Born of sin

A story I have written for my dnd character. Eldric Throne.

"I surrender it all to be guided by Your will."

The psalms rolled through the church like a slow tide. Voices rose and fell, braided together until they became a fog that hung in the rafters. Outside, the town that had once felt safely hemmed by stone and bell now carried other sounds: distant shouting, the wet slap of boots, rumors of blood. Would God answer them? Would the hymns grow louder as everything else fell apart?
"Eldric."
The name was a thin thread that snagged him back from those terrible questions. He had been staring at his own hands -- knuckles white, nails bitten raw -- seeing imagined stains that weren't there. A sharp rap of wood on oak cut through his thoughts and left his ears ringing. He looked up.
Sister Agnes stood over him, pale and stern. Time had folded her face into a map of small battles -- worry lines at the corners of her eyes, a faint tremor at her mouth. Her habit was immaculate; her patience was not. "Eldric," she repeated, softer this time and deadly with long practice. "Do you hear me?"
He opened his mouth to answer, but before a word could form a ruler cracked sharply on the desk.
The sound of the ruler made something cold and animalistic roll under his ribs, like a rabbit running from its predator. He glanced at the next bench, at the other boys who sat like statues, then back at Sister Agnes. She leaned forward, the linen at her throat taut.
"If I have to speak to you again about daydreaming in my class," she said, voice sudden and dry as tinder, "so help me, Mother Mary, I will beat the sin out of you, boy." Her wrinkled face tightened; the skin around her eyes drew up and made her look as if she might crumble like old paper.
Eldric forced a smile that tasted like metal. Around them the psalms continued, a sanctified lullaby that did not reach him. He felt small not from the ruler or the threat, but from the weight of the unspoken question pressing at the back of his throat: if the world was bleeding, where did God's shelter end and human fear begin?
The door creaked open, and the hymns that once filled the chapel fell silent as if commanded by the air itself. A single beam of golden light spilled through the doorway, illuminating the man who stepped through it. His father, Father Michael, stood framed by the glow, holy and terrible all at once. His long, ivory robes cascaded to the ground, the fabric moving like smoke, like sins rolling off the body and pooling at his feet.
Father Michael had been a figure of reverence for decades, the sanctified face of the church. To the congregation, he was more than a man--he was divinity incarnate, the closest one could come to touching God.
Eldric dared to lift his head. Strands of blond hair fell into his eyes, half-hiding the tears beginning to spill from his ember-colored gaze. He had tried to build walls inside himself--thick, unshakable--but they never lasted. His father's presence always made them crumble into dust.
Each footstep echoed across the marble floor, sharp and deliberate, as if Father Michael knew that even the sound of his walking carried purpose.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
When he reached his son, he stopped. The silence between them was heavier than prayer.
"Lift your head, boy." His father's voice was low, gruff--each word a blade dragging through Eldric's thoughts.
Eldric flinched, his small hands tightening in his lap, his knees pressed together in the nervous habit he'd never been able to break. "Y-yes, Father." His voice trembled, soft and uncertain. He raised his head, though the effort burned in his throat.
"Why are you crying?" The question should have been gentle. It was not. It was heavy with anger, with disappointment so sharp it could carve into the soul.
"I... I don't know, Father," Eldric whispered, his words faltering as if they were afraid to exist. The air seemed to constrict around him; the chapel that had once felt sacred now felt suffocating. His breath hitched, and his tears fell faster.
A long sigh escaped Father Michael, deep and weary, followed by the slow rustle of fabric as he knelt--or rather, loomed--closer. The hem of his robes brushed against Eldric's shoes, the weight of holiness pressing down on him like judgment itself.
For a while, the only sound was the faint hum of the candles burning beside the altar. Then Father Michael began to speak--his words measured, his tone wrapped in the false warmth of piety.
He spoke of love. Of peace. Of salvation for the nation.
But every word felt like a sermon not meant for the world--only for Eldric. Each syllable carried an unspoken truth: that love, in his father's world, was something earned through obedience and silence.
And as Eldric sat there, hands trembling in his lap, he wondered if God ever wept the way he did.
Sunday went by quicker than it should have, as if time itself had sped up between his father's words. The sound of them still lingered, heavy and sharp in Eldric's chest. He walked the broken cobblestone path of their village, the uneven stones pressing against his worn boots. Beside him toddled his baby sister, Merlin.
Merlin was nine years younger than him--barely three--but already her eyes held an old kind of gentleness, the sort that didn't belong to a child. She was clever too, too clever, another small soul fated to be ground down by the weight of their family's silence. She clung to Eldric's side as if he were the only safe place left in the world.
Ahead, their mother led the six children away from the church and toward home. Their cottage crouched near the edge of the forest, so close that the shadows of the trees reached over its roof when the sun began to sink. The villagers whispered about that forest--about the old hags who lived there, about curses and children who vanished under the moonlight. Eldric didn't believe those stories, not exactly. Yet something about the woods called to him, a slow and patient whisper that tugged at the edges of his thoughts whenever he looked too long.
