Ezekiel slept uneasily that night, his dreams clouded with shadows and echoes of rasping voices. The masked figure haunted his thoughts. The mask itself-a grotesque sunflower-loomed over him in the silence of his mind, its empty, devouring gaze pulling him deeper into an abyss of fear.
Even in waking moments, the phantom of that gaze lingered, carving an imprint that refused to fade.
What unsettled him the most was their choice to let him go. It wasn't mercy, not really-there had been no plea, no negotiation. They simply stepped back, indifferent, as though his existence were trivial. That thought terrified Ezekiel far more than being pursued: what could dismiss him so easily might claim him just as swiftly.
The scene he'd witnessed, however, seared itself deeper than fear. The sound of the body scraping against the damp stones echoed in his mind, an unrelenting reminder of death. Blood pooled in dark puddles beneath the lifeless figure, and the way it seemed to spill without urgency was more unnatural than the act itself. The silence as the masked man turned, dragging the body back into the fog, had been worse than the moment their hollow glare met his own.
Ezekiel shook himself free of the thoughts as he wandered into town that morning, trying to immerse himself in the everyday bustle of life. He passed the markets and side streets, where familiar routines played out-shopkeepers calling for customers, children laughing, beggars whispering for coin. Yet there was an unease today, something off-kilter. The crowd moved differently, their energy vibrating with something primal. He felt it before he saw it-the hum of restless agitation.
Turning a corner, he was greeted by a growing mob gathered in the town square. A parade of people marched through, carrying a woman in chains toward the center of the square. Shouts erupted from the mass, words filled with venom and hysteria:
"Burn her!"
"Witch! Damn her soul!"
The chant spread like a wave, and Ezekiel felt the heat of their fury as though it could scorch the air itself. Hate ignited in their eyes, a collective madness that swallowed individual thought.
Ezekiel pushed his way toward the front of the gathering, compelled by morbid curiosity. The woman, no older than thirty, wore a plain, patched dress that hung loosely from her frail frame. Her face was gaunt, eyes sunken but desperate, pleading with the crowd. She stumbled as they shoved her forward, her hands bound behind her back.
"I've done nothing!" she cried, her voice trembling. "You've been misled-please, I've harmed no one!"
Her words were drowned out by jeers, her desperation crushed beneath the roar of the crowd. Ezekiel's heart raced. This wasn't justice. This wasn't reason. It was chaos-uncontrolled, unthinking chaos.
The woman was dragged to a platform hastily constructed in the square's center. Wooden beams crisscrossed beneath her feet, forming a pyre that awaited its grim purpose. The executioners forced her onto the beams, binding her to the stake with rough ropes as she screamed and struggled.
Ezekiel wanted to look away, but something held him in place. The mob's fervor was almost infectious, yet he felt cold, detached -an observer to their madness. Then he noticed it: etched into the wooden stake was a symbol, barely visible beneath the layers of grime. It was faint but unmistakable-a twisted emblem of interlocking lines that mirrored the ones he'd glimpsed in the alley the night before.
His blood ran cold. This wasn't just hysteria. This was orchestrated.
A man stepped forward from the mob, holding a torch aloft. The flames danced, their light casting unnatural shadows that writhed and twisted as though alive. The crowd roared in approval, their voices merging into one chaotic cry for blood.
"No!" the woman screamed, her voice breaking as the torch was lowered. "You don't understand-they'll take you all! You're feeding their flame!"
Her warning was drowned out by the crackling of fire as the torch was pressed to the wood. Flames licked upward, greedy and alive, as though summoned by something far darker than human hands. Smoke curled into the air, carrying with it the acrid scent of burning timber and despair.
Ezekiel stepped back, his breath quickening. The cult's mark. The woman's cries. The flames that seemed to consume more than just wood-everything pointed to something far beyond superstition.
As the flames roared around her, the woman's screams ceased. Her head drooped as though defeated, the firelight casting jagged shadows across her gaunt features. The crowd jeered, yet there was a ripple in the air—an almost imperceptible hum that silenced Ezekiel's breath.
It began with the fire. The flames faltered, not diminishing, but writhing, like something alive. The orange glow darkened, curling into unnatural shades of black and green. The wood beneath her feet groaned, not in protest of the heat, but as though something within the very fibers of the pyre twisted in agony.
Her voice, so weak a moment ago, broke the oppressive quiet, soft but unrelenting. "You should have burnt me in my sleep."
The flames recoiled, bending away from her form as if terrified. Her body, still bound, now pulsed faintly with golden light, tendrils of it snaking along her arms, her chest, her throat. The glow grew, rippling like the surface of a disturbed pool, illuminating her pallid face. Her eyes opened, and in that moment, they burned brighter than the pyre itself.
