lay in his coffin, hands clasped over his chest, his face serene. The holy robes he wore seemed almost luminous in the dim candlelight, their purity mocking Olrox’s very presence. After starting the process of turning him, for three nights and three days, Olrox had kept vigil, whispering prayers in a language he hadn’t spoken in centuries. His voice carried the weight of forgotten gods, names once spoken in reverence but now hollow in his godless chest. "You who once demanded our hearts and our blood, do you hear me now? I offer you this, though I know it is tainted. I offer this soul, though I have cursed it."
He paused, staring at Mizrak’s motionless form. The words choked him, but he continued. "Keeper of the flames, have I defiled your warmth beyond repair? Have I turned love into ruin? If you still hear prayers from the damned, then listen: this man prayed to another god, one who would call me an abomination. Yet his prayers were pure, untainted by hunger or sin. Can you see it? Even in death, his purity lingers. Take it, if it pleases you. Take it before I destroy what little remains." He had prepared oil and chalk, fire and salt, every tool to ward off the darkness he had invited into this sacred place. But each night, Mizrak stirred.
On the first night, it was only a whisper. A single word, soft and chilling, that broke through the crackling of the flames. “Confess.”
Olrox had ignored it, tightening his grip on the carnations in his hands. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the fire, watching it flicker and consume the oil he’d fed it. Yet, guilt pressed against him like a vice. He had done this, to the man he had loved. He had condemned Mizrak to an existence as cursed and hollow as his own. Exactly like he had done in the past, selfishly, or as an act of unwanted kindness? The thought tore at him, but still, he said nothing.
On the second night, Mizrak’s whisper grew louder, his voice carrying through the hollow church like a hymn. “Confess.” The air grew colder, and Olrox could feel the presence of other beings, their unseen forms pressing against the edges of his vision. Demons, ghosts, tricksters, furies. The flames wavered but held strong, their light warding off the encroaching darkness. He had begun to sweat, though his kind had no need for such mortal responses. Fear, he realized, was universal. But it was not just fear that clawed at him; it was shame. He had taken a man of faith, a man who had once prayed to a God he truly believed in, and turned him into this. He had destroyed Mizrak’s humanity, and his connection to something higher. And for what? For love? For selfishness?
By the third night, the whispers had become a chant, a litany that filled the church with an otherworldly resonance. Mizrak’s voice, low and guttural, intertwined with the echo of unseen specters. "Confess," he intoned, his words weaving into the fabric of the darkened space. The shadows on the walls seemed to ripple, taking on grotesque forms that flickered just out of reach. Olrox clutched the edges of the pew, his knuckles pale. He could feel Mizrak’s presence, no longer confined to the coffin, as if the very air carried his essence. "You cannot run from this," Mizrak’s voice pressed, heavier now, almost sorrowful. "What you have done, Olrox, lingers in your blood, just as I now do." Confess. Confess. Confess. Mizrak’s eyes remained closed, his body motionless, but the power radiating from him was palpable. Olrox knew he could not endure another night, not without surrendering to the thing that loomed over him like a shadow. He felt the pull of his own guilt dragging him down, a tide he could not resist. He had loved Mizrak deeply, unexpectedly, but that love had become poison, corrupting them both.
When the oil ran out and the flames finally died, he was left in darkness. The beings from the underworld, the companions of Mizrak’s new existence, circled him, their laughter a low rumble that seemed to echo from the very stones of the church. They mocked him, taunted him, their whispers intertwining with Mizrak’s chant until they became indistinguishable. Olrox dropped to his knees, his voice breaking as he spoke words he hadn’t uttered in centuries. "Giver of life," the ancient verses spilling from his lips like blood from an old wound, "hear me, though I know I have forsaken you. This heart I offer is blackened with sin; this offering is tainted. I have stolen from the living, and in my selfishness, I have cursed the pure. If there is any mercy in your domain, let it be his and not mine. Let the storms wash him clean, let the earth swallow me." His voice cracked, but he continued, each word heavier than the last. "Keeper of the hearth, I beg you to shelter what remains of his soul. If there is any spark of the divine left in him, guard it from the darkness I have wrought." Olrox’s hands trembled as they pressed against the cold stone floor, his head bowed in reverence he no longer knew how to feel. "I am a shadow, I will never know forgiveness. But let him, in some way, find his peace." He spoke of his sins, of the blood he had spilled, of the life he had taken that had mattered more than any other. He confessed it all, his voice rising above the cacophony until silence fell. And through it all, Mizrak listened, unmoving, his face serene in death’s embrace. Olrox’s words were for him, and he knew it.
The earth trembled. The ground beneath the altar split in two, a jagged wound that swallowed the sacred stone. Shadows poured forth, swallowing the light and plunging the church into dusk. Mizrak’s body rose, levitating above the ruined coffin, his eyes snapping open to reveal an unholy glow. He looked down at Olrox, his lips curling into a smile that was both cruel and sorrowful.
“You’ve repaid the debt,” Mizrak said, his voice a symphony of life and death, of holiness and sin.
And yet, behind those words, Olrox could hear the bitterness, the anguish. Mizrak’s faith had been shattered, his soul bound to an existence he had once deemed an abomination. A chain, binding them both to an eternity of regret. Olrox rose shakily to his feet, his hand reaching out instinctively.
The altar disappeared into the chasm, and with it, Olrox’s betrayal, not only of the gods who once blessed him but of the very essence of faith and sanctity. He had abandoned the old deities of his people, spurning their truths, and now found himself mimicking rituals of a god he did not believe in. It was a desecration of every sacred bond: between man and god, love and sacrifice. His selfish love had poisoned everything it touched, leaving nothing pure in its wake. As the chasm swallowed the altar, Olrox’s mind swirled with conflict. The prayers he had spoken—those desperate, fractured invocations to gods long silent, rang hollow in his ears. And yet, some part of him had hoped for salvation, for Mizrak’s soul to be spared even if his own was damned. The church was no longer a place of worship but a realm of shadows, a gateway between the living and the dead. The stained glass windows, once depicting serene saints and martyrs, now refracted jagged shards of dim light that painted the walls in grotesque patterns, as if the divine had turned its gaze away.
Mizrak descended, his bare feet touching the cold stone floor, his movements slow and deliberate as if testing his new existence. He extended a hand to Olrox, his face unreadable—a mixture of sorrow, anger, and something softer, almost tender.
“Come,” Mizrak said. It was not a command but a plea, a call for understanding as much as action. “Our hunt begins.”