Sky above was painted in ominous shades of gray, the clouds swelling with the promise of rain. Silas paused for a moment, his sharp gaze lifting to the heavens as he felt the cool dampness of the wind brushing against his face. A faint drizzle had begun to speckle the cobblestones beneath his boots, urging him onward.
Silas wasted no time and stepped into the majestic Flame Church, his boots echoing faintly against the polished stone floor.
The interior was a blend of solemnity and grandeur, its high vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows casting fragmented patterns of light onto the rows of wooden pews. There, seated in one of those pews, were two familiar figures—Harold Grant and Red.
They turned toward him as soon as he entered, their expressions unreadable. Without hesitation, Silas approached them, his steps steady, his posture unyielding.
"I apologize for being late," he said, his tone even, betraying no hint of nervousness. "Something... unsettling delayed me on the way."
Harold's piercing gaze lingered on Silas for a moment, as if peeling back layers of pretense to uncover the truth beneath. Red, seated casually beside him, smirked faintly but said nothing,
not long after that Harold's attention was fixed on another figure standing silently in the shadows.
"Eleanor," Harold called, his voice low and resonant, filling the vast space. "Step forward. There's someone I want you to meet."
From the darkness emerged a woman with measured, graceful steps. Eleanor Vayne. Her sharp blue eyes glinted in the dim light, taking in every detail of Silas with an intensity that seemed to pierce through him. Her black cloak swayed softly with her movements, and her dark hair was tied neatly back, save for a few loose strands framing her face, giving her an air of quiet authority.
"Eleanor is one of the pillars of Vermilion," Harold said, his gaze shifting between Silas and Eleanor. "She is not only responsible for training recruits but also for carrying out the most dangerous missions. If you wish to survive here, Silas, you'll learn much from her."
Eleanor stopped a few steps away from Silas, her scrutinizing gaze steady and unyielding. She examined him from head to toe, her expression inscrutable, like a predator sizing up its prey.
"Silas, is it?" she finally said, her voice cool and edged with an almost mocking sharpness. "Harold rarely endorses anyone directly. That means he sees something in you. I, however, prefer to see it for myself."
Red chuckled softly from his seat, his knife pausing mid-spin. "If Eleanor says that, Silas, take it as a warning. She's not easily impressed."
Eleanor ignored the comment, her focus entirely on Silas. "Do you know what you're walking into? Vermilion isn't just an organization. It's a trap that kills the weak, the reckless, and the unprepared."
"I know," Silas replied, his voice steady. "And I have no intention of being one of those who fail."
For the first time, Eleanor's lips curved into something resembling a smile—not warm or encouraging, but a faint acknowledgment of his resolve.
"Good," she said curtly before turning to Harold. "If he survives the first trial, I'll ensure he's ready for the rest. But make no mistake, Harold: if I see even the slightest hint of weakness, I won't hesitate to end it."
"I expect nothing less from you, Eleanor," Harold replied calmly, his eyes moving back to Silas. "Remember this well, Silas. Eleanor is one of the first tests you'll face here. She doesn't offer second chances."
Eleanor moved away, retreating back into the shadows. Yet, even as she faded from sight, her presence lingered, heavy and inescapable, a constant reminder of the unrelenting scrutiny Silas would face.
With Eleanor silently watching from the darkness, Silas knew that every step he took in Vermilion would be under the gaze of someone who wasn't just ready to train him but fully prepared to end his journey if he failed to meet the ruthless standards of the organization.
"Lets go" Harold said at last, his voice low yet resonant, echoing in the cavernous silence of the church.
Without another word, Harold and Red rose and led Silas down the central aisle. The stained glass on either side seemed to shift subtly under the flickering candlelight, their depictions of ancient legends and forgotten battles whispering of countless untold stories.
Red and Harold entered a small chamber at the back of the church. It was dimly lit by an old chandelier, its golden glow flickering unevenly, casting shadows that danced across the walls.
Shelves lined the room, crammed with dust-covered tomes and peculiar artifacts whose purposes seemed long forgotten. At the center stood a sturdy wooden table surrounded by three chairs.
Silas sat down, his movements deliberate, his spine straight. Though the air was thick with unspoken tension, his expression remained composed, his sharp eyes flickering subtly as he took in every detail. The room smelled faintly of old wood and the acrid tang of melted wax.
Across the table sat the two men.
Harold Grant was a man of presence, his graying hair and carefully groomed appearance lending him an air of authority. Lines etched deeply into his face spoke of countless decisions made and consequences borne. Next to him was Red, younger and far less formal. His wild red hair mirrored the unruly nature in his eyes, and his fingers toyed lazily with a small knife.
(This is the first time I've truly taken the time to study their faces), Silas mused silently.
"Silas," Harold began, his deep voice cutting through the stillness like the toll of a bell. "Do you fully understand what you're doing? Vermilion isn't a refuge for the hesitant. Once you step in, there is no way out."
Silas met Harold's gaze, his own unwavering. "I understand. If I'm here, it means I'm ready. There's nothing left for me to return to."
