Tyler stood at the top of the Silver Falls waterfall, surveying the land with a twisted grin. “I want a dam built—one kilometer upstream. Cut the river off from here,” he commanded.
The townsfolk, bound to his will, moved without hesitation. Those who resisted found their strength insufficient to fight the corruption. With lowered heads and empty eyes, they followed their Master’s orders.
Tyler turned to another group. “The rest of you—gather everything. Furniture, pots, pans, tools—anything that can clog the riverbed. Once the flow is cut off, I want it all dumped where the water once ran.”
His voice carried like a curse, and the people moved to obey.
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Tyler walked to the edge of the waterfall, peering down with a scowl. “I wonder where that little brat ran off to,” he muttered. “I don’t remember seeing her brought to the baptism... Shame. I wanted to drown her myself.”
There was genuine disappointment in his voice.
“Such is life—always letting me down.”
As he stepped closer, his foot slipped in the slick mud. With a curse, he tumbled to one knee.
“I swear—I just got these clothes!” he snapped, scrambling upright, his boots now caked in muck.
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Below the waterfall, the little girl hid among the bushes. She giggled softly as she watched Tyler slip—she had wished for it.
Quickly, she darted off to find a new hiding spot. This time, she climbed into an old wagon and buried herself beneath the hay.
“I need to get out of here,” she whispered to herself. “Someone has to warn them.”
But just as she was about to move again, a hand plunged into the hay and grabbed her by the collar of her shirt.
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One of the townsfolk under Tyler’s control had grabbed her. He lifted her into the air with no emotion in his eyes.
The little girl kicked and screamed. “Let go of me!” she shouted, thrashing in his grip.
Silent and unmoved, the man began dragging her toward the waterfall—toward Tyler.
The commotion drew Tyler’s attention. A wicked smile crept across his face as he called down, “Bring her up here, and I’ll make you a commander in my army! Bring her, so I can throw her off myself!”
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The little girl struggled to pry his fingers loose, her small hands gripping at his. She squeezed her eyes shut and whispered, “Return.”
The man halted mid-step, frozen. His eyes blinked rapidly, and the grip on her loosened.
“Where… where am I?” he muttered, confusion clouding his face. Tyler’s control had broken—he was free.
Then the memories hit him like a wave.
“Oh God… what did I do?!” he cried, stumbling back as the image of drowning his elderly mother at the baptism clawed into his mind.
The little girl got to her feet quickly. “Mister, I need help,” she said softly but firmly. “I need to get somewhere safe.”
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The man looked at the little girl, his panic beginning to fade. “We need to get out of here,” he said, his voice steadier now. “My name is Eric.”
The girl gave a small smile as he lifted her into his arms. “Elle,” she replied.
“Alright, Elle,” Eric said, tightening his grip.
“We need to go to River Hallow,” she added. “It’s safe there.”
Without another word, they turned and fled into the trees, leaving the horror of Silver Falls behind them—for now.
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“Where the hell are they going?!” Tyler shouted, eyes wide with disbelief. He jabbed a finger toward two nearby townsfolk who were busy working. “You two—go get that little brat back here! Now!”
As they rushed off, Tyler spun around and muttered under his breath, “Why is it always idiots I’m surrounded by?”
He took a step—then promptly slipped in the mud again, hitting the ground with a loud splat.
“I swear,” he growled, scrambling to his feet, dripping with filth, “when I get my hands on her, I’m going to boil her alive!”
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Marcus walked the dirt road, each step heavy with exhaustion. Days had passed since the Hunger took hold. He welcomed the moments of silence it brought—brief, bitter flashes of peace in an otherwise relentless torment.
“How does it feel to replace your family, Marcus?”
Lorna’s voice slithered through his thoughts like a curse.
She and Conner haunted him with every step, their voices as constant as his heartbeat.
“I would never do that,” Marcus whispered, though he wasn’t sure if he believed it anymore.
Ahead of him, the children in the Crimson Mist danced through the haze, their laughter like fractured glass.
“Father… when will we get to play again?” they asked in a single, haunting voice.
They moved just beyond reach, drifting like ghosts, always searching.
Always hunting for new playmates.
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“Yes, Father,” Conner's voice hissed through the fog. “When will you give them more to kill?”
A pause. Then, softer, more broken—
“Would you have liked me more if I was like them? Would you have saved me?”
“Stop!” Marcus shouted, squeezing his eyes shut, hands clenching at his head as if he could strangle the voices into silence.
The Crimson Mist paused, swirling uneasily.
“What’s wrong, Father?” they asked in unison, their tones filled with childlike concern.
“I’m not your father,” Marcus muttered, his voice low and trembling.
But something inside him disagreed.