"Elk," came the small voice at his side. Merlin's mittened hand tugged at his coat. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her wool sweater puffed around her like armor.
"Yes, Mer?" he answered, glancing down.
"Father told me you cried today." She sniffled, her breath a cloud in the chill air. "It's otay. I cry too. Mommy doesn't like it."
She said it quietly, as if someone might hear her.
Eldric's hand tightened around hers. He wished he could tell her something comforting, something that would make her believe things would be all right--but the words curdled in his throat.
"I don't know what to tell you, Merlin," he whispered. "I can't say anything that would help. It's not for me to speak against them."
The truth of that hurt more than the cold.
He let go of her hand. She whimpered in protest, but he only shoved his own hands deep into his coat pockets. The wind brushed against his face, biting and sharp, filling his lungs with that same cold weight he felt whenever he thought of his father. Of his mother. Of all the things he wanted to say and never could.
By the time he lifted his head, he was already standing at their front door.
"Why aren't you coming in, dear?" his mother called from inside. Her voice was soft, but it trembled around the edges, like something fragile being held together.
He stepped inside. Warmth clung to the air, though it was thin and tired. His mother stood in the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up, the smell of dishwater and soap clouding the air. Eldric had heard his father call her "too independent," like it was a crime. He had seen the bruises too--the quiet evidence of her defiance.
Seeing her now, bent under invisible weight, made something coil tight in his chest. She was a shell of the woman he remembered from when he was small, her eyes dulled but still glinting with something that refused to die.
He hung up his coat and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Your father will be coming home soon," she said, not looking at him. The clatter of dishes filled the space between them.
"I see," Eldric replied, the words stiff in his mouth.
For a brief moment, he caught her gaze. There was sympathy there--understanding, maybe even apology--but it vanished the instant one of his younger siblings appeared, clutching a crumpled Sunday school paper and asking for help.
Eldric turned away, the ache in his chest growing heavier. Outside, the wind rattled the windows, whispering from the forest's edge.
Something was waiting there. Something that, for reasons he couldn't name, felt closer every day.
When his father came home that night, all seemed well.
Eldric had washed in the tin tub, then helped his five younger siblings with their nightly routines--scrubbing hands, faces, and brushing tangled hair until the house smelled faintly of soap and smoke from the wood stove.
Later, he sat on his bed, peering across the room toward his siblings' bunks. Beyond the frosted window lay the forest--dark, ancient, and forbidden. In his hand, an antique comb glimmered in the candlelight, a keepsake from his grandfather . He sighed, dragging it through his damp blond hair, legs tucked beneath him.
That's when the door creaked.
It opened slowly, the hinges whining in the still air. A shape stood in the hall--tall, wrong, its outline bending the shadows around it. Eldric froze, eyes wide, clutching the comb like a weapon.
"Son?" came a harsh voice from the dark.
He hesitated. "Dad...?" he whispered, but the word felt strange on his tongue. That thing wasn't his father. It was too tall, its arms hanging low enough to brush the doorframe. The gurgling that came from its throat was not human.
"You're not my dad..." he breathed, barely audible.
The thing gurgled again, and its hand--thin, pale, too long--rested against the frame as it leaned forward into the light.
"Why aren't you sleeping?"
The voice was his father's now. The monster flickered away, replaced by the man, and Eldric blinked hard, confusion crawling across his skin.
"Son, why aren't you sleeping?" his father repeated, stepping closer.
Eldric opened his mouth, but only a strangled sound came out. "I--I... Dad--" Tears welled up in his eyes.
His father snorted, a cruel sound. "What? You have a bad dream?" The stench of beer and cigarettes hit Eldric as the man staggered forward. Eldric stepped back until the edge of the bed caught his knees.
"You've always been such a--disobedient--child!" Each word slurred together, sharp with venom.
Eldric's vision wavered--the man and the monster blurring, switching places before his eyes.
"Dad, stop, no! No, he--"
"HE'LL WHAT, YOU LITTLE SHIT!" his father roared, his face contorting. He raised his hand and thrust it toward Eldric's face. "Do you see this? These hardworking hands--you'll never know--"
That gurgle again. The same wet, inhuman sound.
Eldric's body moved before his mind could stop it. He swung the comb with both hands, slamming the metal base into his father's temple.
A shriek of pain filled the room. His father stumbled, clutching his head. "GOD--DAMN IT!" he bellowed, his voice shaking the walls of the old house.
Eldric sobbed, a raw, panicked sound, and shoved past him. Then he ran.
Run, run, run.
Don't stop.
Please don't stop.
His bare feet pounded against the wooden floorboards, the echo of heavier, angrier steps following close behind. He burst through the front door; icy air slapped his face. Pain shot through his arm as the door cracked against the wall.
He turned back, sobbing, chest heaving. His father's silhouette filled the doorway, groaning, twisting, changing.
Eldric stood frozen. The shape in the door was his father--no, it wasn't. Something else wore his father's voice.
He turned and fled into the woods.
Branches clawed his face. The snow crunched beneath his feet, cold burning through the thin soles of his shoes. Every breath seared his lungs, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
Everything came to a stop.