Red chuckled softly, leaning forward just enough to let the blade in his hand glint faintly in the dim light. "Plenty of people come here saying the same thing. But Vermilion has a way of peeling back all those brave words. Are you sure you're not just fooling yourself?"
Silas turned his head toward Red, his expression unchanging. "Conviction isn't proven with words. Give me a chance, and I'll show you."
Red tilted his head, his smirk widening slightly. "Good answer. But we're not just looking for people who can survive. We need someone who can follow rules... and break them when necessary. Can you do that, Silas?"
The question hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread. Silas considered his response carefully before speaking. "I know when to obey, and when to defy. If that's what you're looking for, then you've already found it."
Harold studied him for a moment longer, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as though weighing the sincerity of Silas's words. "Vermilion demands more than courage, Silas. Once you're one of us, everything you learn, everything you uncover, and everything you feel no longer belongs to you. It belongs to Vermilion. This isn't a place for personal freedom—it's a vow of absolute dedication. Are you prepared for that?"
Silence filled the room, thick and heavy. Silas's gaze dropped momentarily as he allowed himself a rare moment of reflection.
(I'm doing this for them, Mia, Kael and grandma..)
Then he looked up, his eyes steady, and answered without hesitation. "I still have Someone To protect.. And i would give anything to do it."
For the first time, Harold's lips curved into something resembling a smile—small, cold, and edged with approval. He rose from his seat and extended a hand toward Silas.
"Welcome to Vermilion, Silas. The path ahead won't be easy, but I suspect you're the sort who either endures it—or dies trying."
Silas stood and clasped Harold's hand firmly. His voice was calm, resolute. "I'm not looking for an easy path. Only the right one."
Red laughed softly, pulling something from his pocket. It was a silver badge, circular and engraved with the image of a serpent devouring its own tail. He tossed it lightly toward Silas, who caught it effortlessly.
"The right path, huh?" Red said, his grin sharp and feral. "Be careful with that idea. Around here, the 'right path' tends to be the bloodiest one."
Silas studied the badge for a moment before slipping it into the inner pocket of his coat. His expression didn't waver, but in his chest, something stirred—a quiet certainty that his life had just changed forever.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, its steady rhythm echoing like a dirge as though washing away sins and secrets he was about to uncover.
...
Silas stepped out of the chamber, the weight of the silver badge in his pocket unfamiliar yet grounding. The cold air of the church hall greeted him like an old adversary. Harold and Red remained inside, their murmured conversation a distant hum in the silence.
The rain had worsened, drumming against the stained glass, its muted light casting ghostly shadows across the pews. Silas stood still for a moment, his sharp gaze sweeping over the empty hall. A faint unease coiled in his chest, as though the church itself bore witness to his silent vows.
He didn't leave immediately. Instead, his steps carried him toward one of the towering windows. The vibrant depiction of a saint slaying a serpent caught his eye. The candlelight danced across the glass, making the serpent seem alive, writhing under the triumphant blade of the saint.
"How ironic," he murmured, brushing his fingers over the cold surface.
From behind him, a soft rustle broke the stillness. Silas turned swiftly, his body tensed.
Eleanor Vayne stood at the entrance of the hall, her figure half-shrouded in shadows. Her silver-cross insignia gleamed faintly against the dark fabric of her cloak, and her piercing gaze studied him like a scholar dissecting a rare specimen.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Silas," she said, her tone even, betraying neither approval nor concern.
"I don't recall asking for your opinion," Silas replied, his voice calm but edged with steel.
Eleanor stepped closer, her boots silent against the stone floor. "You didn't have to. Vermilion may have accepted you, but they are far from trusting you. And trust me when I say this: Red may smile, but his blade is always looking for the first excuse to slip between your ribs."
"Then I'll make sure I don't give him one."
Eleanor let out a quiet sigh, though her expression softened only slightly. "You think this is just about earning their trust? Vermilion isn't just a group. It's a labyrinth, and every step you take only pulls you deeper into its secrets. You're not ready for what waits at the center."
Silas met her gaze, unflinching. "I didn't come here because it was easy. I came because it's the only way forward."
She studied him for a long moment, then gave a faint nod. "Perhaps. But if you falter, Silas, don't expect me to catch you."
With that, she turned and disappeared into the shadows, her presence fading like the echo of a bell.
----
Later that night, Silas found himself in Vermilion's hidden sanctum beneath the church. The air was damp and heavy with the scent of earth and mildew. Torches lined the narrow corridor, their flames flickering as though disturbed by an unseen breath.
Red led the way, his steps light and casual despite the foreboding atmosphere. "You know," he began, his tone conversational, "most people who join us don't last long. They either break under the pressure or get themselves killed trying to prove something. But you... you're different."
Silas raised an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
Red glanced back, his grin sharp. "Maybe. Or maybe it's a warning."
They stopped in front of an iron door, its surface etched with strange, angular symbols that seemed to pulse faintly in the torchlight. Red gestured toward it. "Your first test. Inside, you'll find something... unpleasant. Survive, and you'll prove you're worth more than just talk. Fail..." He shrugged. "Well, you won't have to worry about Vermilion anymore."
Silas stepped forward without hesitation, his hand resting briefly on the cold iron before pushing the door open.
