#astra lads

You watch him, heart hammering, as his laughter reverberates off the cold stone walls of your chamber. The words "Get out" die on your lips, swallowed by the terror clawing up your throat. Yet Father Rafayel doesn't move to leave—instead, he strides over to your vanity chair, perching himself there with a casual stance.

His eyes never leave yours, and in the flickering candlelight, those inhuman irises—blue and pink, swirling in a hypnotic pattern—seem to drill into your very soul. The room feels small, the air thick with the heavy scent of his cologne mixed with something less definable, something that reeks of inevitability and despair.

"Tell me, Sister," he murmurs, his voice soft and silken yet laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of menace, "how have you truly been?" His tone drips with mock concern as if he cares deeply, yet his smile reveals a twisted amusement at your obvious discomfort.

You swallow hard, the taste of bile still lingering on your tongue. "Great," you manage to reply, your voice sounding brittle and false even to your own ears.

He leans back with an easy grace, one leg crossing over the other as he studies you with that same amused, unreadable expression. The lamplight flickers, casting shadows that stretch long across the walls, elongating his figure.

"You wound me, Sister," he says, placing a hand over his chest as if your words had struck him. "Is that any way to speak to your teacher? After all, I’ve gone through such trouble to check on you."

You tighten your grip on your blanket, fingers clenching into the fabric to keep your hands from shaking. "I don’t need your concern."

Rafayel sighs, tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair in a slow, methodical rhythm. "That sharp tongue of yours will get you in trouble one day." His gaze flickers to the loose strands of hair falling over your shoulder, and something in his expression shifts—just for a moment. "Sister Jenna should really be helping you with your habit. It’s a shame to see you so… undone."

Your jaw tightens. "Why are you here, really?"

 "Oh, but I already told you. Lessons must continue, even in the face of adversity. And… well, I do so hate to see you cooped up all alone."

Rafayel's lips part just slightly as he grins, and that's when you see them—gleaming, sharp fangs, nestled among otherwise ordinary teeth.

How had you not noticed before?

How had no one noticed before?

The way his canines press just a bit too sharply against his lower lip, how they gleam in the dim candlelight like polished ivory…  

Your fingers twitch toward the beads at your bedside, but you hesitate. Would that even do anything? Your mind races, stomach twisting with something far worse than fear—something closer to understanding, a horrifying realization creeping at the edges of your thoughts.

Rafayel tilts his head, watching you with something akin to amusement. “Oh? Not a fan, are you?” He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together as though in quiet prayer. “Well, that is unfortunate. I quite like you.”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. “With all due respect, Father, you're quite the hypocrite, and I’m not the biggest fan.”

His laughter is soft, warm even, but it sends a chill straight down your spine. “Hypocrisy? My dear Sister, I merely practice what I preach—power is meant to be checked, is it not?” His fingers drum against the chair’s armrest, slow and deliberate. “I simply ensure it does not go unchecked in the wrong hands.”

He isn’t talking about himself.

He’s talking about you.

Adjusting how you sit, suddenly feeling as though your back is too stiff, you take the pillow away from your back. When you open your mouth to speak, he raises a hand.

"Before you answer, Sister, you're a smart woman. So let's cut to the chase, hm? You know what I am, you watched me kill that woman. You've probably figured out about the rest. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to help me get my meals, and I won't kill you." 

Help him? Help him?

He says it so plainly, so casually, as if he’s asking you to pass the salt at dinner rather than demanding you lure innocent people to their deaths.

Rafayel watches your reaction with quiet amusement, his fangs catching the candlelight as he speaks again, voice smooth and patient. “It’s a rather simple arrangement. You’re already quite good at charity work—this will be no different. Just…a different sort of donation.”

"I will not-" Rafayel sighs like you just told him you won’t eat your vegetables. He leans back in the chair, legs spreading wide as he gets comfortable, drumming his fingers against the armrest. “C’mon, pet, don’t make this difficult.”

You stiffen. “I am not your—”

He waves a hand, cutting you off. “Yeah, yeah, you are, but we’ll circle back to that.” His smirk widens, and you hate how casual he is, like he’s discussing the weather. “Look, I get it. You’re upset. You saw something nasty, had a little existential crisis, threw up a few times—”

Your stomach turns.

“—but here’s the thing,” he continues, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re smart, Sister. And you care. That’s your whole thing, right? You care so damn much.” His gaze flicks to you, sharp and knowing. “Which is exactly why you’re gonna help me.”

You shake your head immediately. “I won’t.”

He actually laughs at that. “Oh, you will.” He stretches, rolling his shoulders. “Because if you don’t, well… I’ll just have to start getting creative.” His voice is light, conversational. “Maybe start with Yvonne. She’s always so chatty. Or Simone—she’s got sass in her, I like that.”

