From the shadows between two columns, a figure crawls forth.
It moves like a thought forgotten — slow, uncertain, but unstoppable. It slithers, drags, coils itself into the light, though no part of it ever truly belongs to this world.
Almost human.
Almost nothing.
Its body is a grotesque imitation of form, androgynous and fragile — like a wax doll left too close to fire. Flesh sags, glistens, and warps with each motion, rippling as if still being shaped by unseen hands, fingers of memory and madness sculpting it moment by moment. From deep, hollow eye sockets, tears of molten wax flow continuously, incandescent and golden, like sorrow distilled into fire.
Each step it takes leaves behind a trail of smoking resin, sticky and warm. The smell is nauseating — a blend of burning candles, old churches, and something sickly sweet rotting underneath.
It has no mouth.
Yet it speaks.
Its voice bypasses sound entirely. It slides into Kaelis's skull like a cold nail, rattling through his spine, dragging itself across the walls of his bones.
"Three memories. Only one is true. Choose the true one… or lose them all."
The creature raises a trembling arm, the joints clicking wetly. Above them, the massive stained glass begins to rotate — slowly, like a dying wheel of time.
Each panel glows violently, erupting with sensations too vivid, too sharp to be dreams.
The scent of fresh-baked bread — warm, safe, aching with nostalgia.
The soft notes of a lullaby — half-remembered, haunting, the voice almost touchable.
The cold pressure of a medal against his chest — metallic pride, bittersweet, sharp as grief.
Each image pulses in his mind with unbearable clarity. Kaelis feels them all. In his throat. In his blood. They're not illusions — they're hooks, designed to anchor his soul.
But two are lies.
He knows it. Feels the falseness slither beneath their beauty.
Kaelis doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. His body is still, but his thoughts churn like a storm. The memories flicker before him, like candle flames on the edge of being blown out.
All of them feel real.
All of them feel like his.
But only one is the truth.
And the terror… is not in choosing wrong.
It's in wishing one of the lies were real. Wanting the dream. Wanting it to be home.
He closes his eyes.
And remembers.
Not with the mind — but with the wound.
The medal.
Its weight against his chest that day. The trembling hand of his father pinning it there, calloused fingers shaking. His eyes shining, but not with joy — with something deeper, something like farewell wrapped in love.
A smile that tried to be proud, but could not fully hide the sorrow.
That night… Kaelis never understood why, but it always tasted like loss.
He opens his eyes.
Reaches out.
His hand trembles as it touches the panel of the medal.
White.
Blinding, searing white.
Sound shatters like a thousand panes of glass behind his eyes. The stained glass above explodes in silence, dissolving into shining shards that scatter like stars.
And pain.
Pain without scream.
Pain that enters like a blade of memory, quiet and precise, sliding into the core of who he is.
Kaelis falls to his knees.
His heart pounds. His skin burns. But inside him — a memory stirs.
It returns.
Rebuilds.
His father's embrace, tight and trembling.
Eyes full of sorrow and something final.
The medal wasn't a trophy.
It was a goodbye.
A gift before surrender. A token of courage before the end.
That night, the men from the cathedral came. They took him. No explanations. No chance to resist.
And that was the last time Hadriel ever saw his father.
The memory burns as it returns.
But something else…
Is gone.
He tries to hear.
The lullaby.
But the sound is gone.
Erased.
He remembers his mother's lips moving, the way she held him, the rhythm of her hands on his back.
But not the song.
Not a single note.
The memory has been muted, as if someone reached into his mind and plucked the sound out like a string from an instrument.
A hole is left behind. Empty. Cold.
The wax creature smiles.
Not cruelly.
But not kindly either.
A smile without malice.
Without mercy.
Its form begins to melt, wax running in rivulets down its limbs. Limbs collapse in on themselves. Shoulders sag. It doesn't resist its end. Its body dissolves like a candle in mourning.
And with it — so does the lullaby.
"Truth has a price… And this was only the first."
Only a pool of wax remains. Flickering faintly. Quietly weeping smoke.
Kaelis doesn't move.
Then — he weeps.
Not from the physical pain, though it's still there, raw in every limb. But from something deeper — the ache of something taken. A piece of his soul pulled out with surgical precision. No blood. No wound.
But the absence screams.
"Damn this place… Damn those bastards! What did they do to the boy who lived in this body?!"
His voice echoes in the chamber, breaking on the edges of his grief.
Then—
A wall, once seamless, sighs open. A silent door appears where there was nothing before.
Behind it, a staircase descends.
Kaelis breathes deep. Shaky. Unsteady. But he rises. He has no choice.
"I have to… I have to keep going."
The stairs descend like a vision from a fever — warped and endless, stretching in pulses, contracting and expanding like a living throat. As Kaelis descends, the walls begin to change. Their surface softens, glistens. Veins twitch beneath the surface.
Living flesh.
Moist.
Sticky.
Breathing.
With each step, the air grows warmer. Wetter. It clings to him like sweat-soaked cloth.
At the bottom — a door.
Metallic, but wrapped in skin. Thick veins throb across it. The surface is warm to the touch, and exudes a stench so vile it claws into his throat — a mix of rot, bile, and burning incense.
But it's not the smell that chills him.
It's the screams.
From within.
Voices beyond human comprehension — some wailing like dying animals, others moaning with deranged delight. Screams that echo with pain, despair… and something far more disturbing.
Pleasure.
Kaelis's hand trembles.
But he opens the door.
And the nightmare welcomes him.
The floor beneath his feet is not stone — but flesh. Taut, heated, stretched tight like the back of a drum. It twitches beneath him, reacting to each step with a wet crack, like snapping cartilage.
A thin membrane coats the surface — translucent skin. Beneath it, he sees veins pulsing, fluid moving, muscle twitching.
The walls rise around him, shifting slightly as if the place were breathing. In. Out. With each inhale, the air grows hotter. And with each exhale, a wave of scent rolls over him:
Sweet perfume. Coppery blood. Burnt roses.
It's the scent of childhood and mourning, of guilt and lost innocence.
From the ceiling, thick, bulbous glands hang like grotesque fruit. From each, a milky fluid drips, slow and steady — one drop at a time. Every drip lands with a wet splat on the floor.
One strikes Kaelis's shoulder.
He screams.
It burns.
Not like fire.
But like regret made liquid, eating into his skin, echoing with every memory he's tried to forget.
And the floor pulses again.
The nightmare has taken shape.
And it's just begun.