The village had settled into an uneasy silence. The hunters were gone, but their presence still lingered in the minds of the people. Whispers of the young man who had been left hanging from the church bell spread through the streets, carried by the wind like a curse. The people kept their heads low, spoke in hushed voices, and refused to look toward the church.
Salvatore had little interest in their fears. He stood in the back of the church, watching as the old woman—his most loyal servant—dragged a body across the stone floor. The corpse belonged to one of the hunters, one too slow to escape. His throat had been opened cleanly, and his vacant eyes stared at nothing.
The old woman grunted as she pulled him toward the trapdoor beneath the altar. "Heavier than the last one," she muttered.
Salvatore smirked, stepping forward and kneeling beside her. With an effortless tug, he grabbed the dead man's arm and helped her move the body. "You should be grateful," he said. "He still has all his limbs."
She snorted. "Unlike the last fool."
The trapdoor groaned as she wrenched it open, revealing a set of stairs leading down into the church's lower chambers. The air that rose from the depths was thick with rot, old blood, and something else—something sour, something wrong.
The old woman wiped her hands on her apron, streaking it with fresh crimson. "This makes what… the twelfth?"
Salvatore tilted his head, pretending to think. "No, no… fourteenth."
Her wrinkled face twisted into something almost like amusement. "My, my… what a busy year."
Together, they dragged the body down into the dark.
The underground chamber was worse than a graveyard. The air was damp, the stone walls slick with moisture. And scattered across the floor, hanging from chains, stuffed into alcoves—the remains of those who had come before.
The old woman worked efficiently, removing the dead man's cloak, boots, and belt. "Waste not," she murmured.
Salvatore watched her, arms crossed. "You've been doing this for a long time, haven't you?"
She grunted, throwing the stolen gear into a pile. "Longer than you've been wearing that priest's mask."
Salvatore's smile widened. "That's what I like about you. You're practical."
The old woman turned to him, wiping blood off her hands. Then she said something that made him pause.
"And when will you put me down here, too?"
Salvatore's grin froze.
For a moment, the silence between them was heavier than the corpse at their feet.
Then, he laughed.
It was not forced, nor was it cruel. It was genuine amusement.
"Oh, come now," he said, stepping closer. "Why would I waste a perfectly good servant?"
The old woman did not laugh. She only held his gaze for a long moment before turning back to the body.
Salvatore watched her carefully now, his expression unreadable. Something had changed.
And he did not like it.
She had always been loyal. From the very beginning, she had obeyed without question. She never hesitated when it came to disposing of bodies, never recoiled at the horrors buried beneath the church. But now, for the first time, she was thinking.
That was dangerous.
Salvatore tilted his head slightly, observing her in the dim torchlight. "Do you fear me now?"
The old woman let out a dry chuckle. "I never feared you." She bent down, grabbing the corpse by the arm and dragging it toward a pit at the far end of the chamber. The floor there had been dug out long ago, filled with the rotting remains of those who had come before. The unwanted ones.
Salvatore followed her movements. "And yet, you wonder if you will end up among them."
She did not answer.
The pit yawned before them, dark and bottomless. The body slipped from her grip, tumbling down onto the heap of bones and decayed flesh below.
Salvatore stepped closer. The flickering torchlight cast jagged shadows across the walls, and in that moment, he saw it clearly.
She was tired.
She would not say it. She would never say it. But he could see it in the way her hands trembled slightly, in the way her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of a lifetime spent cleaning up his mess.
He placed a hand on her shoulder, gentle. "You have served well," he murmured.
The old woman stilled.
And then—he pushed.
She gasped as she stumbled forward, her foot slipping on the loose dirt at the edge of the pit. She caught herself just in time, her fingers clawing at the stone floor.
Slowly, she turned her head to look at him.
Salvatore only smiled.
A test. A warning.
She understood.
The old woman swallowed, then pulled herself back up. She dusted her apron off, her face betraying nothing. "I'll fetch a shovel," she said simply before walking back up the stairs.
Salvatore remained where he was, gazing down at the pit.
It was deep.
Deep enough for one more.