A faint mist curled above the red-stained ground, drifting over the cracked stone like the last breath of something ancient and dying.
The group gathered around the collapsed figure of Erasmus, confusion etched into every face.
Mira hovered a few steps back, clutching her arms to her chest, warily watching him as if uncertain whether he was wounded—or dangerous.
Brin knelt awkwardly nearby, his face scrunched in uncertainty.
Sir Calden stood stiffly, his hand resting near the hilt of his sword, though the usual certainty in his eyes was absent, replaced by wary distrust.
Rei paced a few steps back and forth, muttering under his breath.
And Riven, sharp-eyed as ever even in the midst of disorientation, crossed his arms and stared at Erasmus with a frown that didn't quite reach suspicion—just blank confusion.
No one spoke at first.
It was Mira who broke the silence, her voice soft but trembling. "Who… who is he?"
"I don't know," Brin admitted, glancing at the others for reassurance. "He… he was here when we woke up, wasn't he?"
"I don't even remember how we got here," Rei muttered, kicking a loose stone into the red grass. "Or where 'here' even is."
Sir Calden grunted, scowling at the surrounding landscape of crimson trees and bone-white skulls. "Lost in the woods, maybe. Cursed place. He's just a stray. Some poor fool caught same as us."
Riven's eyes narrowed. "Doesn't explain the blood," he said, nodding toward the dark stains pooling around Erasmus' collapsed form. "Or why it feels like… something changed."
A beat of silence passed.
Then, with a low groan, Erasmus stirred.
He moved sluggishly at first, as if awakening from a deep, fevered dream. His hands twitched against the stone floor. His breathing quickened, shallow and frantic. For a moment, he lay still, letting the tension stretch.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Erasmus opened his eyes—and stared upward at the group with wide, glassy wonder.
As if he were seeing a miracle.
He sat up with a shuddering gasp, his movements jerky, uncoordinated—calculatedly imperfect. His gaze flitted across the gathering faces, lingering on each with an expression of raw awe.
"I… I found it," he whispered, his voice breaking just enough to sound genuine.
The others exchanged glances—uncertain, wary, but... sympathetic.
"I found the way," Erasmus said louder now, voice filled with fervent conviction. He scrambled to his feet, still swaying, clutching at the air as if grasping unseen revelations.
"I—I've been blessed," he gasped. "Blessed by the divine itself!"
Mira stepped back instinctively. Brin's mouth dropped open slightly.
"I saw it!" Erasmus continued, his words tumbling out with frantic devotion. "A vision! A revelation! The path to survival—granted to me alone!"
Sir Calden narrowed his eyes but didn't interrupt.
"You..." Erasmus pointed to them one by one, trembling, humble, a desperate youth clinging to purpose. "You were sent to me. To be saved."
"And how exactly do you know that?" Riven asked, his voice edged with suspicion.
Erasmus turned to him with a bright, trembling smile.
"Because I have been chosen!" he proclaimed. "I am... a prophet now! A servant of the higher will! I alone can lead us to salvation!"
A stunned silence followed.
The group stared, unsure how to react. They had no memories of Erasmus, no knowledge of his cold gaze, his cutting mind. All they saw was a lost boy, battered and bleeding, claiming a destiny greater than themselves.
The chaos of the world—the collapse of their memories—left them adrift. And in their confusion, Erasmus was a beacon.
A guide.
Exactly as he intended.
—
Inside, beneath the mask of trembling devotion, Erasmus' true thoughts churned, cold and precise as ever.
There was no divine blessing. No revelation.
Only opportunity.
They were tools. Meat shields for the dangers he would face. Experiments for the theories he would craft. Expendable assets to be deployed at his discretion.
Every word, every expression, every quiver of false faith—measured.Calibrated.
They would follow him now, out of fear, out of hope, out of desperate longing for a purpose they could no longer remember.
And when the time came—when their usefulness ran dry—he would discard them without a second thought.
He smiled wider, letting the false light dance in his eyes.
"Follow me," he said, voice reverent, humble. "And you will survive."
The others hesitated—wary, broken—but one by one, they nodded.
In the blood-red clearing, beneath the sleeping trees and bleeding grass, Erasmus—the False Prophet—rose to lead his flock into the darkness.
They began to move, half in awe, half in fear, clinging to the illusion he had spun.
But the moment they crossed the shattered perimeter of the clearing, the air shifted—wrong, tainted, like breathing in the rot of something that had never lived properly.
Mira was the first to notice. She froze mid-step, her breath catching audibly in her throat.
"There..." she whispered, voice trembling, pointing into the heavy mist that swirled between the blood-colored trees.
The others followed her gaze—and then they saw it too.
A figure.
Distant at first. Crouched low to the ground, moving with an animalistic, jagged crawl.
At first glance, it resembled a man on all fours, but that illusion was quickly broken. Its limbs were elongated and splintered, bending backward at unnatural angles, twitching with spasms too sharp to be voluntary. And where its head should have been, there was only a gnarled, rotting tree—branches twisting upward like the antlers of a corpse, black sap leaking down its trunk in slow, pulsing streams.
The thing jerked and spasmed, its body writhing as if pulled by invisible strings.
And then, it turned.
No face. No mouth. No eyes. Only the hollow suggestion of a broken tree, creaking as it shifted to look at them.
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
Then Erasmus snapped into motion, voice cutting the frozen terror like a blade.
"Close your eyes!" he barked. "Now!"
The group flinched in terror at the force of his command.
"Don't look at it!" he shouted again, louder, more urgent. "It's not meant to be seen! Close your eyes!"
Panic rippled through the group. Mira squeezed her eyes shut instantly, falling to her knees. Brin clamped his hands over his face. Sir Calden averted his gaze, swearing under his breath. Rei whimpered and buried his face into the crook of his arm. Even Riven, skeptical and slow to trust, obeyed, his body rigid with unwilling fear.
"Don't look!" Erasmus screamed again, his voice cracking—not with fear, but with calculated force.
And yet—
He never closed his eyes.
Erasmus stood firm, his gaze fixed on the impossible creature. His heart beat steadily in his chest. His mind remained clear, cold, untouched by terror.
He had seen worse.
This was not a command given out of compassion, nor protection.
It was strategy.
It was power.
Fear bound people more tightly than chains. Panic made them grasp for leadership without question. And in the primal, broken minds of his companions, he would root himself deeper.
He watched the creature as it spasmed once more and began to sink back into the mist, its form unraveling like a thread pulled from the weave of the world.
The others, blind and cowering, would never know he had seen it. They would only remember that he had saved them. That he had known what to do.
Their prophet.
Their shield.
Their weapon.
Exactly as he intended.