A coldness stirred at the core of his being—quiet at first, then ravenous. It spread outward like frostbite, consuming everything in its path.
He dropped to his knees as the weight of it overcame him, stealing his breath, sapping his strength.
Around him, the vegetation began to wither, curling in on itself and turning to ash-brown husks. The air thickened. Each heartbeat brought more of the chill, deeper and hungrier than before.
And still, the mist watched, waiting for his next command.
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The Crimson Mist curled gently around Marcus’s body. As children, all they knew was the instinct to comfort—so they hugged him, clinging to him with spectral warmth. They didn’t want him to be in pain.
Moments passed in silence before the sensation faded, and Marcus finally found the strength to stand.
“I’m alright,” he whispered. “Thank you, children.”
“We love you, Father,” they replied in unison, their voices soft and sweet.
But the quiet didn’t last.
Their moment shattered as the children gasped, pointing down the road.
“New playmates!” they cried with glee.
Up ahead, the outline of a town came into view—Stennor. The hunger stirred again, gnawing at Marcus from the inside, stronger than ever. He gritted his teeth, helpless to fight it.
Then he saw him.
Standing at the open gate, unflinching, was Orion.
Their eyes locked. The road between them vanished.
Soon, they stood face to face.
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“Turn back, Marcus, or I’ll be forced to stop you,” Orion said, his voice steady with all the strength and conviction he could summon. In one hand, he held a worn Book of Scriptures; in the other, a metal rosary wrapped tightly around his fist. “Don’t make me do this.”
Marcus’s gaze shifted past him, landing on the familiar figure lying on the ground.
“We meet again, Melissa,” he said coldly.
Then, the words came—unbidden, venomous, and not his own.
“I’ll finish what I started in the forest.”
Marcus drew his sword.
The hunger had taken over.
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Before Marcus could strike, Orion lunged forward and punched him square in the face with the rosary-wrapped fist. Where the blessed metal touched skin, it sizzled, burning into Marcus’s flesh.
“Begone, monster! In the name of the Creator!” Orion shouted.
He turned, calling out, “Melissa! Get up and evacuate the—”
But he didn’t finish.
Marcus recovered fast. He brought his sword around and slammed the flat of the blade into Orion’s head, sending him stumbling backward.
“You shall go no further!” Orion yelled, bracing himself as he opened his book.
He began reciting a protection incantation against demons. A soft glow bloomed from the pages, spreading across the ground like a barrier of light.
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Melissa scrambled backward, fear clawing at her insides—but she fought it. These people needed saving.
Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to her feet and ran toward the town.
But she didn’t get far.
The Crimson Mist appeared, materializing in her path. “You can be our new mommy!” the children chirped in unison, their voices sweet and eerie.
Suddenly, the tarot card she carried shot out from her clothes, whirling around her in a protective dance. As the children closed in, one of the cards pulsed with light and launched forward, striking them.
“No fair!” they cried, recoiling. “You hurt us! All we wanted was to play!”
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Marcus stepped into the protection barrier. His skin sizzled and boiled on contact, forcing him to stumble back with a snarl.
“When I’m done,” he growled, “there will be no more Creator!”
His sword shimmered, dissolving into a swirling green vapor before re-forming in his grip. With a furious cry, he thrust it toward the barrier.
It became a battle of wills.
Orion stood his ground, chanting the protection incantation once more. The glow of the barrier pulsed stronger, but Marcus pressed harder, forcing the tip of his blade through.
Then, Orion did something Marcus hadn’t expected—he dropped the field.
Caught off guard, Marcus stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him straight into Orion’s waiting fist.
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One by one, the tarot cards found their mark. The Crimson Mist screamed in pain, their eerie voices echoing like broken violins. But their cries subsided the moment the last card struck.
"Now it's our turn to play rough!" the children hissed.
They lunged at Melissa. Claws tore into her flesh and shredded her clothing. She was thrown to the ground, struggling to catch her breath. Just as they closed in for the kill, a protective barrier shimmered into place, separating her from the Mist.
Melissa looked up—Orion stood over her, arm outstretched, chanting under his breath.
But with Orion distracted, Marcus rose to his feet. His sword, once vapor, reformed into cold steel. With a snarl, he drove it into Orion’s thigh from behind.
"I’m going to make you scream a thousand screams," Marcus growled, his voice venomous. "But not before I make you deaf with theirs."
He turned his eyes toward the town.
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Orion collapsed to the ground, dragging Marcus down with him. Marcus landed on top, the weight driving the sword deeper into Orion’s leg.
Gritting his teeth through the agony, Orion clenched his fist and struck Marcus again with the rosary-wrapped hand. The blessed metal seared into Marcus’s skin, but he didn’t relent. With a twisted grin, he pushed down on the hilt, driving the blade further in.
