Chapter 81: The Brand
What was this? I saw the crimson threads streaking towards me and my body reacted on instinct, trying to dodge. The image of the cheetah's explosive, bloody end was still seared into my mind. This was not a gift; it was an attack. A few of the other figures reacted as well, a flicker of movement in the gloom. It seemed that they could also see the threads? But it was useless. The crimson threads moved with an unnatural speed, homing in on each of us with a predator's unerring accuracy. There was no escape.
“Hiss!” A searing pain, as if a white-hot branding iron had been pressed to my skin, erupted on my left arm. Others in the crowd cried out, a chorus of pained, angry hisses echoing through the cavern. They immediately pulled back their sleeves, revealing a strange, new mark on their flesh: a bizarre, searing symbol that looked like a knot of writhing maggots, a mark of pure corruption burned into our skin. It glowed with a fiery light for a moment, then faded to a stark, ugly black brand. But I didn't move. I felt the pain, a distant, academic sort of agony, but my mind and body felt disconnected, a strange lethargy settling over me. It was as if I were playing a game, watching my character take damage, the controls sluggish and unresponsive. I didn't even bother to look at my own arm. I could see the brand on the others. That was enough. A few of the figures glanced at me, at my strange lack of reaction, but I didn't care. I'm tired of this bizarre, preposterous dream already. Again, I had no idea what these people are talking about. When could I wake up? When could I just… sleep?
“What have you done?!” one of the robed figures demanded, his voice a furious snarl as he thrust his newly branded arm towards the Pope. The others glared, their earlier fear replaced by a new, simmering rage. It was clear that if the Pope didn't have a very good explanation, they would tear him apart, no matter how powerful he was.
“What have I done?” the Pope replied, his voice rising in a fanatical, ecstatic cry. “I have given you a gift! A sacrament!” As he spoke, the strange, asymmetrical crown on his head began to glow, not with light, but with a profound, light-devouring darkness. It was a blackness so absolute that it stood out against the gloom of the cavern, a hole in reality itself. A wave of pure, unadulterated terror, a palpable pressure that felt like the weight of the deep ocean, washed over the grotto, emanating from the black light of his crown. Some of the figures stumbled back, others let out a low, guttural moan. A few even collapsed to the ground, their courage utterly broken. How pathetic. The Pope’s aura was terrifying, yes, but to be reduced to a quivering heap on the floor? Then again, this was a dream. The normal rules of logic, of courage and cowardice, didn't apply.
“It is a gift,” the Pope purred, his voice now a smooth, condescending caress. “A spell of my own devising. A small token of my sincerity. And its effect…” He gestured towards the bloody smear on the floor where the cheetah-creature had once stood. “…well, you have all just witnessed it.” A collective gasp went through the crowd. Their anger and fear were now mingled with a new emotion: a dawning, terrible greed. The Pope had just gifted them the very spell that had killed the cheetah.
“Alright,” Lavias Tepes said, his voice still cool and detached, his arms still crossed as he leaned against the pillar, seemingly unaffected by the Pope's display. “Never mind the party favors. Let’s get to the heart of the matter. Why have you summoned us?” He had claimed not to be the Pope's friend, yet he was now steering the conversation exactly where the Pope wanted it to go. Perhaps they were not adversaries, but partners in this strange, dark play.
“I have summoned you, my faithful brethren, to take part in the great cause of our Lord!” the Pope declared, his voice once again rising in a fanatical fervor, his arms spread wide as if to embrace them all. “To aid in the coming of the Lord of the Sky!”
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