The voices were always there.
They rose and fell, murmuring in half-formed thoughts that gnawed at the edges of Faust's sanity. At times, they were a distant hum, no louder than the rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze. At others, they swelled into a cacophony that drowned out even his own thoughts, leaving him clutching his head, desperate for silence.
Tonight, they were louder.
He sat on the edge of his narrow bed, staring at the faint moonlight pooling on the floorboards. His room was silent to the world, yet deafening to him. The whispers slipped through the cracks of his mind like smoke, intangible but suffocating. They never spoke to him directly; they just were. A thousand questions, fragments of thoughts, accusations, fears, and sorrows — a chorus of countless lives pressing against his soul.
Faust was seventeen today. Not that it mattered.
He felt no joy, no anticipation. The world outside was distant, a shadowy thing that passed him by as he drifted through his days. The whispers had stolen that from him long ago. Joy. Connection. Even rest. He hadn't slept properly in years. When he closed his eyes, they grew louder, forcing him awake in fits of restless agitation.
And then there was the numbness.
It wasn't just the sleepless nights or the gnawing unease. It was the way people looked at him when he failed to smile back. The way his family spoke to him in hushed tones, careful not to set him off. He couldn't feel anything anymore — no warmth in their embraces, no spark in their laughter. Just the cold weight of them clawing at his mind.
He rubbed his temples, his fingers tracing the edges of his dark, messy hair.
The whispers surged again, rising like a tide. A question floated to the surface, louder than the rest:
Why do you endure?
Faust froze, his breath caught in his throat. This one felt different. Sharper. It wasn't just an echo. It felt deliberate.
Shaking his head, he shoved the thought away. It was probably just his own mind turning against him again, pulling apart his resolve like fraying threads. He forced himself to stand, dragging his coat over his shoulders. His boots creaked against the wooden floor as he stepped toward the door.
He had to leave. Staying still only made it worse.
---
The path to the Cathedral of Whispers was long and winding, but it had become a strange comfort. He walked it often, sometimes without realizing where his feet were taking him. It was the only place where the whispers dulled, as if the vastness of the Cathedral swallowed them whole.
The fog outside curled around him as he stepped into the street, thick and alive. It clawed at the cobblestones like restless hands, whispering faintly in the cold air. This fog was different, though. It didn't come from the streets or the riverbanks. It came from somewhere deeper, something unseen.
And tonight, it seemed thicker, as if it had been waiting.
---
As Faust approached the towering gates of the cathedral, his steps slowed. Intrusive thoughts crept in, their edges sharp as the chill in the midnight air.
What if I fail to manifest?
The question gnawed at him, growing louder, heavier.
I'll probably end up like Casper. It would be easier to just… end things here and now.
"Yes, yes! Do it!"
The countless whispers swelled, their tone eager, almost celebratory. Their chorus wrapped around his mind, a suffocating weight.
A hand clapped onto his shoulder, yanking him back to reality. His heart jumped as he spun to face his father, Dante Dominic.
"Come on, Faustus. It's time for the Seventeen," his father said, his voice steady but his eyes piercing, searching for something.
Faust forced a nod, pushing the whispers aside. "Yes… it is."
---
The Cathedral of Whispers loomed above, its spires clawing at the night sky. Inside, the air was thick, heavy with incense and centuries-old reverence. Stained glass windows stretched high along the walls, catching the moonlight in fractured shards of color. Each panel told a story: a knight kneeling before a faceless figure, a woman with a lantern piercing an endless void, and a shattered chain being mended by invisible hands.
Beneath the stained glass, rows of pews stretched in solemn order. Only a few were occupied tonight, but the attendees were dressed with the grandeur of nobility. Women in cascading dresses embroidered with silver threads whispered behind lace fans, and men in tailored suits adjusted the cuffs of their gloves.