Orion screamed in pain.
“No!” he roared, reaching up and grabbing Marcus by the back of the head. Bloodied and shaking, he pulled him closer.
“Your terror... ends... tonight!”
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Melissa looked to Orion, and the fear she had felt in the forest returned—raw and paralyzing. The thought of Marcus ripping the priest like he so many others apart clung to her like an icy vice.
But it wasn’t Orion’s screams that stirred her to action.
It wasn’t the thought of the townspeople being slaughtered by Marcus and his children.
It was the silence.
The silence of her Coven sisters.
The silence of her father.
The silence left behind by everyone who had ever crossed paths with this monster.
The Crimson Mist shattered through the protective barrier, racing toward her. But before they could reach her, Melissa raised her hands and spoke one final spell.
She closed her eyes, heart pounding, and recited the Expulsion Rite.
Her voice rang out—booming with force and magic, filled with power and pain.
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Melissa drew her dagger, her grip unsteady. The dark forces surrounding Marcus were overwhelming; she could see the very vegetation around him wither and die, as if the land itself recoiled in fear. Her hands trembled as she traced the ancient runes in the air with the silver blade, the symbols glowing faintly with an otherworldly light.
"In nomine Creatoris, animae forsitan vagari no longer," she whispered, her voice barely a breath, yet laced with conviction. The words felt like a divine command, reverberating through her chest, and the very air seemed to shudder in response, thick with the weight of her magic.
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Marcus lunged for another strike at Orion, but something within him halted, as though an invisible force gripped his very soul. He could feel it—a pull, deep inside, as if the very darkness he wielded was trying to drag him under.
With a snarl, he shoved his blade forward again. “You will break every vow before I… Am…” His words were cut off, choked by an unseen power.
Melissa’s voice rang out, firm and unyielding:
"Exilium imperium, ut venientes in lucem non existant."
The air thickened, a suffocating weight descending upon them. Melissa could feel the darkness recoil, as though it, too, recognized the force of her command. It hesitated, a moment of hesitation in the endless tide of corruption.
Marcus screamed in agony, every fiber of his being feeling as though it were being torn apart. The blackness that coursed through his veins was being drawn out, as if the very essence of his corruption was being ripped from him. It oozed from his skin, leaving behind a trail of searing pain.
Orion shoved Marcus off him, but the darkness clung desperately, seeking any surface it could latch onto. The tendrils of blackness writhed and reached for Orion, but he swatted them away, dragging himself backward, away from Marcus.
"Obscurae clementiae, animae tuae abduco."
The dagger in Melissa’s hand pulsed with unnatural energy, as if it were alive, feeding off the very magic she invoked. Her grip tightened, and the surge of power flooded through her, the force of it filling her with an intoxicating heat. But as she watched Marcus writhe in pain, a flicker of something darker stirred inside her—an unsettling sense of satisfaction.
She quickly banished the thought. She would not take pleasure in this. She was nothing like him.
"Vita secedit, corpus solum manet."
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Melissa’s voice trembled with terror as she continued the incantation. Marcus collapsed backward, his body hitting the ground with a thud. He was dying, all over again—each breath weaker than the last.
"Arcanum Creatoris, po..." Her words faltered, cut off by a sudden, chilling sensation. A child’s clawed hand, slick with something unnatural, swiped across her face. She was knocked to the ground, her dagger slipping from her grasp.
"Father!" The children screamed, their voices filled with fear at the sight of Marcus in his weakened state.
For Marcus, the pain stopped. The pull that had tormented him ceased, leaving him gasping for breath, free from the dark force that had consumed him. Just in time, the Crimson Mist swept in, snatching his body with swift, unnatural strength, and pulling him deep into the forest, vanishing into the shadows.
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At the gates of Stennor, Melissa staggered toward Orion, her heart pounding in her chest. She closed her eyes, her hands trembling as she attempted to cast a healing spell. But the wound was too severe. She could feel the magic slip away from her, failing to mend the deep gash in Orion’s leg. She pressed her hands harder against the wound, willing herself to succeed. “Not him, too,” she whispered, her voice thick with panic. All she could manage was to slow the bleeding, the red staining his skin—a harsh, unforgiving reminder of the battle they’d just fought and the cost of it. Her mind flashed back to that night at Katherine’s home when Orion had carefully cut his own clothing for her, a simple yet intimate gesture of care. Now, it was her turn. She gritted her teeth, her fingers working swiftly as she tore strips of cloth from his torn clothing. With steady hands, she bandaged his leg, the weight of their journey heavy in the air between them.
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“We stopped him, Orion,” she whispered, her voice breathless from exhaustion, but filled with quiet triumph.
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