Chapter 7: Cult of the Veinless Choir
They moved east, through sunless woods.
Even with no wind, the trees swayed. As if listening. As if nodding to some ancient rhythm that only the dead could hear.
Kairis didn't speak much.
Not since the mirror.
Not since the girl's eyes. Not since the blood.
Arith let him be. She watched the forest instead. Her sword never left her back, and her fingers rarely left the grip.
At dusk, they came across a field of broken statues—dozens, maybe hundreds, all half-submerged in the soil. Each one sculpted from different stone. Different poses. But all shared the same face:
His.
Kairis froze. "What is this?"
Arith didn't answer at first.
Then: "It's begun."
"What?"
"They're building shrines again."
"Again?"
She pointed to the far end of the field, where a structure rose from the earth like a half-grown tooth—jagged, bone-white, built from charred wood and clay.
A temple.
Rough, crude… but unmistakable.
Its centerpiece was a slab.
And on it—
A figure kneeling.
Blindfolded.
Wrapped in silk.
Nahran.
Figures emerged from the shadows. Cloaked. Hooded. Barefoot.
One stepped forward, arms outstretched.
He wore no blindfold. But his eyes had been sewn shut.
Still, he smiled.
"We welcome the Wound," he said. "We praise the Mouth That Remembers."
Kairis stepped back instinctively.
The man dropped to his knees.
The others followed.
A chorus of whispers rose:
"He returns.""He walks again.""He remembers.""We are not forsaken."
Kairis felt bile rise in his throat. "Stop."
The blind priest smiled. "You are the gate. The god in waiting. The seal torn open by sorrow. The one who will write the Final Scripture."
"I'm not—"
"You've already begun," the man said gently. "Do you not feel it?"
Behind the priest, one of the worshipers began to weep. Another rocked back and forth, whispering fragments of dead prayers.
Kairis turned to Arith.
"Say something."
But she didn't.
She was watching the priest. Her knuckles were white on her sword.
Kairis faced the crowd. "You're wrong about me. I'm not a god. I'm not anything."
The priest tilted his head. "You destroyed Elholm."
"I didn't want to."
"But you did."
Kairis's mouth dried.
"You melted stone," the priest continued. "You crushed time. You unmade life. Is that not godhood?"
"No," Kairis whispered. "It's a curse."
The priest bowed. "Then curse us. Burn us. We will still worship you. Because even your wrath is more honest than the gods who lie."
Something in Kairis broke.
Not like glass—like skin.
Like something underneath him stretching forward, pressing against the surface.
His runes began to glow faintly. The crowd gasped in ecstasy.
Arith stepped forward finally, drawing her blade. "Enough."
The priest stood slowly. "Will you strike us down, Shield of the Wound?"
"I'll strike you down for poisoning him."
"He is not poisoned," the priest said, calmly. "He is ripening."
Arith moved faster than thought.
The priest hit the ground with a wet snap. His blood sprayed in arcs, mouth frozen mid-prayer.
The others did not scream.
They simply bowed lower.
As if her violence proved his faith.
That night, Kairis sat with his knees to his chest.
The fire flickered. Arith was silent.
He finally spoke.
"They weren't afraid of me."
"No."
"They wanted me to become something worse."
"Yes."
He looked at his hands.
"Would it be easier if I did?"
Arith didn't answer.
Because the truth was too heavy to say aloud.