The forest, once alive with whispers and wind, fell into a suffocating silence. Eldric stood still, his chest heaving, each breath scraping against his ribs like broken glass. His eyes were red and swollen, bloodshot from the screaming and crying that had torn his throat raw.



A faint giggle drifted through the trees--soft at first, then carried by the wind like a cruel echo.



He spun around, heart pounding, his breath clouding the air. "Oh... Mommy," he whimpered, pressing his trembling hand to his face. "I want my mommy..." The words cracked as they left him.



He stumbled forward, trudging through the snow. The icy crust broke beneath his bare feet, numbing him from the toes up. Sweat and snow mingled on his skin, burning him with frostbite's cruel fire. His teeth chattered uncontrollably as he wrapped his arms around himself, trying in vain to hold warmth--or hope.



What was that thing?
Was it my dad?
Was it something from the forest?



The thoughts tangled in his head, each one colder than the last. He couldn't make sense of what he'd seen--the way his father had changed, the way that gurgling voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. He had seen strange things before, but never like that. Never something that stared back.



He wandered until the world stopped making sense. Hours, minutes, days--it all blurred together. The moon hung in different places each time he blinked.



Finally, he reached what felt like a dead end: a wall of ancient trees, towering and twisted, their branches clawing at the sky. The wind shifted, and the forest began to move. The branches swayed, not with the breeze, but with intent. They reached toward him, thin and grasping, as whispers began to rise from the dark.



At first, it was a soft murmur. Then came the chanting--low, rhythmic, inhuman. The voices coiled around his ears, hissing his name between the moans and groans of the wind.



"God--oh, God!" he cried, covering his ears. The sound grew unbearable. He stumbled backward, tripping over roots and fallen sticks. His hand landed on something sharp--he yelped as a splinter of wood tore through his palm. Blood welled, bright against the snow.



The forest fell silent again.



Then came the crunch.



Heavy footsteps--slow, deliberate--pressing through the leaves and sticks nearby. Eldric's sobs hitched in his throat. He tried to stand, but something pressed him back down. An invisible weight pinned his chest.



"Youuuu... bled the blood of sin..."



The voice was not human. It crawled into his ear and wrapped around his mind. He whipped his head around, desperate to find its source, and then froze.



The trees were changing.



Before his eyes, the bark began to twist and stretch, grooves deepening into shapes--eyes, a nose, a mouth. The branches curled downward like fingers. The forest itself was forming a face--massive, hollow-eyed, and hungry.



Eldric couldn't breathe. His mind screamed to run, but his body stayed still, transfixed by a sick fascination. It was horrible... yet somehow mesmerizing. The face was not made of bark and leaves anymore--it pulsed, alive, its texture shifting like skin stretched too tight.



This was what his father had warned him about--the demons in the woods, the spirits that tempted weak men to madness.



He gasped, wheezing, panic clawing at his throat. His fingers scrambled at his chest, searching for the small silver cross he always wore. His father had said it would protect him. He tugged at his shirt--nothing. Just the emptiness of his bare skin.



Then, through the swirl of snow, he saw it.



A faint glint in the white. The cross.



It lay only a few feet away, half-buried.



He lunged for it, throwing himself to the ground. But as his fingertips brushed the metal--



--it began to sink.



Slowly, impossibly, the cross slid deeper into the snow, vanishing into the earth like it was being swallowed.



"NO!" he screamed, his voice cracking through the silent forest. He clawed at the snow, tearing at the frozen dirt beneath it, his bleeding fingers scrabbling for the vanishing light of the cross.



But the ground pulsed once, shuddered--and went still.



The forest was watching him now.



--
Chapter 2
The forest listens.