Faust, standing near the altar with the acolytes, smirked faintly to himself. So much pomp for something so bleak. He straightened his ceremonial robes—a stark white with crimson stitching that traced his arms like veins. Around him, the other acolytes wore similar garb, but their designs were less intricate, marking him as the evening's focus.
Father Maximus Korr stepped forward, his robes a rich ebony edged with golden runes. The heavy fabric swept against the marble floor as he raised his arms to quiet the murmur of the crowd. His voice resonated through the cathedral.
"Let us begin."
---
The ceremony unfolded in a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm: chants, prayers, and offerings. Faust's father, Dominic, and his mother, Claire, moved to stand behind him at the altar, their faces unreadable. When Father Maximus finally called his name, the crowd stirred.
"Dante Faust, step forward with your guardians."
Faust rose, his legs stiff as stone. He approached the altar, clutching the ceremonial relic—a small, polished shard of obsidian, a symbol of his offering to the Spirit. His parents followed closely, their steps echoing in the vast silence.
At the altar, Father Maximus extended a hand, placing it firmly on Faust's shoulder. The priest's eyes gleamed with a solemn intensity.
"It is time, child," he said. His voice was low, almost a whisper. "Clarity comes to those who listen."
Faust glanced back at his father, startled by the words. Dominic met his gaze, giving a faint nod.
---
The altar was a masterpiece of ancient craftsmanship. Carved from black marble, its surface glinted with flecks of gold that caught the faint candlelight. In the center lay a circular basin filled with water so still it seemed unnatural. Above it, a silver effigy of the Spirit hovered, its form abstract and unknowable, as if shaped by countless interpretations.
Father Maximus gestured for Faust to step closer.
"The spirit influences all, and all that occurs in the physical must occur spiritually before it manifests in the physical... The Spirit speaks to us all, shaping us, testing us. Seventeen years have passed since you were touched by its whispers, Faust. Tonight, you must listen—not to the countless voices, but to the one meant for you. Your metaphor. Your truth."
Faust swallowed hard, his throat dry. He moved to the altar, standing before the basin.
"Close your eyes," Maximus instructed. "Listen. Understand."
---
The cathedral grew silent, save for the faint rustle of fabric as the congregation leaned forward in anticipation. Faust closed his eyes, letting the darkness engulf him. The whispers roared to life immediately.
They weren't voices—they were chaos. A cacophony of overlapping words, some gentle, others shrill, all clashing for his attention.
Nothing makes sense, he thought, his hands curling into fists.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. His pulse thundered in his ears as he sifted through the noise, desperate to grasp a single thread of meaning. But the whispers were relentless, their weight pressing down on him.
Why am I not hearing it? His thoughts spiraled. Why can't I find it?
Time seemed to stretch. The congregation's silence became oppressive. Faust's mother, Claire, clutched her husband's arm, her nails digging into his sleeve. "Dominic," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Something's wrong,he can't end up like his brother Casper."
"Patience," Dominic replied, though his jaw tightened.
---
Faust's breathing quickened. The whispers clawed at his mind, dragging his thoughts into darker corners.
You'll fail.
You'll end up like Casper.
You're weak.
He gritted his teeth, his knees threatening to buckle. Then, like a crack of lightning in a storm, something changed.
A faint glow appeared in the air before him, wavering like a candle in the wind. The whispers shifted, growing quieter, more focused. Faust's heart leapt.
The glow sharpened, forming the faint outline of something tangible—a dice, suspended midair, its surfaces gleaming with ethereal light.
Claire's tears turned to relief. "He's done it," she whispered, clutching Dominic's arm. But her joy was short-lived.
The light flickered, then vanished entirely.
Faust opened his eyes to see… nothing.
The altar was empty.
Gasps rippled through the congregation. Claire sank to her knees, her face pale as death. "No," she whispered. "No, no, no."
Faust stared at the empty space before him, his chest hollow. The whispers returned, louder than ever, a cruel, mocking chorus.
Why did it fail? Why me?
And yet, deep within, a single whisper lingered, quiet and persistent.
Why.