Your blood runs cold.

Rafayel grins. “See? You’re already thinking about it.” He reaches out, flicking a stray strand of hair behind your ear like this is some friendly little talk between acquaintances. “So take your time, sleep on it. But don’t take too long, yeah?”

And just like that, he stands, dusting himself off like this has all been a very boring chore. “I’ll be expecting a yes, pet. Don’t disappoint me.”

Rafayel pauses for a moment, his chest rising with a deep, almost exaggerated breath, as though he’s just stepped into a field of blooming flowers. And then, without warning, he leans in, the cool air between you shifting as he presses his lips to your cheek.

It’s not a soft kiss, not tender. It’s firm. As though he’s marking you

His lips barely brush your skin, but the sensation lingers, cold and wrong. He takes a deep breath, like he’s savoring something, and when he pulls back, there’s a slow, lazy smile on his face.

“Sweet,” he muses, tapping a finger against his lips. “Just like I thought.”

Your stomach churns. Your skin burns where he touched you, like it might rot away if you don’t scrub it clean. His scent fills your nose—something unsettlingly familiar, something that belongs only to him.

He chuckles at your expression, at the way you’re gripping your sheets like they might save you. “Don’t look so scared, Sister. It’s just a little kiss.” He turns, walking to the door with a hum, before tossing one last glance over his shoulder. “Sleep well, pet.”

You want to scrub the spot where he touched you until it bleeds, but you can’t move. Your limbs feel heavy, as though something inside you has frozen over, solidifying in place.

His footsteps retreat down the hall, but his presence stays with you, suffocating. A dark stain spreading across the room, turning everything in it into something vile.

It was just a kiss. He’d said so himself.

But it was not just a kiss.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trembling, and you wonder if you'll ever be able to rid yourself of the feeling of his lips.

The morning light filtered in through the cracks in the curtains, but it did nothing to ease the sick feeling in your stomach. You groaned, pressing your hands to your stomach “Astra above, I hate this,”

The chill in the air felt colder today, and your mind immediately raced to yesterday’s events, to the way his lips had grazed your cheek and the sick feeling it had left behind. The blood had stained your undergarments. You move as quickly as the cramps will allow, stripping the soiled cloth away with a grimace. The sensation is awful—sticky, damp, and warm in the worst way. You bundle it up, tossing it aside to deal with later. Right now, you need water. Hot, scalding water to burn away the discomfort clinging to you like a second skin.  

Shuffling toward the washbasin, you prayed no one decides this is the morning to check in on you. The last thing you need is Yvonne or Simone barging in with their usual chatter while you’re hunched over, scrubbing at yourself like a woman possessed.  

The moment you splash water onto your skin, a shudder rolls down your spine. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. Not when you still feel him—his breath, his hands, the way he lingered too close with that smug, knowing smile.   

You dunk the cloth into the basin again, rubbing harder. The water turns pink.   

Damn him. 

You should be worried about other things—like why your cycle came late, or whether Sister Jenna has noticed your absence—but all you can think about is him. His cold touch. His fangs. The way he looked at you like you were something to be had.  

Your stomach twists, though whether from the cramps or the memories, you’re not sure…and you don’t know if it’s a good thing, the way the tips of your fingers feel numb, as if a swarm of butterflies had taken refuge inside your skin. 

You feel your cheeks grow warm.  

"Curse his damn face," you mutter under your breath, throwing the rag back into the basin with a wet slap.  

You’d like to go one day—one—without thinking about him. But it seems even the gods aren’t that merciful. 

Changing the water after you cleaned up, you wince. You’d need to light the fire if you wanted anything consistently hot. 

Pulling your head out of the tub, you take a mouthful of sudsy water with you as you cough and sputter. The water sloshes around you as you catch your breath, heart pounding from the sudden shock of nearly slipping under. Soap clings to your lips, bitter and sharp, and you spit it out with a grimace.

Brilliant. Drowning in a bathtub. What a way to go.

Pushing your hair back, you wipe at your stinging eyes, willing the heat in your cheeks to fade. You rest your arms on the edge of the tub, staring at the rippling water. The steam curls around you, thick and cloying, but it does little to ease the weight pressing against your chest.

He’s in your head. No matter how much you try to push him out, his voice, his touch, the way he looked at you—

You squeeze your eyes shut. Just breathe. Focus.

A knock on the door. Fuck. Who could it be? Jenna? Yvonne? Simone? "Bathing! Come back later!"

Silence.

For a moment, you think whoever it was has actually listened, but then—another knock.

You grip the edge of the tub. “I said I’m bathing. Come back later.”