Lying there in the wet, frozen snow, Eldric no longer felt the sting of cold. His tears had long since dried, leaving thin salt trails on his cheeks. He stared blankly up at the night sky -- a dark, endless canvas scattered with distant, indifferent stars. His throat ached, dry and tight, as if the cold had stolen his voice along with his warmth.
Slowly, he raised one trembling hand, tracing his numb fingers along the pale skin of his face. His breath came out in slow, ghostly wisps, fogging the air around him. The world seemed to exhale with him -- quiet, heavy, waiting.
Above, the branches hung like crooked arms, closing in around him. He didn't move. He didn't fight. Somewhere deep inside, he had stopped believing there was a way out.
So he let the forest take him.
The vines crept closer, brushing his arms and legs with an almost tender touch. Then they wrapped around him -- softly, carefully -- as if tucking a child into bed. The chill of the snow gave way to a strange, spreading warmth. His body relaxed against the earth as the branches tightened their embrace.
The air grew thick. His breath hitched once, then was stolen from him.
And still, he didn't struggle.
He curled into himself, small and trembling, surrounded by the forest's cold affection. His eyelids fluttered shut, the world fading into soft black.
Then --
"Oh, Eldric..."
The voice was gentle, achingly familiar.
His eyes opened. He was home.
He blinked rapidly, disoriented, as the warmth returned. The smell of pine resin and incense filled his lungs -- that comforting blend that always clung to his mother's clothes.
"How--" he started, voice hoarse.
"Shh."
Her hand touched his forehead, cool and soft, and for a moment it felt real. The light in the room flickered from the hearth, casting soft gold on her kind face.
He stared up at her, tears brimming again. "Ma... Ma, it's so cold," he whispered.
"I know it is, my sweet boy," she said softly, brushing a strand of damp hair from his eyes. "But you're strong. Just like your grandfather."
The mention of his grandfather made his heart stutter. He could still see him -- broad-shouldered, gentle-eyed, the priest-warrior who led the men of BornBloom against the Glowkin army.
Eldric had been only four then. He remembered being held in his mother's arms as the sounds of gunfire cracked through the air. His grandfather's voice shouting prayers above the chaos. Then -- the gunshot. The way his grandfather's body fell. The bright red that painted the ground. The same red that had stained the snow of the forest tonight.
He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking. The memory burned too brightly.
"Eldric?" His mother's voice drifted through the haze.
"Grandpa," he murmured.
She smiled faintly, her tone softening. "He's so proud of you, my darling boy..."
Her voice began to fade, stretching out like smoke.
"Ma?" he whispered, fear creeping in again.
No response.
He blinked -- and the warmth was gone.
The firelight vanished. The air turned sharp and biting. The scent of pine and incense dissolved into the cold, metallic tang of snow.
Eldric gasped, sitting up with a jolt. The forest was back -- vast, dark, and silent. His mother was gone. The branches that had held him now hung still above him, bare and indifferent.
He looked down. His clothes were gone, stripped from him as if the forest had claimed them. His skin burned from the cold. He tried to call out, but no sound came.
Nothing.
He reached to his throat. His fingers brushed over raw skin -- where his voice should have been.
He opened his mouth again, but only a faint wheeze escaped. Panic flared in his chest. Tears filled his eyes. He pressed a hand to his neck, his lips forming silent cries.
Nothing. Nothing.
The forest watched.
And for the first time, truly, Eldric understood that it wasn't just the cold that had stolen his voice -- something deeper, older, had taken it from him.
He forced himself to stand. His legs trembled beneath him, weak and half-numb, but he refused to fall again. Gripping a long, crooked stick he'd found nearby, he leaned on it for balance and exhaled a small, ragged huff.
Each step through the forest was agony. The world around him was nothing but trees -- endless, skeletal trees stretching high into the gray sky. No birds, no rustle of leaves, no signs of life at all. Just wood and silence. When he dared to close his eyes for even a moment, he could swear the branches reached for him, eager to drag him down into their cold, wooden depths.
His throat felt shredded -- as though thorns had taken root inside it. Every breath was a rasp. Tears stung his face, freezing into thin crystals against his skin. The cold gnawed at his lungs, pulling the air from him, drying him out until even breathing hurt.
