He stood in a void of fog and blood.
It churned around him—thick, suffocating—no up, no down. Just endless, crimson mist humming with something ancient and wrong.
Then came the voice.
A thousand voices layered over each other like rotting silk, seeping into his skull. It didn't speak—it infested.
"You are not chosen. You are not destined.""But you are hungry. And hunger is enough."
"You want power?""Then lie."
"I will give you a gift—the power to twist reality.""But only if others believe your lie.""Say it. Make them believe. And the world will obey."
"But the cost... is you."
"Every time you use this gift, I will take something.""Your memories. Your mind. Your grip on what's real.""Until you forget who you were, what you loved, and why you fight."
A pause.
"So—do we have a deal?"
Vale's hands trembled. His breath caught, shallow and sharp.
But he nodded.
"Yes," he said.
And the mist smiled.
He awoke on the cathedral floor, soaked in sweat, gasping for air.
But the mist didn't clear.
It moved—twisting around him, dragging him downward like a current in deep water.
Reality folded.
And Vale fell into a world stitched from nightmare and memory.
He stood in a ruined cathedral.
Not the one in Ashendel. This one had been devoured by time—its walls cracked and bleeding, vines splitting the stained glass like veins feeding on rot. The Blood Moon burned outside, pulsing like a wounded heart.
Before him:
A child. Crying.
A priest. Kneeling, bloodied.
A crowd. Screaming, eyes wide with terror.
The child pointed at Vale and shrieked,"He's the demon!"
The crowd turned.
Dozens of eyes locked onto him—eyes filled with fear, belief, certainty.
And the world shifted.
Pain tore through Vale's skull as horns erupted from his head. His hands cracked, fingers elongating into claws. His shadow twisted behind him—no longer human.
His voice caught in his throat.
"They believe it," he thought."So I'm becoming it."
Then the voice returned, etched deep into the marrow of the world:
"Escape this trial.""Or become the truth they created."