Laughter.
It echoed within his mind, layered and unnatural, as if borrowed from a hundred voices yet belonging to none. The whispers that had crept into his thoughts moments before now swelled, rising and falling like a tide. They were not spoken aloud. They did not travel through air. They simply… were.
Erasmus did not react, not outwardly. Fear was a weapon best left in its sheath. Instead, he let his grip tighten around the scale in his hand. The laughter had no source. No lungs birthed it, no mouths shaped its sounds. It existed purely as intent, a thing that wormed its way into his skull without permission.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the laughter ceased.
Something stood before him.
A man—or something pretending to be one.
The figure loomed just beyond the edges of Erasmus' perception. He could hear the steady drag of cloth shifting, the wet sound of breath slipping through unseen lips. But when Erasmus turned his head toward him, the presence flickered.
As if it had never been there.
Then—
"Welcome, traveler."
The voice slid into the silence like oil over water—thick, slow, seeping into every corner of Erasmus' awareness. It was warm, pleasant even, yet it carried a weight that made the air feel heavier.
Erasmus did not answer immediately. Instead, he simply stood, waiting, measuring.
A shape coalesced from the darkness. A man. Or at least, something shaped like one.
He was tall, draped in layered robes that concealed most of his form, but Erasmus could tell—beneath the cloth, something was wrong. The proportions were just slightly off. His shoulders sloped too smoothly into his arms, and when he moved, his body seemed to shift with an unnatural fluidity, as if bones were an afterthought.
But it was the face that unsettled the most.
A mouth stretched wide in a permanent grin, too sharp at the corners, too fixed in place. His teeth were visible—neat, white, perfectly aligned—but they never parted. The lips curled upward, locked in an expression that never faltered, never wavered, never changed.
The Smiling Man.
Erasmus inclined his head. "And who might you be?"
The Smiling Man's lips did not move, yet the voice came all the same.
"A guide. A friend. A witness to your arrival."
Erasmus did not respond. Instead, he simply stood, listening.
The Smiling Man took a slow step forward. The ground did not react to him the way it had to Erasmus. No hesitation. No resistance. As if the world itself had already accepted him.
"It is rare to find one such as yourself, unclaimed and untethered," the Smiling Man continued. "You carry the weight of judgment, yet you are not bound by it. Fascinating."
Erasmus kept his expression unreadable.
The Smiling Man gestured toward the darkened forest. "Come. There are others who will wish to see you. Those who have found peace in this place, who have freed themselves from suffering."
A cult, then.
Erasmus considered. He did not yet understand the full nature of this world. If there was a structure to it—a hierarchy of power, a set of laws—he needed to learn them. He had no illusions that this place was anything but a trap, but traps were most dangerous when sprung without understanding.
For now, he would follow. Not as a believer, nor as a victim—but as an observer.
With measured steps, Erasmus walked forward, following the Smiling Man into the waiting dark.
—
The journey was not long, yet the landscape subtly shifted as they walked. The thick, pliant ground gave way to something firmer, more stable. The air grew heavier, saturated with an unseen presence that pressed against the skin.
Then, lights.
Faint, flickering flames emerged in the distance—torches, held aloft by robed figures who stood in silent welcome. Their faces were obscured by hoods, but their postures were relaxed, almost unnaturally so.
As they entered the settlement, Erasmus observed.
The dwellings were crude yet orderly—stone structures shaped without tools, their surfaces smooth, too smooth, as if they had not been built but rather… willed into being. There were no signs of struggle, no indications of hardship. The people moved with an eerie calm, their expressions neither joyous nor mournful.
A stillness lingered in the air. Not the absence of sound, but the absence of unrest.
They were… content.
Too content.
The Smiling Man stopped at the center of the settlement, where a raised platform stood. Upon it, a large stone altar loomed, carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift when unobserved.
A woman approached, her movements slow and deliberate. Unlike the others, her hood was drawn back, revealing serene features untouched by worry. Her eyes were dark, depthless, reflecting no fear, no hesitation—only quiet acceptance.
She spoke, her voice smooth, unwavering.
"You have been guided here, stranger. You need not suffer the weight of memory any longer. The Ebonmoth will take it from you, as it has taken from us."
Erasmus' fingers twitched slightly against the cool metal of his scale.
The Ebonmoth.
The name settled into place, an anchor of understanding amidst the unknown.
He had not seen it, but he knew.
Even without his eyes, without sight in the way others understood it, his perception stretched into things deeper than surface reality.
And now, with focused intent, he sensed it.
Something perched atop the woman's head, nestled against her hair like an ornament. Not heavy. Not obvious. But there.
A presence.
A small, black creature, no larger than a palm.
It did not move. It did not breathe. But it was.
The others had them too.
Perched upon their shoulders, their hands, their heads—some visible, some merely impressions lingering at the edges of thought.
The Ebonmoths did not devour flesh.
They devoured memory.
The realization sent a ripple of amusement through Erasmus' thoughts.
So that was the truth of this cult. They did not worship gods. They worshiped absence.
Erasmus exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "No."
The woman blinked. "No?"
"No," Erasmus repeated, his voice steady, absolute.
He did not elaborate.
The air tensed.
The Smiling Man's grin never wavered. "Ah… how rare."
The cultists remained still, watching, waiting.
The silence stretched.
Then, slowly, Erasmus turned.
He would not be staying.
And if they tried to stop him—
Well.
That would be their mistake.