Erasmus stood in the broken chapel's center, straightening his long, silky hair with patient fingers. The strands shimmered in the grey-filtered light that managed to sneak through the fractured windows like a moonlit river. The golden beak-mask covering his face remained motionless, solemn—a symbol of serenity amidst ruin.
He was midway through adjusting his faint messy hair when a sudden rap-rap-rap echoed through the crooked door.
He stopped his hands.
Another knock. Urgent. Impatient. Small.
Erasmus opened the door.
Standing before him was the boy—face red from the cold, sweat trailing down the sides of his grimy cheeks despite the freezing wind, and breath hitching like a broken bellows. His chest rose and fell as though he had run with purpose through an ocean of frost.
"I've done it, Prophet!" he gasped. "I've told everyone!"
His voice cracked with pride, as if he'd just summoned a city with his voice alone.
Erasmus spoke with unshakable warmth, stepping forward slightly, hands gently clasped before him. "Well done," he said. "The Ascendant should be nearly done preparing the medicine for your mother."
The boy's face lit up instantly—eyes round with astonishment, lips quivering with restrained emotion. Again, tears welled up. Hope bled through his exhaustion.
Then Erasmus turned slightly, his gaze cast over the boy's shoulder.
"Oh," he said, tone lifting with faint holiness. "It looks like they're here. Go, go greet them. Bring them in."
The boy spun around and darted off like a disciple before a festival crowd, waving his arms and shouting with wild enthusiasm.
And there they came.
Twenty or so villagers—men and women in skeletal bodies, wrapped in the thinnest of rags, their feet bare and bruised by frost-bitten stone. Their limbs shook with hunger and age. Their hands were curled tight to their ribs, not out of defense, but habit. They coughed as they walked, hacking, wheezing—cloaked in sickness like a second skin. Their faces looked half-asleep, more ghost than living.
A wind passed through the broken street, rattling loose shutters and stirring the silence.
"Better be real," muttered one of the elders, hunched and leathery-faced. "Didn't wake up just to hear a scammer's voice."
"Can't trust nothin' these days," grumbled another.
"What do you mean?" said a third, dryly. "It's always been like this."
Still, they came.
The boy ran ahead, reaching the edge of the crowd. "Welcome, everyone!" he shouted, waving his arms. "The Prophet Blessed By Hope is here to lead the way!"
Erasmus stepped forward from the church door, golden mask gleaming faintly. His voice rang out, smooth as flowing water.
"That's right," he said. "We must show that we believe in Him."
One of the elders, eyes narrow with suspicion, barked out, "And how exactly are we supposed to do that?"
Erasmus raised his hands, palms open as if to offer the air itself. "It's simple," he said. "Come every day to this church. Pray, at any hour—He welcomes you always. Bring food as offerings. What little you have, given with sincerity, will be cherished. But we can discuss this later… first, let us enter."
The church's crooked door groaned again as Erasmus held it open. The crowd hesitated. Then one by one, drawn by a strange warmth, they stepped inside.
And as they entered, they paused.
The air within the church was clean. Not pure. But clean. The dust had been swept. The floor had shape again. The scent of decay had lessened. Though the cracks remained, something had shifted.
A murmur moved through the group.
"How in gods did he clean this?" asked one, amazed.
"He blessed it, surely," said another.
"It's a miracle," said a third.
One of the already-converted villagers dropped to their knees, hands raised. "This place… this place feels real!"
Erasmus, still standing near the entrance, placed a hand over his chest with an air of humble composure. "It was nothing," he said. "The Ascendant has granted this place His touch. A miracle, indeed."
They moved deeper into the small chapel, feet creaking against tired wood. The room filled quickly, wall to wall with bone-thin believers, their eyes newly ignited with something dangerous: hope.
A gaunt elder scratched at his throat, muttering words not quite prayer. The church's floorboards seemed to twitch beneath some footsteps, as if hiding a breath.
"Please, sit," Erasmus said, voice firm yet welcoming. "I am deeply grateful to all who have been enlightened. You will—"
"Enlightened?" a voice spat from the crowd.
Erasmus' words stalled.
An elder stepped forward, arms crossed and a grin souring his lips. "This already feels like a scam," he said. "I knew it. Should've listened to the others."
He looked at Erasmus through slitted eyes. "Hey, kid. You need us to show you what happens to bad kids who don't listen to grownups?"
And then it began.
As if his words were a trigger, five more elders stood in unison, their eyes suddenly full of manic light. They pulled stones from their coats—jagged, ragged—and with gnarled fingers, smashed the nearest wall.
The church groaned as pieces of it cracked away.
Shouting erupted.
Windows shattered. Stones flew. A woman screamed as glass sliced across her cheek. One of the elders tackled a man to the floor and bit into his neck. Another began laughing hysterically while chewing at raw fingers. A third smashed their skull against the altar until blood mixed with dust. Bodies fell—screaming, wailing, begging.
Then more came. Elders from behind the church door. Starving. Blood-starved. Feral.
They charged in, hurling stones, clawing at clothes. They fell on their own people and began devouring them. Hunger. Madness. Rage. Bones cracked beneath dirty fingers. Limbs twisted. Flesh tore.
Blood splashed across walls, pooled in the broken tiles, trickled down from shattered windows.
And yet, not a drop touched Erasmus.
The blood curved around him. Splattered beside him. Missed him entirely—as if the air itself refused to dirty the divine.
He stood still.
He did not flinch. He did not move.
He watched.
The boy—his eyes wide, his body frozen—began backing away. When no one looked, he ran.
And in the heart of the blood-drenched chapel, Erasmus simply watched the carnage unfold, a quiet observer in a sanctuary of madness. He only looked around, golden mask catching a flicker of muted light through a blood-smeared pane.
No expression.
No comment.
Only thought.
And the unspoken feeling of apathy.