Fire still danced across the stone. It clung to broken beams and torn banners, licking upward as if seeking a god to consume. But Froy walked through it untouched.
His robes trailed soot. His shadow stretched long behind him. And when he lifted his hand—just once—the fire died.
No wind. No rain. Just a gesture.
And silence returned.
Smoke curled and drifted upward like incense in a dead temple. Froy stood at the center of what had once been his chamber—now hollowed by magic and marked by faith. His gaze turned skyward, though no sky could be seen here.
"The moon will be full in seven nights," he said, voice level. "Prepare."
His disciples listened, kneeling at the edges of the broken room, their eyes wide and bright with anticipation.
"Hunt," he continued. "Bring beasts. Or people. Either will suffice."
A breath.
"But do not get caught."
That final line was sharper than the rest. A command laced with warning. With consequence.
Then—without flourish, without invocation—Froy reached into the air itself.
And pulled.
Something shimmered in the stillness. Like light caught between mirrors. Then it appeared: the chalice.
Calix Nihilum.
A vessel made of glass that reflected nothing. A cup that swallowed light. It hung in the air for a heartbeat before settling into his hand.
The disciples bowed lower. Some whispered. A few wept.
Froy said nothing. He turned and walked—past the ruin, past the dying warmth of fire—until he reached the open air.
The sky above Branlow was dark. Clouds clung to the moon like reluctant secrets. Froy knelt once and drove his hand into the dirt.
The chalice floated beside him.
With a small blade, he drew blood—from himself first. Then from others. Quiet offerings from willing hands.
The blood painted symbols—ancient, primal, older than the Hollow itself. They glowed faintly. Not from magic, but memory.
Then he walked.
And with every step, he marked the city.
A ring of blood.A circle of consequence.A seal that watched even when eyes were closed.
And as he worked, others obeyed.
The disciples spread out, cloaked and silent. They stole through fields and forests, slipping between cottages and hunting posts, gathering what Froy required. Quietly. Ruthlessly.
They did not shout.They did not fight.They took what they needed and left nothing behind but absence.
Meanwhile, far from the Hollow, Madame Lys stirred.
She stood before a mirror darkened with dust, her eyes sunken, her breath short. She'd felt it—like a ripple through her spine.
Something old had awakened.
And it wasn't dead.
She gripped her artifact—a shard of violet glass bound in gold—and whispered a name not spoken in years.
A spell ignited.
Magic surged, hungry and brutal, drinking from her reserves like it had been starved. Her knees buckled, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.
She spoke again, and the world twisted.
A second later, she vanished.
Not dead. Not gone.
Just displaced.
Her mana burned to ash, her body hollowed. But she had done it—she had reached them.
The nearest church. The only one still strong enough to answer.
And they had heard her.
A week passed.
Branlow watched the sky with wary eyes. Farmers spoke of strange beasts vanishing. Fishermen whispered of missing boats. Merchants found half-full wagons returned with no drivers.
And in the center of it all, the blood circle remained—unnoticed.
But not inert.
It grew.
Fed.
And on the seventh night, the moon rose red.
High above the Hollow, it burned like an omen carved into the heavens.
The Blood Moon.
And with it, the Church came.
Hundreds of them.
Armored paladins with blades of sanctified silver. Priests bearing tomes and relics. Hunters with wards sewn into their skin.
They came not to warn.
They came to purge.
"The Child of Ash," they called him.
"The Devil-Born."
"The Boy Who Commands Fanatics."
They stormed the gates of Branlow with divine fury and holy law. The people screamed. Some ran. Some hid. Some fell to their knees, begging forgiveness for sins they hadn't committed.
But the disciples did not run.
They were waiting.
And the ritual had already begun.
The blood had sunk into the soil. The symbols had fused with stone. The chalice had filled itself—drop by drop—with what had been taken.
And Froy?
He stood atop the highest spire, eyes fixed on the moon.
He smiled, faintly.
Not out of joy.
But certainty.
They were too late.
And the gods they prayed to?
Were about to learn what it meant to be replaced.
The Blood Moon reached its zenith.
It hovered—bloated and luminous—like an eye carved into the sky. Its light wasn't silver now. It was bone-white. Harsh. Holy. Watching.
Froy stood motionless atop the spire, Calix Nihilum cradled in his small hands. The chalice pulsed—slowly, rhythmically—as if it, too, felt the weight of the hour.
He lifted it high.
"Cheers," he whispered.
"To you, Sethvyr."
His voice echoed—sharp and delicate—carried not by sound, but by conviction.
"I sacrifice."
The chalice glowed.
Not with light.
But with response.
The sky darkened further, not from clouds, but from something worse: a thin sheet of red mist, like breath exhaled from an open wound, began to spread. Slowly. Methodically.
It crept down from the heavens, bled from the chalice's edge like wine too thick to drink.
The mist thickened—choking, heavy, wet. Blood without body. Fog without mercy.
The city of Branlow gasped.
Then choked.
One by one, torches flickered out. Windows slammed shut. The air itself turned metallic—each breath a blade in the throat.