A sudden hush fell over the square, heavy and unnatural. The oppressive silence pressed into Ezekiel's ears until it felt like his very heartbeat was a betrayal. And then, they came.
The first appeared as a shadow, slithering out of the corners of the square where the firelight refused to reach. The figure emerged as though it had always been there, unnoticed, its twisted form clothed in folds of black fabric that moved like smoke. Others followed, emerging from the alleyways, the rooftops, the void itself, until they formed a loose ring around the square. Their robes hung heavy with sigils that crawled across the fabric as if alive, and their masks...
Ezekiel's breath hitched at the sight of them. Each mask was unique, carved from materials that defied recognition—splintered wood, cracked porcelain, melted bone. But all bore the same motif: sunflowers, their warped petals curling inward toward voids that stared out at the world, empty yet seeing everything.
One of the figures stepped forward, its movements so silent it felt wrong, like a film with its sound stripped away. The air seemed to grow colder with every step, an invisible weight pressing down on Ezekiel's chest. The masked figure tilted its head toward the woman, and from beneath the mask came a voice.
"Radiance drawn into fracture. An ember resisting ash."
The woman's glow flickered, her face twisting with effort. "You won't take it," she spat, her voice trembling but defiant.
Another cultist moved forward, their mask reflecting the firelight in a grotesque display of warped petals. Their voice layered, overlapping itself in an eerie echo. "What is taken was always owed. The cycle feeds upon itself."
The woman screamed, raising her hands as the golden light exploded outward, a desperate wave of energy that sent the nearest cultists staggering back. But the shadows of their robes absorbed the blow as if it were nothing, the sigils flaring red before dimming again.
Ezekiel felt his knees buckle as a chill swept through him. The cultists began to chant—not in unison, but in a disjointed symphony of whispers. The words seemed to crawl into his ears, weaving through his thoughts, their meaning always just out of reach.
"Threads frayed, yet the loom persists."
"A core untethered feeds the void."
"Radiance drawn forth, the vessel must serve."
The woman fell to her knees, her glow sputtering. "You don't understand—if you take it, you'll ruin everything!" Her voice broke, a raw scream of desperation.
The figure with the sunflower mask raised an arm, and the shadows seemed to surge forward, snaking toward her. The tendrils of darkness curled and twisted, slipping beneath her barrier of light. She cried out as the shadows coiled around her wrists, her ankles, her throat, pulling her toward the cultists.
"The river bends to the tide," one of them whispered, their voice softer than a breath. "Its course cannot defy the ocean."
The woman's light flickered one last time before collapsing into darkness. Her body slumped as the shadows lifted her, carrying her toward the cultists like a sacrificial offering.
Ezekiel wanted to move, to run, to scream, but his body betrayed him. He felt rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the overwhelming weight of the scene before him. The cultists turned as one, their hollow masks now directed at the crowd.
The air grew colder still. One of the figures tilted their head toward the onlookers, their voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
"The core feeds the whole."
"All else is fuel."
And then they vanished, fading into the shadows as though they had never been. The woman was gone, the pyre reduced to smoldering ash.
Ezekiel stumbled backward, bile rising in his throat. He turned and ran, his footsteps echoing through the empty streets. But no matter how far he ran, their voices lingered, etched into his mind like a brand.
"The cycle persists. It must."
~~~
Benedict wandered into the library of his family's grand manor, the flickering light of the hearth casting long shadows on the towering shelves. Dust clung to the air, the scent of aged parchment mingling with the faint trace of something metallic, though he couldn't quite place it. He sifted through tomes with trembling hands, searching for anything—anything—that could offer him insight into what he had witnessed. The supernatural, the void, the unnatural pull of that place. His mind churned, desperate for meaning.
Half an hour passed, and his search yielded nothing but frustration. Book after book, page after page—all dead ends.
Suddenly, a loud knock shattered the oppressive silence.
"Come in," Benedict called, his voice laced with impatience.
The heavy door creaked open, revealing the stern figure of the family butler. His face betrayed nothing, yet there was an almost imperceptible hesitation as he stepped forward.
"I have a letter for you, Master Benedict," the butler said formally, holding out a folded parchment sealed with a wax crest.
"A letter? From whom?" Benedict asked, rising swiftly to his feet. "Surely not my mother… she hasn't reached out in over a year!" He paused, his tone shifting from disbelief to urgency. "Give it here, immediately!"
The butler handed over the letter, his hand lingering just a moment too long, as though reluctant to part with it. Benedict didn't notice; his focus was already on the wax seal, which bore an unfamiliar mark.