The room beyond was dark, save for a single brazier in the center, its pale blue flame casting eerie shadows on the walls. As Silas stepped inside, the door slammed shut behind him, leaving him alone.
A whisper broke the silence, soft and insidious, like wind through a graveyard.
"Why are you here, Silas?"
He turned sharply, his eyes scanning the darkness. The flame flickered, and from its edges, a figure emerged—a pale reflection of himself, its features distorted as though seen through rippling water.
"I am here because I chose to be," Silas replied, his voice steady despite the chill that crept down his spine.
The doppelgänger smiled, its expression twisted. "And what will you give to stay?"
"Myself" He answers..
---
When Silas stepped out of the chamber, his face was pale but resolute. Red leaned against the wall, his expression unreadable.
"So," he drawled, "how did it feel?"
Silas met his gaze, his voice quiet but firm. "Like a reminder. Of why I can't afford to fail."
Red's grin returned, sharp and predatory. "Not bad, Silas. Not bad at all."
From the shadows, Harold watched in silence,
his piercing gaze following Silas as he walked away. The faintest hint of approval flickered across his features before disappearing entirely.
As Harold left, Eleanor stepped out from the shadows, her presence quiet yet commanding as she regarded the two figures in the dimly lit room.
Noticing her arrival, Red's grin widened. With a flick of his wrist, he sent his knife spinning into the air, catching it with ease. "Hey, Ellie," he drawled, his tone laced with mockery. "Do you think he even knows what a Pact is? Don't scare him off before he's even started."
Eleanor, standing with a composed stillness in the corner, responded only with a cold glance before turning her sharp gaze toward Silas. "Do you understand what you've stepped into, Silas? Do you truly comprehend the nature of what you're agreeing to by joining Vermilion?"
Silas met her piercing stare without hesitation. "I understand the risks," he said evenly. "I'm ready to face whatever it takes."
Eleanor's expression remained unreadable as she stepped closer, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across her face. Her voice was quiet yet carried an edge that cut through the air like a blade. "No, you don't. A Pact is not merely a promise or a binding oath. It is the beginning of a transformation—a path from which there is no return."
Silas's brow furrowed slightly. "Transformation?"
Red chuckled, spinning his knife with a flourish. "Oh, you'll love this part. See, every member of Vermilion takes a Pact, and it changes you. It digs deep into you, pulling out something you didn't even know was there. But," he added with a smirk, "there's always a price."
Eleanor's tone turned heavier, each word deliberate. "A Pact binds you to forces beyond human comprehension. It grants you strength, speed, insight—abilities that set you apart from ordinary mortals. But with every step you take along this path, you will lose more of yourself."
Silas nodded slowly, his mind racing to process her words. "And if someone fails to endure the transformation?"
Red's grin widened, his voice laced with dark amusement. "Ah, that's the fun part. You shatter. Body, mind, and soul—twisted into something no longer human. That's why you've got to be strong enough to take control of the pact you choose. If you're not…" He paused, leaning back lazily. "Well, the pact takes control of you."
Eleanor's gaze remained fixed on Silas, her voice steady but grave. "Each step along the Pact is a choice. But with every choice, you move further away from what you once were. In the end, you don't simply serve Vermilion. You become Vermilion—its power, its will. Whatever you gain, whatever strength you wield, it will no longer be yours. And there is no way out."
Silas drew a deep breath, weighing the gravity of her words. Yet his resolve remained unshaken. "If that's what it takes to protect them" he said, his voice firm, "then I'll walk this path."
For a long moment, Eleanor scrutinized him, her expression unreadable. Finally, she gave the smallest of nods, a faint glimmer of acknowledgment in her eyes. "You'll understand soon enough," she said, her tone quiet yet certain. "A Pact is not merely a tool. It is a journey. In time, you'll see its true nature. Be certain you're prepared for what lies at its end."
Red tossed his knife into the air one final time, catching it with a flourish before sheathing it at his side. "Welcome to the game, Silas," he said with a sly grin. "Let's see if you've got what it takes not to regret it."
As the conversation settled into a heavy silence, Harold Grant, who had left earlier, returned to the room. His steps were deliberate, and his voice cut through the air with calm authority. "The matter of the Pact can wait. Someone will guide you through the details when the time comes."
He paused, glancing at Silas briefly before continuing. "The explanations will be handled by your mentor."
Silas instinctively turned toward Eleanor, who merely shrugged, her expression as unreadable as ever.
"Tomorrow, a veteran of Vermilion will take over your instruction," Harold said, his tone firm. "His name is Mr. Oswald Kaen."
(Someone else will be teaching me?) Silas wondered, his thoughts racing at the unexpected announcement.
Harold folded his hands behind his back, his presence commanding the room. "He will train you for approximately three weeks, perhaps up to a month, before you are deemed ready for field assignments. Make good use of this time."
The weight of Harold's words lingered in the air as Silas processed this new turn of events. The name "Oswald Kaen" felt like a promise and a warning, though its meaning remained shrouded in uncertainty.
Far above, the rain continued to fall, washing over the city as though cleansing it of its sins. But for Silas, the path ahead was anything but clean.