The bells of Umuk's Great Cathedral rang like thunder split by shadow.
Not for ceremony.Not for worship.But for terror.
Stained-glass windows, once bathed in holy light, trembled under a presence no prayer could comprehend. Clerics scrambled, their robes fluttering like startled birds. Scribes threw books onto pyres, chanting fragments of scripture that offered no protection, only a brittle comfort. The gold chalices rattled. Sacred flames flickered as if holding their breath. Even the holy water rippled, cold as a tomb.
The silver-threaded boy had returned.
Not myth. Not rumor.
Judgment.
The cathedral stretched wide, vaulted ceilings soaring with angels carved in stone, wings outstretched in lies. Mormond's bare feet whispered over the cold marble. Fingers trailed along pews, brushing wood worn by generations of false piety. His silver hair shimmered like molten silver, and each step seemed to pulse in rhythm with the cathedral's terrified heartbeat.
Nini floated behind him, black corset dress flowing like oil on water. Her gaze was locked forward, unblinking. Every movement perfect, precise—a lethal elegance.
They were alone.
Or so it seemed.
Above the altar, Priestess Evanica stood, regal and tall, robes glowing with divine light. Her golden staff pulsed faintly, illuminating the trembling choir of robed children behind her, lips sealed, eyes downcast.
"You dare enter this house of purity?" she called, voice echoing through the vaulted chamber, trembling yet commanding.
Mormond smiled, a porcelain curve over teeth sharpened by hate and loss.
"Purity?" he whispered, stepping forward. "You used children like incense sticks. Lit them, watched them burn, prayed their pain would make you younger. Tell me, Priestess… does the scent of soul make your hair glow?"
For a fleeting moment, Evanica flinched.
Nini's hand twitched.
Threads spread, thin and elegant, invisible until light struck them just so—like spider silk shimmering in moonlight. They slithered toward the altar.
"I have repented," Evanica said, summoning a radiant barrier, hands shaking. "I pray every day—"
"You feast every day," Mormond snapped, his voice layered, echoing with a thousand children's whispers, a thousand souls. "You pray only when your lies grow teeth."
The cathedral responded.
Walls twisted. Pews bent backward, pinned by crimson threads. Holy statues cracked, bleeding red from stone eyes. Choir children rose—feet dangling as invisible strings pulled them like dolls. They began to sing, hollow and haunting. La… la… laaa…
Evanica screamed, releasing a wave of divine light. It burst through the chamber, erasing threads, burning them to ash. Nini was thrown backward into a pillar with a heavy thud. Mormond staggered slightly, smoke curling off his coat, but his smile widened, cruelly serene.
"A righteous flame," he muttered, brushing off ash. "How poetic. Shame it only burns the innocent."
He flicked his fingers. Behind Evanica, the children collapsed gently as the threads withdrew. Not a drop of blood touched them. Mormond's fury was precise. Her pain—not theirs—was the target.
Evanica's breathing was ragged. Her golden staff flared, calling upon the Divine Guardian of Light—the last bastion of her power.
"O Flame of Heaven, O Shield of Truth, descend unto me, Guardian Tifa—"
A blinding light fractured the dome, and from it descended Tifa. Wings of golden radiance unfolded like molten swords. Armor gleamed, blade pulsing with celestial wrath, her face shrouded in radiant mystery. She landed between Mormond and the altar, a wall of divine fury.
"You shall not defile this sanctuary again," she declared, voice metallic, unwavering.
Nini prepared to strike—but Mormond raised a hand. Calm, deliberate.
Then he laughed.
Not a madman's cackle. Not a child's giggle. A calculated melody, ancient and precise, echoing through every carved angel and painted ceiling.
"One day, my beloved Evanica," he whispered, bowing slightly, "you'll join my puppets. Not yet. But soon. For now… I'll play with your noble friends."
He turned, coat swirling like a dark curtain falling on a play.
"Until then… don't forget this atmosphere," he added, eyes cold yet amused. "How your bones chilled. How your cathedral trembled. How your guardian's embrace was the only thing keeping your soul inside your body."
As Tifa moved to pursue, threads snapped across the hall, and hundreds of puppets descended, spinning like ballerinas of the damned. Each carried a twisted echo of the nobles Mormond had claimed before. By the time the guardian's blade met them, Mormond had vanished—gone, yet leaving chaos behind.
Evanica collapsed to her knees, trembling.
Tifa knelt, wings folding like a protective shroud.
"I… almost died…" Evanica whispered, voice breaking. "His laugh… it's still inside my ears…"
Outside, on the church doors, a marionette of Evanica hung—lifeless, woven from straw and holy cloth, her mouth stitched into a cruel smile.
Threads of Reflection
Mormond perched atop a rooftop, silver hair flowing in the wind. Nini beside him, eyes glowing with devotion and deadly precision. He watched the cathedral burn with terror and awe, replaying the encounter in his mind.
She's not ready to break yet… but she will.
His strategy was meticulous. Not all games needed immediate completion. Fear and anticipation could be woven as finely as threads through a puppet's limbs. Patience was his sharpest weapon.
He turned his gaze toward the city, shadows bending subtly to his will. Thread by thread, the world became his stage.
The children of the choir were unharmed physically, yet their minds carried a shadowed echo. Not fear of death, but fear of Mormond. Each remembered the strings, the invisible control, the boy who walked like judgment incarnate. Some would never forget, some would grow to speak of him in whispers, and some… would dream of silver hair and a porcelain smile in their nightmares.
He did not harm them. Not yet. But their hearts carried the lesson: no one escapes a puppeteer's attention once the strings are set.
Across Umuk, nobles no longer slept. Every mansion had barred windows. Streets swarmed with guards. Yet, no wall, no scripture, no divine sigil could keep Mormond from his theater.
For the Puppeteer, no performance was left unfinished. Every string was a story, every corpse a prop, every shadow a chorus.
And tonight, the city learned a simple truth:
Even divinity could be orchestrated.
And Mormond… was the conductor.
🕸️TO BE CONTINUED🕸️