Nikomedes' breath caught in his throat as the scratching grew louder, the sound becoming maddening, relentless. The air in the closet felt thick, as though the very walls were closing in on him. The scraping of claws against the wood sent shivers down his spine, and he huddled further into the corner, praying that whatever was outside would go away. But it didn't.
A loud crash rang out, and the door to the closet splintered under the force of a monstrous impact. Nikomedes gasped, his eyes wide with terror. Through the jagged hole, a twisted form slithered in, its body long and sinewy, like a serpent—but with too many legs. The creature's face was a grotesque fusion of animal and nightmare, its skin pale and mottled, covered in patches of ragged, leathery scales. Its eyes were glowing, yellow pinpricks of malice that bored into him with an intelligence that made his blood run cold. The creature's jaws parted, revealing rows of jagged teeth, dripping with viscous, black saliva that splattered onto the floor.
The stench of rot filled the room, like the scent of something long dead. The creature's claws scraped across the floor as it moved closer, its limbs far too long, bending at unnatural angles. It stopped just a few feet from him, its breath coming in slow, guttural hisses. It cocked its head, like a predator savoring the hunt, and then, with horrifying slowness, it extended one clawed hand toward him.
Nikomedes froze, unable to move, his entire body paralyzed with fear. The creature's claws brushed the air around him like the promise of death. He could feel the coldness of its proximity, the sinister weight of its presence.
"Please..." he whispered, barely able to choke out the words. "No... no, no, please..."
But before he could beg for mercy, the creature pounced, its claws slashing at him with terrifying speed. The air around him seemed to blur with its unnatural movement, and a sudden, piercing pain erupted in his side. He screamed in agony, the wound deep and burning, but his cries were drowned out by the creature's deafening roar.
Before it could strike again, something flashed in the darkness. A figure—cloaked and silent—moved with a speed and precision that was almost impossible to follow. In a single, fluid motion, the man drove a dagger straight through the creature's neck, the blade slicing through its thick, leathery hide as if it were paper.
The creature let out a guttural, choked screech of surprise and pain, but the man twisted the dagger, driving it deeper into the beast's throat. Blood spurted, dark and viscous, splashing across the walls and floor in grotesque arcs. The creature staggered, its body jerking in confusion, before it collapsed to the ground with a sickening thud, twitching in its death throes.
Nikomedes stared, wide-eyed, at the man who had saved him. The cloaked figure stood tall, the bloodied dagger still in hand, his face obscured in shadow. The man's eyes, however, glimmered with an unsettling calmness, and his presence seemed to fill the room with a cold, almost otherworldly power.
"Are you injured?" The man's voice was deep, smooth, and carried an authority that felt out of place in the midst of this chaos. He didn't wait for an answer. His eyes scanned Nikomedes quickly, assessing the wound, but they lingered on the young boy's trembling form for a moment longer.
"Get up," he commanded, his voice cutting through the panic and the blood-stained air.
"The name is Cycle five priest Athanasius".
Nikomedias wondered why his name was so long but this wasn't time for that. He needed to get up using his remaining energy he got up. Stumbling on the way up he held onto the doors of the closet.
"You have two choices, one to serve my organization or two die here in this house. I won't kill you but the beasts outside will. The choice is yours."
What type of choice was this? This wasn't fair. You can't just say I'll stab you unless you give me your money but the choice is yours. There was only one answer
Nikomedes blinked, disoriented, as he processed the stranger's words. His mind reeled from the strange title, but now wasn't the time to dwell on the peculiarities of names. He needed to focus. He needed to get up.
With every ounce of strength he could muster, Nikomedes pushed himself to his feet. His legs trembled beneath him, and he stumbled, catching himself against the closet door, which groaned under the pressure of his weight. Blood trickled from the gash on his side, and the wound burned like fire, but there was no time to rest.
Athanasius stood, still as a statue, watching with a chilling calmness. "You have two choices," he said. "One, serve my organization. Or two, die here in this house. I won't kill you myself, but the beasts outside will. The choice is yours."
Nikomedes' heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to process what had just been laid out in front of him. Serve or die. The weight of those words pressed on him like a vice, and he couldn't escape the feeling of helplessness that swirled around him.
What kind of choice was this? It felt like being offered a ransom note with a gun to his head. How could it be a choice if the answer was already written? If refusing meant certain death?
His fingers gripped the door frame, knuckles white from the effort, as he glared at Athanasius. "What kind of choice is that?" he spat, his voice ragged from exhaustion. "You're not giving me a choice. You're just pushing me into a corner. It's either serve you or die. It's not a choice. It's an ultimatum."
Athanasius tilted his head slightly, his face unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood. "You misunderstand. It's not a matter of fairness. It's simply the way of the world. You will serve—whether by your own decision or by the necessity of survival. The choice is yours, but the path forward is already set. I am merely giving you the means to walk it."
The words stung, but Nikomedes could feel them pressing down on him, the weight of truth in them. He glanced toward the windows, where the ominous growls of the beasts echoed outside. Their scent—blood and decay—was already thick in the air, a reminder of the danger that waited.
He looked back at Athanasius, his mind racing. There was only one answer.
"I'll serve," Nikomedes said, his voice barely above a whisper, but resolute. He wasn't ready to die. Not like this. Not without knowing what came next.
Athanasius gave a single, approving nod, as though he had expected this. "Wise," he said simply. "Then rise, Aeneas . Your journey begins now."