Breaking it, he unfolded the parchment. The message was brief, but its weight was suffocating.
"DO NOT TRIFLE WITH THE VOID.
Heed my warning carefully, child. That place is not merely darkness; it is the very essence of despair and anguish made manifest. Its pull is relentless, and its secrets are not meant for mortal minds.
If you truly seek answers, go to Ashmoor. That cursed, wretched place may offer them... though you may find the questions that follow far more damning than the answers you seek.
Love,
Your mother."
Benedict's hands trembled as he lowered the letter. The wax seal, now broken, seemed to thrum faintly under his thumb. He swallowed hard, the word Ashmoor reverberating through his mind. It wasn't a place he'd ever expected to hear from his mother's lips—or pen. The name alone carried the weight of dread, like the low growl of a storm on the horizon.
He folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his coat. Ashmoor. He would go. He had to. The void and its horrors weren't content to stay buried in his mind—they demanded understanding, or perhaps destruction. Either way, Benedict knew he was stepping into something far beyond his control.
The butler remained at the door, silent as ever, but his gaze lingered just long enough for Benedict to notice. Something about it felt wrong.
"Is there anything else?" Benedict asked sharply.
The butler blinked once, as if startled, then shook his head. "No, Master Benedict." His voice was measured, but his retreat was hurried.
Alone again, Benedict sat down, staring at the empty fireplace. His mother's words echoed endlessly: That cursed, wretched place…
Benedict stared at the letter in his hands, his mother's words a ghostly echo in his mind: "Do not trifle with the void." His grip tightened, crumpling the parchment slightly as unease gnawed at his core. Ashmoor—the name alone was a shadow, evoking a chill he couldn't explain.
He sank into the nearest chair, the weight of his mother's cryptic warning bearing down on him. Why now? Why would she break her silence after a year only to issue this veiled caution? He glanced toward the library's towering shelves, where the faint smell of old paper lingered. Whatever lay in Ashmoor, it seemed his mother believed it held the answers he sought. But at what cost?
The candle on his desk flickered violently, its flame sputtering as though gasping for air. For a fleeting moment, Benedict thought he saw a shadow dart across the room, too quick to trace. He straightened, the hair on his neck rising. His eyes scanned the library, but nothing stirred save for the trembling light of the candle. The silence that followed was deafening.
Benedict swallowed hard, forcing himself to ignore the creeping paranoia that pricked at his mind. He folded the letter carefully and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. Whether his mother's warning was rooted in wisdom or fear, he couldn't ignore it. If Ashmoor was tied to the void—to whatever he had witnessed—then he had no choice but to go.
~~~
The journey to Ashmoor was long and uneventful, save for the unease that settled deeper into Benedict's chest with each passing mile. The road grew darker the closer he came to the city, the trees twisting unnaturally as though recoiling from the destination. By the time he saw the gates of Ashmoor, his apprehension had grown into something palpable, a weight pressing against his lungs.
Ashmoor was a city caught in a perpetual grayness. Fog curled through the streets like restless spirits, obscuring everything beyond a few meters. The buildings, once proud and ornate, were weathered by years of neglect, their stone façades chipped and their windows dark. The air was damp, carrying with it the scent of decay and rain-soaked earth.
Benedict dismounted his horse, his boots sinking slightly into the muddy ground. The streets were eerily quiet for a city of its size, the only sound the distant clang of metal from some unseen forge. As he led his horse toward what appeared to be an inn, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Shadows lingered just a little too long, and every step felt like it echoed louder than it should.
The inn, called The Hollow Lantern, was a modest building with faded green shutters and a wooden sign that creaked faintly in the breeze. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood and stale ale. A few patrons sat scattered around the room, their faces obscured by hoods or lost in shadows. The innkeeper, a gaunt man with sunken eyes, greeted Benedict with a nod, though his gaze lingered too long, as if measuring him.
"A room for the night," Benedict said, his voice steady despite the unease curling in his stomach.
The innkeeper slid a key across the counter, his bony fingers brushing against Benedict's for a moment too long. "Second floor. End of the hall," he said, his voice dry and brittle. "If you've got questions about Ashmoor, best to keep them to yourself. Not all who ask find answers worth keeping."
Benedict hesitated, meeting the man's hollow gaze. "I'm not here to ask. Just passing through," he lied.
The innkeeper said nothing, merely turning back to his work.
~~~
The room was small and sparsely furnished, the kind of place that offered no comfort but plenty of solitude. Benedict locked the door behind him and set his belongings down on the rickety desk near the single window. He pulled out his mother's letter again, reading it under the pale light of the oil lamp.
"That damned place…" The words seemed to resonate with a deeper meaning now that he was here.