Chapter four: The Miracle Lie, The Priest's Warning
Sunlight, pale and cool, crept into the marriage chamber of Urca and Kelna. Urca, wearing the face and stillness of the man he had usurped, stood by the window, gazing out at the vast, uncaring estate. He didn't feel peace; he felt only the gnawing hunger of the Totem deep within his soul, a constant, low thrumming that demanded action.
Kelna stirred, blinking away sleep. She looked over at him, her face softer, no longer ravaged by the tears of the previous night. A small, genuine smile touched her lips, a look of quiet, satisfied devotion. "Good morning, Urca. Are you watching the sun rise?", she said in a cheerful but weak voice.
He turned, his face settling perfectly into a look of tender concern. He approached the bed. "Good morning, my wife." He greeted in a low tone and bent down, intending to simply lift her, to spare her the effort of navigating the morning. "Come, let me carry you."
He reached for her, but Kelna, moving with an instinctive grace she hadn't possessed in years, pushed off the bed. She stood.
They both froze.
Kelna's feet were planted firmly on the polished wooden floor. Her legs, for years skinny, stiff, and twisted—the very symbol of her family's cruel leverage—were straight, perfectly formed, and supported her weight with an impossible ease. Beyond the shock of the healing, a subtle, ethereal shimmer seemed to cling to her skin, making her features sharper, her eyes brighter. She was suddenly, stunningly, more beautiful.
Kelna's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp that turned into a disbelieving sob. "My legs… I can stand! Urca, what is this?" She shook her head, not daring to believe this was all real.
"What?" The word was deliberately hollow. Urca took a step back, feigning shock, but inside, a dark, rich wave of laughter crashed through his mind. What's more, the laughter was laced with satisfaction and glee like a child testing something for the first time and finding out it works.
"You were asking for a follower, successor. I merely secured an anchor for you," the Totem's voice echoed, smooth and mocking. "Virgin seed infused with your core essence is potent. Her awakening will be slow, but her loyalty is now absolute. Your first Blessing has been given, free of charge. Isn't that worth celebrating."
You risked the entire operation for a companion? You insolent stone! Urca raged internally, momentarily furious at the Totem's unsolicited action. This complicated everything. This was not a controlled experiment; this was a chaotic miracle.
But his outward expression never faltered. He rushed forward, embracing Kelna tightly, using the moment to control the situation.
"Kelna, look at me... When I was a boy, my family had me bathed in esoteric and rare herbs, old rituals they thought would secure the Paragon's fortune and the future of its descendants," he whispered urgently, his breath hot against her ear. "The men in my line, their... seed... was said to carry healing properties, a life-force transfer. I wanted to try this last night, but I was so afraid it wouldn't work, afraid of giving you false hope."
It was a lie woven with shreds of plausibility and delivered with the force of absolute devotion. He pulled back, holding her at arm's length, his eyes shining with a potent, manufactured terror as they reddened slightly.
"You cannot tell anyone. Do you hear me? No one." His voice dropped to a desperate intensity that shattered her resolve and excitement. "If they learn I have a body that can heal, they won't celebrate. They will take me. They will cut me open, experiment on me like an animal, and I will never see you again. They'll use me until I'm a husk." He squeezed her hands, injecting the image of his own death into the plea. "You must promise me, Kelna. For your sake, for my survival. You must still be the cripple. Your life depends on it, and mine does, too."
The emotional whiplash was too much for her. Her purity, which was supposed to anchor her, made her vulnerable to his selfless-sounding lies. She believed him utterly. Her miracle instantly became a secret burden, a secret she must hide to protect the very man who she loved and had just saved her from a miserable life.
"I promise, Urca," she sobbed, clinging to him. "I promise. I will never say a word. I will protect you." Thinking of him being taken away from her sent a chill throughout her whole body, a thought she dreaded the most. He was her husband, and she would do everything to maintain that.
At that moment, a brisk knock sounded on the chamber door.
"Lord Urca? Lady Kelna? We've come to draw the bath and clean the room." It was one of the maids.
Urca shot Kelna a meaningful look. She understood immediately. In a rush of adrenaline, she collapsed back onto the bed, pulling the covers over her legs just as the door opened. The transformation was complete. She was a healed woman playing a crippled girl for the sake of the monster who loved her. The lie was secured.
What she didn't know was that, Urca, ever vigilant had cast an illusion only she wouldn't notice on her legs to look what it used to be so as to secure the lie. Who was that naive to believe such lies when the very evidence that proved it false was in sight just a cloth away?
Meanwhile, across the city, Father Thomas stood in the cold observation room of the city morgue. He was a slight man, dedicated to the ancient rhythms of the Church, currently performing the burial rites for the desiccated corpse of Elias, the serial killer.
He sprinkled holy water and recited the ancient Latin prayers, but as he reached the invocation for the soul's ascent, a profound cold washed over him. It was a cold that had nothing to do with the refrigerated room. A cool so deep he felt it in his very bones. He face went pale.
He closed his eyes, centering his spirit. He had a faint, latent connection to the spirit realm—a quiet gift that usually only confirmed the peaceful departures of the truly righteous. Now, it roared with silence. He probed the spiritual space where Elias's soul should have been resting, or perhaps suffering, but found nothing.
Void. Clean and absolute.
"Where is the soul?" he murmured to himself, the prayer dying on his lips. "No ascent, no judgment... it is consumed."
The realization hit him with physical force. He recalled the forbidden, ancient occult warnings in the Church's sealed archives: lore about beings who did not merely kill but who devoured the very essence of a man. Soul Eaters. One of many Night Creatures that roamed the world in secret. He had always dismissed them as medieval horror, but the evidence of the husk on the steel table proved otherwise. The supernatural was not gone; it was merely hidden from the comfortable, foolish general public.
He resolved to investigate quietly, knowing that if the Church or the local police learned of a soul-devourer, the inevitable panic and ensuing zealotry would be worse than the creature itself.
He looked over at the two detectives who had handled the case, standing in the corner waiting for him to finish.
Detective Karris, sensing the change, frowned. "Father, you look like you've seen a ghost. Are you alright? You went pale."
Father Thomas smoothed his vestments, forcing a calm he didn't feel in the very slightest. "Forgive me, Detective. It is merely the intensity of the process," he lied, his gaze unwavering as he secretly prayed for forgiveness. "Dealing with such a wicked spirit, even in prayer, can be draining."
As he bowed his head to pray for his own protection, a faint, mocking echo danced at the edge of his awareness—not a holy sound, but a wicked whisper of pure, perverse joy, laced with the voice of the old Lustful Heir.
"Pray harder, old man."
The Totem had noticed him. The first move by the holy opposition had begun, and the monster in the cave was already laughing at the challenge. But even that, it knew not to take that slightly as the church could be very troublesome even with lesser priest with their divine protection. But what's existence without risk and fun.