"Oh, don't mind me, pet. Take your time."

The door stays shut, but the voice slithers through the wood, smooth and unhurried.

"Though, if you need a hand," Rafayel continues, voice laced with amusement, "I’d be happy to assist."

Your stomach twists. "Get. Out."

A chuckle, deep and knowing. "Oh, but I’m not in, am I?"

Your fingers twitch toward the nearest thing you can throw. A soap dish. Not nearly heavy enough, but it’ll do.

"Don’t you have a sermon to give?" you snap, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Hm. I do," he muses. "But I thought I’d check on my favorite little lamb first."

Your grip tightens. "I swear on Astra’s light—"

"Careful, Sister," he interrupts, voice dripping with false chastisement. "Oaths are binding things. Now, be good and finish your bath. I’ll see you soon.”

His footsteps fade down the hall. 

You need to get out of here. 

 Father Rafayel stands at the pulpit, his voice rising, reverberating through the wooden beams. The congregation sits in rapt attention, some faces lit with a fervor you find undeserved, if not for his clear violations of priesthood, than for the lack of variety in his sermons. 

His words are like honey, sweet but laced with poison. The man has truly mastered the art of manipulation.

"The Vampires," he continued, pacing slowly, his every step a rhythm. "They sought rebellion, but rebellion is the realm of those too blinded by pride to see the true light. And Astra, in His infinite wisdom, gave them a chance—a chance for redemption, should they seek a bride to prove their loyalty." Father Rafayel pauses, his gaze sweeping the room, landing on you for a brief moment.

You sit stiffly in your pew, hands clasped in your lap. The church is suffocatingly full, every bench packed, every eye turned toward the pulpit where Father Rafayel stands. His voice, smooth as ever, wraps around the congregation like a serpent coiling its prey.

"A bride," he repeats, letting the words hang, letting them settle into the minds of his rapt audience. "A chance at salvation. A chance to be made whole in Astra’s light."

They’d been focused on the Vampires before, but…

Since when had his sermons taken this turn?

Simone leans in, whispering, “Kinda weird, huh?” Her voice is light, joking, but there’s an edge beneath it. She’s noticed too.

Yvonne, on your other side, tilts her head. “I think it’s romantic.”

You barely bite back a scoff. Romantic? The way he spoke of it felt less like devotion and more like ownership.

And of course, stupid, sweet Yvonne raised her hand. About to pinch her to put it down, Rafayel had already noticed. His gaze was unreadable for a split second, and then that damning smile was easy and on. “Yes, Sister Yvonne?”

She clears her throat, sitting up straighter. “Father, does that mean the vampires can be saved? If they find a bride?” Simone subtly grabs your sleeve under the pew. Rafayel steps down from the pulpit, slow and deliberate. “Oh, Sister Yvonne,” he muses, his voice dripping with amusement. “What a wonderful question.”

He stops right in front of your row, right in front of her.

You don’t dare look up.

“But tell me,” he continues, tone light as air, “would you offer yourself, if such a creature sought salvation?”

Yvonne flushes. “O-oh, well— I just meant—”

His fingers brush her chin, tilting it up ever so slightly. The whole congregation watches, waiting. “Such devotion.” Chuckling, he releases her and straightens. “A heart as pure as yours, Sister, is a gift to Astra indeed.”

The tension in the room breaks. The sermon moves on.

Was no one seeing how blatantly wrong this all was?

But Yvonne just purses her lips. Father Rafayel continues on. "Now now, I know we've all been on this topic for quite some time as it is reoccurring. So, let us have a breathe of fresh air, Hmm? What would the Sisters like to discuss?" 

There’s a murmur of excitement as the congregation shifts, relieved by the change in topic. Yvonne and Simone exchange glances before Yvonne hesitantly raises her hand again.

“If it pleases you, Father,” she begins, “could we speak of Astra’s chosen? The saints?”

Father Rafayel chuckles, tilting his head. “Ah, a lovely choice. The saints. The most beloved of Astra’s servants.” His gaze flickers briefly across the Temple. “Tell me, Sister Yvonne, do you have a particular saint in mind?”

Yvonne thinks for a moment before nodding. “Saint Callista. Her miracles were always my favorite growing up.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other sisters, nods of approval.

Rafayel leans back ever so slightly, resting his hands on the podium in an easy, practiced motion. There is nothing grandiose in the way he speaks, no performative weight to his words—just the natural, fluid cadence of a man accustomed to teaching.

"Saint Callista," he repeats, as if rolling the name over in his mind. "A good choice." He takes a moment, thoughtful, as though he's considering how best to explain.

"She was known for her piety, yes," he continues, "but more than that, she was willing. That is what set her apart. Many saints were martyred, many suffered for their faith, but Callista? She offered herself. Freely. Without hesitation. That is why she was blessed beyond death."

