Chapter 2: Ashes Beneath the Chapel
The village of Therin was not marked on any map.
Hidden in a valley between black cliffs and dying forests, it was a place forgotten by kings and untouched by war. Its people whispered prayers to old gods, not because they believed, but because silence felt heavier without them.
Darien awoke on a straw mattress soaked with sweat. His body ached, his skin cold. The dream—the cave, the golden mask, the voice—lingered like smoke in his lungs.
He sat up.
The room was dim. Stone walls. A rusted iron cross above the door. A candle burned low beside a bowl of water.
"Finally awake," came a voice.
An old man sat in the corner, robes tattered, beard the color of frost. His eyes were pale and sunken, yet watchful. A scar ran across his neck like a faded noose.
"You fell at the foot of the shrine," the old man said. "They thought you dead."
Darien said nothing.
The man stood, walked closer, and lifted Darien's chin with a bony finger.
"But your mark burned. So I brought you here."
Darien pulled away. "Who are you?"
"Just a priest," the man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Or what's left of one."
Darien's eyes fell to the man's hands—tattoos ran across his fingers in a script he couldn't read.
"Why are they hunting me?" Darien asked.
The priest turned away. "Because you carry what should have died. And men fear what doesn't stay buried."
He gestured to a trapdoor near the wall.
"Come. There's something you need to see."
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The passage beneath the chapel was narrow and damp. Torches lined the walls, casting broken shadows. At the end was a stone chamber lit by a single lantern.
In its center stood a pedestal. On it, a book bound in flesh and sealed with six rusted chains.
Darien stepped closer.
"Do you know what this is?" the priest asked.
Darien shook his head.
"This is the last gospel of the fallen god. The one whose blood you carry."
The candle flickered.
The mark on Darien's forehead throbbed.
And somewhere, beyond the stone and silence, something stirred.