He wanted his mother.
He wanted his father.
Merlin. His siblings. The laughter around the dinner table. The warmth of the fire.
All the things he had taken for granted -- his home, his family, the simple safety of being loved -- felt like dreams now. Distant, fading things.
He slumped against a tree, the bark biting into his back. His vision blurred. The world tilted. He couldn't keep going anymore. Slowly, he slid down until he was sitting in the snow, the stick limp in his hand. His head drooped, breath coming out in slow, ragged clouds.
The snow gathered on his lashes. His once-platinum hair -- tangled and dirt-streaked -- clung to his face. The cold wrapped around him like a shroud, and for a long time, he didn't move.
Then something shifted.
He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there when the feeling came -- a strange, soft pull in his chest. Open your eyes, something whispered, though no voice reached his ears. His lids felt heavy, glued shut, but he forced them open.
And there it was.
A house.
Just beyond the trees, standing silent and still, as if it had always been there. He blinked in disbelief. He hadn't seen it before -- he was sure of that. Yet now, through the drifting snow, it was clear as daylight.
A faint, golden glow traced its edges.
Eldric staggered to his feet, clutching his stick for balance. His heart pounded as he shuffled forward. The closer he got, the stranger it seemed -- its walls were too smooth, its roof too clean, untouched by time or weather.
He peered through one of the windows. Darkness. No movement. No reflection. It looked abandoned -- a relic from before the war, perhaps.
He sighed, his breath fogging the glass, and reached for the handle. The moment his fingers touched it, the house came alive.
Light flooded the windows. The chill around him lifted as warmth poured from the cracks in the door. Eldric stumbled back, wide-eyed.
"Woah," his voice still silent in his throat -- the sound barely existing in his mind.
Slowly, he opened the door.
The inside was nothing like he expected. Gone was the abandoned ruin -- in its place stood a cozy little home, warm and golden, like something from his childhood. Fire crackled softly in the hearth. A thick robe lay draped across the back of a couch. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and pine.
He hesitated only a moment before stepping inside. Setting down his stick, he wrapped himself in the robe -- soft, warm, almost too warm, something similar he had on when he had went to church- and sank onto the couch. The cushions seemed to mold around him, urging him to rest.
"I didn't know what your size was, dear."
The voice came from the kitchen. Smooth. Gentle. Almost musical.
Eldric froze. He didn't have the strength to react, only the faint lift of an eyebrow and a shaky exhale from his nose. His fingers dug into the robe as he curled his legs up on the couch -- small, defensive, like the timid boy everyone once teased at Sunday school.
"Are you tired, huh?" the voice asked again.
Eldric nodded weakly. A tear slipped down his cheek. He pointed to his mouth, then his throat.
A soft giggle answered him. "Oh, yes. I know..."
That made him pause. His head lifted slightly. He hadn't told them anything -- and yet they knew.
Before he could react, the figure appeared before him, stepping out from the kitchen shadows. They held a steaming cup of tea in their delicate hands.
"It's a special blend," they said, smiling. "Don't worry."
Eldric stared.
The person was beautiful. Almost too beautiful. Long black hair fell in waves past their shoulders, catching the firelight. Their features were smooth, symmetrical -- a little too perfect. Their smile was kind, but something about it didn't sit right. It was the kind of smile that never reached the eyes.
Still, he took the cup with trembling hands. The warmth seeped through his fingers, up his arms, down into his frozen bones. He sipped carefully.
The taste was strange -- sweet and earthy, with a faint metallic tang. But as it slid down his throat, the pain began to fade. The fire inside him quieted.
He sighed and leaned back, curling into himself again. The warmth of the cabin wrapped around him, thick and soft, almost like the branches had before.
"Don't," the figure said softly. "Don't speak. Just... let it work."
Eldric nodded weakly, closing his eyes.
For the first time in what felt like forever, the pain ebbed away. The cold, the fear, the confusion -- all of it slipped from him, dissolving into the golden hum of the cabin's warmth.
Somewhere behind his eyelids, a shadow moved.
And the sweet, comforting smell of the tea began to change -- faintly metallic, like rust and old blood.
But by then, Eldric was already drifting off.



