The first time Father Andrien saw him, it was in a dream.

A cathedral in ruin, swallowed by creeping black vines. The air was thick with the scent of burning myrrh and rot, and when he stepped forward, his boots sank into something warm—something that slithered between the cracks in the marble floor.

Blood.

It spread outward in every direction, pooling at the base of the altar, seeping into the cracks of stone, dripping from unseen wounds in the walls.

Above, the statues of saints wept.

Tears of red streaked their carved faces, hollow eyes gazing through him as if they mourned something already lost.

And then—

A sound.

Not the tolling of church bells. Not the low murmur of prayer.

Weeping.

The wretched, agonized cries of a thousand voices echoed through the halls. Some soft, like whispered confessions. Others shrieking—a chorus of the damned.

Andrien clutched his cross, his fingers trembling. He turned toward the altar—toward the source of the sound.

A shadow stood there.

Not a man. Not something that belonged in the house of God.

It was tall—impossibly tall. Its form was shifting, a void where light refused to touch. The scent of sulfur and burning incense clung to it, thick as sin.

Where its face should have been, there was only darkness. A shifting abyss, like ink swirling in water.

The weeping grew louder.

The statues sobbed blood.

Andrien's knees buckled, a violent tremor shattering his resolve. His body felt weightless, his mind drowning in something thick and unseen. His lips moved on their own.

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis…"

("Our Father, who art in Heaven…")

"Sanctificetur nomen tuum…"

("Hallowed be Thy name…")

He chanted it like a drowning man clinging to breath. But the words—they twisted, distorted, changed.

"Adveniat regnum tuum."

("Thy kingdom come…")

A low chuckle rippled through the air.

The shadow moved.

"Tu orasti ad Deum… sed ego audivi."

("You prayed to God… but I was the one who listened.")

Andrien gasped, his breath thick with iron and incense. His fingers flew to his throat, reaching for his cross—

Gone.

Something cold pressed against his chest.

Not a hand—a claw, wrapped in broken prayer beads, dripping ink.

The moment it touched him, his veins turned black. Thin fractures of darkness spiderwebbed through his pale skin, branching like roots feeding into the abyss.

The weeping stopped.

A voice whispered, this time directly into his ear.

"Expectavi te, Pater."

("I have waited for you, Father.")

The air was too still. The blood too quiet.

The shadow leaned closer.

"Eritque lux vestra tenebrae…"

("And your light shall become darkness…")

A hum, like a lullaby.

"Et nox sicut dies illuminabitur."

("And the night shall shine as the day.")

And then—

The world collapsed.

Andrien woke up screaming.

His breath came in ragged, gasping sobs, his fingers clutching at his chest. His sheets were damp with sweat, his skin feverish.

The dream.

It still clung to him, thick and suffocating. The scent of burning myrrh lingered in the air, and for a single, terrifying moment, he was convinced he was still there—

That if he looked up, he would see the statues still weeping blood.

He pressed his palm to his chest, feeling the rapid hammering of his heart. His cross was back.

But beneath it, against his bare skin—

There was a mark.

A single, blackened print, right over his heart.

Something pounded at his door.

"Father Andrien?"

The voice was gentle, concerned.

His pulse still thundered in his ears.

"Yes…?"

"Are you alright? The sermon is about to start."

The sermon.

The world settled back into something real. Familiar. A harsh contrast to the nightmare he had barely escaped.

His fingers hovered over the mark.

"Father?"

A second knock.

Andrien swallowed down the rising nausea, forcing himself to breathe.

"I'm coming."

The moment the words left his lips, the world seemed to settle. The last remnants of the dream faded into the morning light.

And yet—

As he sat up, his sheets still smelled like blood.Faith is a fragile thing—shaken not only by doubt but by the horrors that answer when prayers go unheard. Father Andrien believed in the light, yet in his moment of despair, it was not God who listened… but something else entirely."