The fog pulled back like a theatrical curtain, revealing a wide, circular clearing of jagged obsidian. At the center sat the Mind Jacker—a pulsing, mountainous heap of translucent, pale-grey flesh. Dozens of stalks tipped with milky, unblinking eyes swiveled in every direction, and a massive, vertical slit in its center dripped with a glowing green digestive bile.
But the monster wasn't the most horrifying sight.
The Procession of the Lost
Walking in a slow, rhythmic circle around the beast were the missing knights and adventurers. Jace, Kaelen, and the others were moving with a stiff, doll-like grace. Their eyes were rolled back so far only the whites were visible, and their mouths were moving in a low, terrifyingly synchronized drone.
"The Master is the path... the Master is the peace..." they chanted in a flat, emotionless monotone. "We are the fuel for the Great Flame."
As they chanted, they were mechanically unbuttoning their tunics and unbuckling their belts. Armor plates clattered to the ground, followed by shirts and trousers. They were stripping themselves bare, their fingers moving with a frightening efficiency. They stood in nothing but their simple undergarments, their skin pale and goosebumped in the cold fog, yet they smiled with a vacant, blissful ecstasy.
"They're offering themselves up," Michael hissed, his knuckles white on his sword hilt. "The monster makes them feel like being eaten is the ultimate reward."
The Siren's Hum
Suddenly, the high-pitched hum in the air shifted. It became a deep, vibrating thrum that resonated in the marrow of their bones.
"Children... come home..." a voice whispered—not through the ears, but directly into their brains. It sounded like Marek, but layered with a thousand distorted voices.
Alaric stumbled, his vision blurring. He saw his father, the King, beckoning him to put down his sword. He felt a sudden, overwhelming weight in his chest—a feeling that he had fought long enough, that he could just... stop. His hands moved to the clasp of his royal cloak.
"Alaric, no!" Clara screamed. She was clutching her head, her own mind a battlefield. Because of her previous trauma, the "mantra" was trying to slot into the scars Marek had already left. She felt her knees buckle, her fingers twitching toward the laces of her bodice.
The Resistance
Michael let out a roar of pure, unadulterated rage. "BURN!"
He ignited his Penitent Flame, not at the monster, but in a ring around himself and his friends. The intense heat of the white fire acted as a sensory anchor.
"Alaric! Snap out of it!" Michael grabbed the Prince by the shoulder, his gauntlet hot enough to sting.
The pain broke the trance. Alaric gasped, his eyes snapping back to focus. He saw his hands were halfway through unhooking his breastplate. He felt a wave of nausea and fury. "It... it felt so warm. It felt like I didn't have to worry anymore."
Clara bit her lip until it bled, the iron taste of blood helping her stay grounded. "It's using the Green Void frequency! It's trying to make us repeat the mantra!"
"The Master is the path..." a new voice joined the drone.
The three of them froze. They turned slowly to look at Seraphina.
The Commander’s Fall
Seraphina had stepped past Michael’s ring of fire. Her claymore lay in the dust, forgotten. Her silver hair was wild, and her eyes—usually so sharp and commanding—were empty white voids.
"We are the Master’s clay," she whispered, her voice joining the knights' chorus.
Her hands moved to her shoulder guards, unlatching the silver plates. They hit the stone with a heavy thud. She reached for the lacing of her armored corset, her fingers steady and rhythmic. She was already beginning to strip, her face wearing that same horrible, vacant smile of a slave.
"Seras! Stop!" Alaric lunged for her, but a psychic wall of pure force threw him back.
The Mind Jacker’s eyes all swiveled toward them. It had sensed the strongest will among them was finally breaking. It wanted the Commander most of all.
ns216.73.216.181da2
and then Add to home screen.