When he woke, Eldric felt... warm.
For a blissful moment, he thought it had all been a dream -- the forest, the monster, the cold. His body was wrapped in softness; a golden light pressed gently against his eyelids.
Then he opened his eyes.
The warmth vanished like smoke. The cabin was different -- dead. The walls were gray, cracked, and covered in black mold that crawled up toward the ceiling like veins. The fire was gone. The air stank of rot and stagnant water.
He blinked, disoriented. Beneath him, the couch made a strange crunch. He frowned, shifting slightly, and reached down -- his fingers sank into something wet. When he pulled his hand back, strings of dark, viscous slime stretched between his fingers.
A gag tore through his throat. He stumbled to his feet, clutching his hand against his chest, his stomach lurching. The couch was no longer plush and golden -- it was green and decayed, its cushions split open and full of black sludge, dead insects, and bones. Tiny larvae squirmed where his head had rested.
He turned away, retching, bile rising up his throat. His chest heaved as he pressed a trembling hand over his mouth, forcing himself to breathe through his nose. The air was thick and sweet, like old fruit left too long in the sun.
He stumbled toward the kitchen. The floorboards groaned under his feet. And then -- he heard it.
Chanting.
Low. Rhythmic. Familiar. The kind of deep, droning sound he'd heard in church on winter mornings, when the priests whispered prayers for the dead.
The hairs on his arms stood straight.
The sound came from a door at the end of the kitchen, slightly ajar. He hesitated, staring. The chanting stopped.
Silence.
He took a shaky step forward. Something crunched under his boot -- he looked down. The half-decayed body of a rat. Another step -- a pale shape, small and limp. An arm. He froze. It was too big to be an animal's.
His throat tightened.
He pressed on.
The closer he got, the stranger the air felt -- thick, warm, like breathing through cloth. He placed his hand on the doorknob. The wood beneath his palm seemed to shift. It pulsed faintly, soft and slick like skin.
Eldric gagged and jerked his hand back. The stench coming from the crack in the door was unbearable -- rot, smoke, and something metallic. Still, trembling, he pushed it open.
The room beyond was lit by a single candle. Its flame flickered in the dark, casting long shadows that danced and warped across the walls.
"Hello?"
The word came out hoarse, instinctive -- and then he froze. His voice. It had returned. For a moment, joy burst in his chest -- he almost laughed. Almost.
But then something moved in the shadows.
"Eldric..."
He stiffened. That voice -- smooth, sing-song, and horribly familiar.
"Eldric Throne," it whispered again.
He spun toward the sound -- and his stomach dropped.
The figure from before stood before him. Or what was left of them. Their once-beautiful face sagged, gray and bloated. Their eyes were sunken, oozing. Teeth, black and cracked, jutted from bleeding gums. Strings of rot hung from their lips. Maggots writhed through their long black hair.
"Wh-who are you?!" Eldric shouted, stumbling back, hand raised.
"Don't be..." The thing coughed wetly, spitting up something dark. "RASH!"
The word came out like a scream, rattling the candle's flame. "I helped you," it snarled, its voice rising in pitch and distortion. "I helped you -- and this is what you do to me?"
It lunged forward, grabbing for his wrist with a bloated hand. Its touch was ice-cold and wet. Eldric shrieked and struck out, smacking the hand away. The creature recoiled, face twisting. Its mouth stretched too far, the edges tearing as it formed a deep, terrible frown.
"I helped you," it hissed, voice trembling with something between sorrow and rage.
"No... you didn't." Eldric's voice shook.
A sound filled the air -- a low, vibrating giggle. The thing straightened, its head twitching. The folds of its filthy robes rustled like dry leaves. The ground itself seemed to hum beneath her feet.
"Oh, but yes I did," it purred. "You offered yourself to me, and I took."
Eldric flinched. His stomach turned. "What does that mean?"
The creature's grin widened, splitting the skin of its cheeks. It leaned in close, its breath cold against his ear.
"You are my pawn now, Eldric," it whispered, the words sliding into him like a knife. "You are young. Full of life. You came to me -- willingly. I took what I wanted... what I needed."
He covered his ears, shaking his head. "No--no--stop!"
"I can help you go home," it hissed, its voice melting into something almost human again. "One condition."
Eldric froze. His heart hammered in his chest. Home.
He didn't even know how long he had been in the forest anymore. Time didn't feel real. The thought of seeing his mother, his siblings -- even his father -- made his breath catch in his throat.
"What... what condition?" he whispered.
The creature grinned. "You'll see."
And then it was gone.
The candle snuffed out. The rot, the room, the walls -- all of it dissolved in an instant.
Eldric blinked, blinded by sudden daylight. He stumbled backward, squinting.
He was at the edge of the forest.
The robe still wrapped around him, the stick still clutched in his trembling hand. Behind him, the trees swayed softly, whispering in the wind.
For a moment, he thought he heard laughter -- faint and distant.
And then, nothing.
He looked down at the grass now peeking through the soil. The snow was gone--melted away into thin, silvery puddles that shimmered like mirrors under the pale light. He didn't know how long it had been since he entered the forest. Days? Weeks? Time felt broken, like the forest had swallowed it whole.
He crouched low, studying the damp ground. Then something caught his eye--a faint glimmer beneath a mat of wet leaves. His breath hitched as he brushed the dirt aside. It was his grandfather's comb. The same one. The one that had struck his father that night.
His legs trembled as he stumbled forward, barely holding himself upright before collapsing to his knees. The earth gave way beneath him, soaking his clothes, but he didn't care. He reached out, fingers shaking, and grasped the comb. Cold metal met his palm, and he pressed it to his chest as if it might anchor him to something real.
For a long moment, he stayed like that--silent, trembling--his lips moving in broken whispers. It was almost as if the comb were whispering back, its voice curling softly in his ear, too faint to understand. A choked sob escaped him, swallowed by the wet air.
When he finally rose, mud clung to his knees and streaked his hands. The chill was fading, replaced by a strange warmth. The air smelled sweet--grass, earth, sunlight. He couldn't tell what season it was anymore, but it felt like summer.
He squinted against the brightness as he drew closer to the house. The sun beat down on him just like he remembered. It was whole again--no mold, no rot. The windows gleamed. Then, laughter--a high, tinkling sound that made his heart seize.
Merlin.
She was there, twirling in the yard in her white dress, sunlight catching in her golden curls as she spun her doll around in circles.
"Elk!" she giggled, her voice carrying through the warm air. "Elk, look! You missed the parade! Father gave the best speech--oh, we've missed you so much!"
He tried to speak but only a strangled sob came out. When she ran to him, he caught her in his arms, holding her close. She smelled of lilacs and sunlight, her laughter vibrating against his chest. He didn't want to let go. He didn't want to tell her what he'd seen--what he'd become. He just breathed her in, trembling, while the warmth of her body warred with the cold still buried deep in his bones.
She soon wriggled free, humming as she returned to her dolls, her laughter dancing through the air again. He watched her, his heart aching with both joy and dread.
Then his gaze drifted to the back door--the one still hanging slightly crooked, hinges bent from the night he had burst through it. A shiver crawled up his spine. The scene was too perfect. Too familiar.
And for the first time, he wondered if he had ever truly left that night at all.



