'Something is wearing his skin.'
That was the only explanation.
Something—someone—had taken him.
Possession. Infiltration. Soul-binding.
There were names for these things in the deeper tongues. Words spoken only by those tasked with cleaning up what others refused to acknowledge. In the darker wings of Dominion archives, Erin had read the records herself—pages bound in silence, entries sealed under oaths older than the current Seat Holders.
This world was vast. Complicated. Woven from threads that few ever truly saw. Most lived their lives believing the soul was inviolate. Permanent. Singular.
They were wrong.
She had seen enough to know that identity was not immutable.
And this... this had precedence.
There were multiple types of occupations, each with its own horror.
In some cases, the host's soul was consumed—burned away, scattered through the ether, leaving behind only a shell. A corpse with motion, animated by something other.
