Niegal woke to chains.
Cold iron bit into his wrists and ankles, forcing him wide on the altar. The wood beneath him was slick with age, incense oil, and something darker- blood, old and sticky. A gag pulled his jaw painfully apart, forcing him to taste copper and ash with every breath. His lungs burned with the effort to draw in air; the drugs still coursing through his veins dulled his strength, left him sluggish, a shadow of himself.
Shadows moved around him, low and predatory. Hooded figures whispered guttural invocations, the cadence scraping across his ears like broken bone. Candles flickered, revealing pale, clawed hands clutching charms of bone, feather, and silver, their sigils writhing as if alive. The magic in the room pressed against him, cold and insistent, thrumming against his skin and raising gooseflesh.
One figure detached from the darkness.
The High Priestess.
She was swathed in black and crimson, her robe trailing like smoke over the altar. A veil hid her face, but her presence radiated authority and malice. In her hand glinted silver- the sigil of the lion.
Niegal's blood went cold. Chains rattled as he struggled, muscles screaming for freedom, but his body betrayed him. The drugs had taken their toll; he moved like a man walking underwater.
"Be still, vessel," the High Priestess whispered, her voice slithering through the air. "Your god awaits."
She pressed the silver sigil against his scarred chest. Pain ignited across his skin, hot and searing, as though the mark had been carved with fire. A scream tore from his throat, muffled by the gag, and his body arched against the altar.
The cultists' chanting rose, grotesque and guttural, twisting holy names into curses. Smoke coiled around the room, thick and suffocating, cloying with incense and blood, making Niegal's stomach twist. The walls seemed to breathe, closing in, pressing on his skull. He could not tell where the sound ended and the air began. His mind spun, teetering on the edge of oblivion.
The High Priestess leaned close, breath cold against his ear:
"Rise, El León Negro. Rage, consume, and obey."
The sigil sank into his flesh, fusing with the scar over his heart. Pain and power collided in a single instant. Heat surged through his veins; his body trembled as if it were alive, bending and breaking the rules of flesh.
And then the beast awoke.
Rage, pride, hunger- an inferno roaring within him, tearing at his mind and soul. His vision blurred, reality splitting into jagged shards of fire and shadow. Chains groaned under the sudden surge of strength. The altar shivered beneath him. Hooded cultists fell to their knees, arms flung wide in awe and terror. The High Priestess laughed, sharp and triumphant, the sound slicing through the smoke.
Niegal's body convulsed as the Lion's consciousness forced its way into his own. Instinct and fury eclipsed reason. Every nerve was alive with pain and power; every breath was a roar. The altar became a cage, the candles tiny sparks in a universe of roaring flames within him. He clawed at his restraints, iron biting into flesh, but even in chains, his presence began to warp the space around him. The cultists recoiled from the pressure, muttering prayers, fear breaking their rhythm.
The Lion demanded dominance. Niegal's mind fought, but the god's essence pushed past, tearing, consuming, remaking. Memories, pain, rage- they collided and coalesced into a single, unbroken roar. The gag cut against his teeth, blood seeping at the edges, but the sound of the Lion's awakening thundered in his ears anyway.
And then the High Priestess pressed her face close to his.
"Yield, or be unmade," she hissed. "Your god obeys me first."
He could not answer. He could not even think. Every muscle, every fiber of him, burned. His body was no longer his own, yet in the abyss of pain and power, something unbroken remained- will.
Rage licked outward, spilling into the chamber. Shadows twisted, the altar groaned, and the cultists flinched as the Lion's power flared. The chains bent slightly under the surge. His heart hammered as claws of divine fury tore at his chest and mind alike.
Niegal's body was consumed. The god awoke fully. Proud, violent, unbound. Pain, ecstasy, terror, and awe fused together, leaving only a roaring, living will.
Far away, Phineus lurched forward, gasping, as though pulled from drowning.
He clawed at his throat, struggling for air in the dim apprentice quarters, heart hammering. Familiar sights, the cot, the faint scent of herbs, did nothing to quiet the echo of what he had seen.
Frantically, he grabbed pen and paper. Ink splattered across the parchment as his trembling hand scrawled every detail, crooked and desperate, each word burning with urgency. When he sealed it with wax, his fingers smeared the edges, but he didn't care.
He ran.
Barefoot, half-dressed, he tore through the stone corridors. Guards stepped forward, but he ducked beneath arms, sliding across polished floors. The cathedral doors loomed.
Inside, the Elders were still gathered, deep in council with Señora Behike, their voices hushed but tense, discussing vows and rites.
Phineus burst in, chest heaving, small fists clenched around the sealed parchment.
"Please!" His voice cracked, echoing through the vaulted chamber. "We must prepare- "
He fell to his knees, holding the letter aloft, trembling.
"El León Negro returns!"
The words struck the room like lightning. The council froze. Faces went pale. Eyes turned to one another, disbelief etched in every line.
Señora Behike rose first, her gaze narrowing with recognition so sharp it cut the air. She lifted a hand, beckoning the boy closer.
"Come, child," she said, voice steady but fierce. "Tell me everything you saw."
Silence fell across the cathedral. The storm outside rumbled in response, as though the world itself held its breath.
And in that silence, the shadow of the Lion spread.