He went toward the door and opened it.
Everything was exactly as it had been the night before.
"Elk?" Merlin's voice echoed faintly -- or maybe it was just the wind brushing through the cracks in the old walls. His heart leapt, hope flooding through him, but when he turned, she wasn't there.
He drew in a shaky breath and opened the door wider. The air smelled of soap and pine -- faint, almost ghostly. Pots and pans still sat in the sink, coated in half-dried suds, just as his mother had left them the previous night.
He exhaled, shoulders relaxing slightly. Everything was still in place -- like the house itself had been waiting for him, frozen mid-scene. A stage set for a play he had long forgotten he was in.
His foot creaked against the old hardwood. He brushed his hand along the wall, feeling the rough texture of the peeling wallpaper beneath his fingertips, tracing the cracks that spread like veins across its faded surface.
The robe he'd hung up the night before still hung by the door. A soft shiver ran through him -- his feet, still dusted with snow, left small, wet prints on the floorboards.
"Ma? I'm home!" he called, voice echoing into the hollow quiet.
Silence answered him.
That silence wasn't empty though -- it felt heavy, like the air itself was holding its breath. Something was there. Not just the memory of his family, but something else -- the same low, unseen weight he'd felt in the witch's house before.
Eldric swallowed hard, his throat dry. He glanced toward the door beside the living room -- his father's study. His heart thudded painfully.
Father never let anyone in there. Not his wife, not the younger children -- only Eldric, and his older brother when he was still home. Inside were church documents, old scrolls, relics -- sacred things his father handled with reverence.
But as Eldric reached for the handle, a strange smell hit him. Not the faint scent of parchment and incense that usually lingered there. No, this was... wrong.
Sweet. Rotten. Metallic.
His stomach turned.
The handle was cold under his fingers. The door creaked open with a long, groaning sigh.
And there they were.
His family.
Seated around the table.
At first, he thought -- hoped -- they were asleep. His mother sat with Merlin in her lap, her arms frozen mid-embrace. His father slumped back in his chair, head tilted, mouth slightly open as though mid-prayer. His brothers and sisters sat beside them, small, still silhouettes against the pale light filtering through the window.
But then the smell hit harder -- thick, choking. And the color of their skin...
No. No, no--
"Mom?" Eldric whispered, voice trembling. He took a hesitant step forward.
There were no signs of struggle. No wounds. No bruises. Just the stillness of statues. The air around them was brittle and cold, unmoving.
He reached out -- trembling -- and laid a hand on his mother's shoulder. Her skin was hard beneath his touch, icy and unyielding.
The body shifted.
With a dry crack, she toppled backward, striking the floor. Eldric gasped, stumbling back, his heart lurching up his throat.
Her eyes--
He choked back a scream. Her eyes were gone, replaced by flowers -- white lilies, wilted and damp with frost, pushing out from the sockets like grotesque blossoms.
"God--" he gagged, clapping a hand over his mouth as bile surged in his throat. His stomach twisted violently.
His gaze darted to the others. The same. Every one of them -- flowers where their eyes should have been. His father's mouth was open, and soil spilled from between his teeth, crumbling down his chin like ash.
Eldric's vision blurred. His knees gave way, and he sank to the floor, shaking violently.
He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. Only a soft, broken sob.
The air seemed to hum, the faintest vibration, like a whisper curling through the walls.
"Home," a voice breathed -- soft, sweet, familiar.
He looked up sharply, eyes wide and wet. The room was still.
But the flowers in his mother's eyes... they seemed to move.
Petals twitching.
Turning.
Toward him.
With a shaky hand, he had reached over to where his father had sat slowly pushing the chair away to look what he was looking at
The lines on the page was written
"Conditions still apply even when you leave."
The words were scrawled across the wall in thick, black ink -- crooked and dripping, like they'd been clawed onto the surface instead of written.
Eldric stared at it, frozen. His throat tightened. The letters seemed to move when he blinked, twisting and smearing together, breathing like the words themselves were alive.
He choked -- a dry, hollow sound that tore from the back of his throat -- and stumbled to the side. His stomach turned violently, and he dropped to his knees, hurling. But nothing came up -- only bile, only air. Still, he retched again and again, until his whole body shook, until tears spilled down his dirt-streaked face.
He grabbed at the cloak as he tried to yank it off of him, the one thing that had brung him comfort through the awful events was now the one that had cursed him. He tugged harder. It wouldn't come off. The more he pulled, the tighter it seemed to cling, the material almost breathing against his skin, like it didn't want to let him go.
A broken whine slipped from his throat. He stared down at himself -- the robe pulsing faintly, almost in rhythm with his heart. He didn't move. He just... stared. His pupils were blown wide, his chest heaving as he fought for air that didn't seem to fill his lungs.
After what felt like an eternity, he wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and stumbled toward the table -- toward his family.
He crouched beside his mother and gently lifted her stiff, icy hand. The flesh cracked faintly at the movement. He pressed it against his forehead, eyes fluttering shut as the cold seeped into his skin.
"Mama..." he whispered, voice breaking.
Nothing. The hand stayed cold. Still.
He swallowed hard, his throat aching, and his gaze drifted to the small, silver cross at her neck. His trembling fingers unclasped it and held it tight, the edges digging into his palm until blood welled up around it.
He rose to his feet, the necklace dangling from his fingers, and looked around the room.
He should have felt sorrow. Regret. Horror.
But what crept up instead was something far worse.
A smile.
A slow, wrong smile that tugged at his lips, unfamiliar and cruel. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, but it didn't fade. It only grew.
He laughed -- softly at first, a sound that didn't belong to him.
"I killed them," he whispered, voice trembling between awe and despair. "I did this."
His reflection in the window watched him -- smiling wider than he was.
Then his mind snapped.
He slapped himself, the sound sharp against the stillness. "What are you doing-- you sick fuck!" he hissed, his voice breaking into a sob. He shook his head violently, digging his nails into his scalp as if trying to rip the madness out. "You love them-- you love them!"
But the laughter came anyway.
Low at first. Then rising.
It crawled up his throat, a raw, gurgling sound that bubbled into a manic, horrible laugh.
Eldric fell to his knees, clutching his face, his nails tearing at his skin. Blood streaked down his cheeks as the laughter and sobs tangled together, an unholy noise that filled the room.
The flowers in his mother's eyes quivered.
Their petals trembled as if in response to his laughter -- like the house itself was joining in.
And from somewhere behind him, through the hollow of the doorway, came a voice -- the same soft, lilting tone that had soothed him in the witch's house:
"Told you, little lamb... conditions still apply."