Soldiers fell to their knees, coughing crimson. Clerics clutched at their relics. Horses screamed and bolted into walls.
The blood mist had a will. It chose where to settle. Where to sink.
And it followed the circle.
The great ring of blood, drawn carefully over seven nights, glowed to life—lines of crimson etching themselves anew with unnatural precision.
Anyone within that ring—anyone still breathing inside Branlow—was already his.
It was too late.
They had all crossed the threshold before they knew there was one.
Froy's voice rang again.
Not loud. But final.
"Seal it."
The chalice flared.
And the world buckled.
Every living soul inside the blood ring—soldier, priest, thief, child, disciple—was torn from the earth. Not violently. Not with sound or scream.
They simply vanished.
Dragged—every cell, every thought, every scream—into something far older than death.
A dimension shaped from dread.
Boundless.
Soundless.
Endless.
Vorthmaereth.
The Dark Hell.
Where the gods had no voice, and light had never been born.
There, the garrison of holy blades would find no sanctuary.
There, they would learn what faith became when belief had no heaven to answer it.
Back on the spire, Froy lowered the chalice. The blood mist coiled down his arm like a lover's breath, then faded into his robes.
He didn't smile.
There was no joy in annihilation.
Only necessity.
The circle around Branlow sizzled, then faded. The streets were empty now. Not broken. Not scorched.
Just quiet.
As if no one had ever lived there at all.
Froy turned away from the moonlight, whispering only to the wind:
"Now let them pray."
They woke in darkness.
No flame. No torch. No moon.Just silence. Choking, absolute.
At first, the people of Branlow thought it a dream. A nightmare. Perhaps they'd died and this was the judgment. Perhaps the Blood Moon had burned out the sky.
But then the cold set in.And the prayers began.
Knees scraped against stone.Voices whispered names—of gods, of mothers, of children.
And in the center of it all, Froy sat unmoving. The chalice in his lap. His face blank. Listening.
Then the sound came.
Not a roar. Not a scream.
A hum.
Low. Wet. Like sinew being stretched over broken bone.
It grew louder. Louder still.
Until it drowned out every word of faith.
The people began to panic.
Doors slammed. Windows shut. Mothers shoved children into basements. Fathers grabbed rusted axes. Clerics lit useless wards. Soldiers drew blades that would never matter.
And still—
The humming rose.
Something moved in the dark.
Then something else.
Then hundreds.
They didn't walk. They didn't speak.
They slithered.
They clicked.
They scraped.
Monsters—if they could even be called that—crawled from the black. No eyes. No skin. Just pulsing meat stitched by limbs that bent the wrong way.
One dropped from the ceiling and landed on a knight. He screamed once before his ribs caved in like dry wood.
Another clawed its way up from the ground and tore the jaw off a priest before he could finish his ward.
And then—
The real screaming began.
A woman in a baker's apron shoved her own daughter aside to bolt through the alley.
"Move! MOVE! She's already dead—don't waste time!"
An old man grabbed a child by the neck, yanking him out of a hiding spot.
"Better you than me! Better you than me!"
A noble tried to climb the temple steps and shoved two farmers off the edge.
"You're all beneath me! I BUILT this town!"
They were torn apart in seconds. Not by claws—but by each other.
Trampling. Biting. Clawing toward the smallest promise of escape.
Someone screamed, "They're coming from the SKY—!"
And they were.
Things with wings made of bone and silk screeched overhead, swooping down to pluck people from streets like grain.
From the sewers—creatures made of teeth and tongues.
From the air—smoke-wolves with screams instead of eyes.
From the shadows—humanoid things with no mouths, only twitching hands.
And nothing worked.
Not fire.
Not faith.
Not pleas.
A cleric raised a holy staff and chanted until his voice cracked—only to be split in half by a beast that didn't even pause.
A mage unleashed a pillar of lightning—striking ten of them dead.
They got back up. Grinning. Wrongly.
The monsters could not be killed.Because they weren't alive.Not here.
Not in Vorthmaereth.
A woman curled beneath a broken cart, arms around her child. She whispered to him over and over:
"You first. Not me. You first. Not me."
She didn't notice when his head fell off in her arms.
A merchant clawed at the ground, bleeding from the ears.
"Please! Anyone! I'll give you gold! My house! My wife! TAKE HER INSTEAD!"
A knight dropped his sword and knelt before one of the creatures.
"I submit," he whispered. "I'll worship you. I'll praise you. Just let me stay."
The creature reached forward and patted his head.
Then peeled his face off.
Every man, woman, and child—every believer, liar, zealot, and coward—was laid bare.
In this place, there was no mercy.
There was no judgment.
Only truth.
And truth, here, was this:
They were not good people.
They were survivors.
They were opportunists.
They were human.
And that wasn't enough anymore.
Back in the center of the city, Froy finally stood.
He looked around him—at the blood, the gnashing teeth, the writhing limbs. At the chaos he had unleashed.
And he said, softly:
"Faith doesn't make you worthy."
"It just makes you loud."
Then he smiled.
And walked deeper into the dark.