Rain patters against the window, a soft chant that wraps the sky in dark clouds. Sylas lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, where shadows dance like ghosts of forgotten thoughts. A restless ache pulls him upright, his body stiff from too many questions. *I'll go talk to mercy,* he decides, stretching his arms, chasing away the stillness.
At the head nun's door, he hesitates, a flicker of worry in his chest. *What if she's asleep? I don't want to bother her.*
I will leave if she's resting, but when he swung the door open, the room was empty. The bedsheets were a tangled heap, as if someone fled in a hurry. *Where's Mercy?* Sylas wonders, his pulse quickening.
He wanders down the hall, drawn by a strange pull, like a whisper he can't quite hear. At the end, a blank wall looms where the basement door once stood. It's gone, erased. Sylas reaches out, his fingers brushing the cold stone. A spark flares, and fire erupts, spreading across the wall in a wild, hungry blaze.
He stumbles back, heart pounding, but in a blink, the flames vanished. The orphanage feels *wrong*—walls decayed, splintered like they've been clawed apart. At the main gate, a figure stands, its smile twisted, too wide, like something drawn by a demons imagination. Sylas's fists tighten, dread pooling in his gut. *This isn't right.*
The gate creaks open, and a massive eye glares out, its stare cutting through him, it's gaze felt like it was carving through bone. The figure twists, its limbs stretching into unnatural shapes, then *rushes* him, too fast to dodge. Sylas trips over a doorstep, falling into a spiral of stairs that stretch forever, light fading with every tumble.
*thud.* He hits a wall. Above, the chained creature from the basement looms, its dead eyes alive with malice. Its arms wrap around him, cold and heavy, stealing his sight.
Sylas opens his eyes to a vast field, grass rippling under a star-flecked sky. The moon watches like an unblinking eye, cold and distant. The ground shifts, houses rising from the earth, only to burst into flames. The field becomes a burning kingdom, bodies scattered like fallen leaves. A cathedral stands at the center, its shadow long and sharp.
Beneath it, a man in a red coat kneels, golden marks glinting on the fabric like trapped stars. Beside him, a woman feels familiar, like a name he's forgotten. Among the dead, one face stabs at his heart—Kael. The cloaked man speaks, his voice a blade: "You failed to save them."
He turns, a death glare flashing under the hood, then lets it fall. White hair gleams in the firelight, crimson eyes burn, a scar cutting across his right eye. Sylas's vision blurs, flames swallowing him, leaving only those details scorched in his mind.
He wakes, gasping, in the orphanage—not his room, but Mercy's. She sits by the bed, her face worn, shadows pooling under her eyes. Sylas tries to sit up, but she stirs. "Sylas, rest," she says, voice gentle as a lullaby. "You need to recover."
His eyes met hers. "Tell me where Luna is," he says, voice sharp, not asking but demanding.
"You need rest," Mercy tries, but Sylas cuts in. "I'm going. You can't stop me." Her gaze drops, guilt heavy in her silence. She knows this side of him—stubborn, unbreakable. "In Sangralure," she says softly, "the crimson city. Find Luna. Say my name, and she'll hear you."
Sylas's eyes turn soft, and he etches forward, wrapping her in a hug. "Mother, I'll be okay. Trust me." Her voice trembles as she whispers, "Come back safe, Sylas."
At night, in his room, the moon casts a pale glow, a quiet breeze in the dark. The door creaks, and Kael steps in, soaked from the rain that just stopped. Sylas sits at the table, moonlight soft on his face. "Kael," he says, calm but firm, "you've got questions. Ask them."
Kael looks confused, rubbing his head. "What questions, Sylas?" Sylas's stare sharpens. "You never asked why the empire's targeting this place."
Kael's voice drips with sarcasm. "Oh, really? Never noticed." Sylas's patience breaks, his hand slamming the table. "I'm serious, Kael. If we don't do something, they'll burn this orphanage down."
Kael's grin fades, the truth hitting hard. "You're kidding, aren't you?" Sylas's eyes darken. "It's the priest. I cut off his hand."
Kael's shock is raw. "Why? He's a priest!" Sylas scoffs, bitter. "He's a devil. Every other night, he called Mercy to 'help.' I followed, saw him try to hurt her. I stopped him every time—until I didn't."
Kael listens, stunned, as Sylas tells of the night he was delayed, finding Mercy chained, the priest tearing at her clothes. "I broke the window, cut off his arm, and we ran." Kael's voice shakes. "Then why hasn't he come for us?"
"Because he'd lose his holy image," Sylas says. "But there's a way. in Sangralure. We must go there."
Kael's eyes spark with determination. "Then what are we waiting for."