Chapter 3
Eldric never imagined he would end up standing alone in a cemetery.
The fog hung low that morning, rolling across the gravestones like a living thing, curling around his boots as if trying to pull him back toward the earth. His hands sat still in his coat pockets, fingers brushing the worn metal of the cross that never seemed to warm. A cigarette hung low between his lips, the smoke curling in front of his face and vanishing into the gray air.



It had been years--long, hollow years--since his family died.



He had grown older. The baby-faced boy who once trembled in the cold snow was gone, replaced by a man with tired eyes and calloused hands. Wiser, yes--but not softer. The world had hardened him in the quietest, cruelest ways. He'd learned how to survive, how to fight, how to pray even when it felt like no one was listening.



The cigarette slipped from his mouth and fell into the grass. For a moment, it burned bright, then faded, leaving a small black scar in the earth.



Before him stood the grave.



Emelia Throne.



The name carved deep into the stone, now half-swallowed by moss and age. The flowers he'd left weeks ago had wilted into brittle husks, their petals scattered and browned. Vines crept along the edges of the grave like greedy fingers reclaiming what was theirs.



Few from the village ever came here anymore. They whispered, of course--they always whispered. About the Throne family, about the house that no one dared to buy, about the boy who walked away from it all and returned with eyes that no longer looked the same. They said the woods had changed him, that something had followed him out.



Eldric didn't blame them for their fear.



He stood there quietly, the wind tugging at his coat. His breath came out in pale clouds.



He had told himself he came only to say goodbye--but a part of him, a part that he hated, still waited. Still hoped. For the soft sound of her voice in the breeze. For the faint scent of pine and incense. For the cold, familiar touch of his mother's hands wrapping around him again in that long-lost embrace.
Ten years.
And still he waited.
He crouched down, plucking one of the wilted flowers from her grave. The stem snapped easily in his fingers. Its petals, brittle and gray, fell apart as he lifted it. He watched them drift down into the grass, scattered like the ashes of everything he once loved.
A quiet sigh escaped him.
He adjusted the worn sack slung across his back and pulled the hood of his coat up over his head. The road ahead was long, but the city was waiting--and with it, the chance to start again.
Inside the sack were the few things he had left of his family: his father's prayer books, a handful of sermons scrawled in shaky ink, and the tattered journals that once belonged to his grandfather--the priest who fought for BornBloom, who died for faith and family.
Eldric's fingers brushed against the edge of one of those old books through the canvas. For the first time in a long while, a flicker of something passed over his face. Not hope exactly, but purpose.
He was going to carry their legacy. Finish what his grandfather had started. Restore the promise his father had broken.
And maybe, in doing so, quiet the voice that still sometimes whispered his name in the dark.
He turned away from the grave, the cigarette smoke still hanging faintly in the fog.
As he took his first step toward the dirt road beyond the cemetery, the wind rose behind him--soft at first, then stronger, curling through the vines and dead flowers.
If he had looked back, he might have seen it: a single petal, pale and alive, blooming fresh on his mother's grave.