A few heads nod. Yvonne tilts her head, thoughtful. Simone shifts slightly, but says nothing.

“Of course,” he adds, almost lightly, “sacrifice is not for everyone.” A pause, the ghost of a smile. “Not everyone is worthy of it.”

He closes the book with a soft thud before standing up. 

“Take, for example, Sister Y/n. Would you stand up, please?”

Rafayel's eyes flicker over you briefly, but there's no malice in his gaze—just that same calm, steady presence, like a teacher guiding a student through a well-worn exercise. He doesn’t demand attention, but somehow, all eyes turn toward you, drawn by his subtle power.

"Now, Sister Y/n," he begins, his voice even and calm, not an ounce of mockery in his words. "What would you say it means to offer oneself to Astra? To give freely and without hesitation?"

His gaze doesn’t waver from yours, and it’s like he’s waiting for an answer. Not like he expects one, not like he’s trying to put you on the spot, but more like he’s just curious—almost academically so. His fingers rest gently on the edge of his book, and you can feel the weight of the room's attention on you, but it's not uncomfortable. He makes it easy, as if you could refuse at any time and it wouldn’t matter to him.

"Think about it, Sister," he continues, voice smooth, "Surrender is a gift in itself. And it’s not something just anyone can give, is it?" There's a soft, contemplative pause, but his eyes never leave yours.

"I think...it means letting go of-" 

One of the postulants interrupts, answering for you. “Letting go of your truest self and giving your soul!”

Rafayel’s tongue clicks softly, and for the briefest moment, something sharp flickers across his face—annoyance, maybe even distaste. But it's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced with that smooth, patient smile of his.

"Ah," he hums, turning his attention to the postulant who interrupted. "A thoughtful answer, Sister. Though, I must admit, I was rather curious to hear what Sister Y/n had to say."

His tone is mild, but there’s an unmistakable finality to it. The postulant ducks her head, suddenly unsure, while Rafayel gestures for you to continue, as if the interruption had never happened.

"Please, Sister," he says, and his voice is kind—too kind. "You were saying?"

"I...I disagree with Sister Marianna. I think to offer oneself you are offering a sort of...*finality*, with your eternal soul, putting the afterlife above this, with which even if you die, it is in thanks to our Lord. A blessing, so to speak."

Rafayel tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just enough to let you know he’s considering your words with more weight than usual. His gaze shifts from you to the rest of the room, scanning the group of young women. His voice is quiet, yet firm as he speaks.

"Interesting," he muses. "A self-sacrifice in the name of salvation, something more eternal. But let me ask you this, Sister Y/n—what happens when that sacrifice is taken without choice? Is the soul still willing to give itself, then?"

He stands, pacing slowly in front of the altar, his fingers lightly brushing the pages of his book, but his focus clearly on the subject at hand.

"It’s easy to speak of offering yourself when it’s voluntary," Rafayel continues, his voice gaining a certain depth, almost hypnotic. "But if forced, what value does that offering have? What grace can there be in that?" He pauses, letting the question hang in the air for a moment before turning his gaze back to you.

"I wonder, Sister, would you still feel the same if your choice were taken from you?"

His smile is almost too gentle, his expression so casual, as if asking the most natural question in the world. 

“It depends on the pleasure of their lived life, I suppose, to determine if the value is there or not.”

Rafayel hums in acknowledgment, his fingers idly tracing the spine of his book. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something—amusement? Approval? It’s impossible to tell.

"A fascinating perspective," he says, voice even. "One’s lived experience dictating the worth of their sacrifice. A transactional sort of faith, wouldn't you say?"

He lets the words settle, then continues, stepping down from the altar’s platform.

"But tell me, Sister Y/n, if suffering outweighs pleasure, does that make the soul’s offering… meaningless? If pain eclipses joy, does that lessen the value of devotion?"

He stops just beside your row, looking out at the others rather than at you directly. There’s something disturbingly casual about his presence, as if this is nothing more than a friendly debate, as if he’s not leading you somewhere far, far darker.

"Or perhaps," he muses, "it’s quite the opposite. Perhaps those who suffer the most offer the greatest sacrifice of all."

"Not at all. If their last moments were that of pleasure, I see no reason as to why it would not count, regardless of how much pain there was to supposedly out weigh it. Pleasure depending on the person being- and excuse me- whether lust in sexual affairs or that of an enjoyable hobby."

Rafayel’s eyes flicker for a moment as you speak, the faintest glimmer of something dangerous behind his calm demeanor. He doesn’t interrupt, though, letting you finish your thought. "Ah, so it’s the subjective nature of the pleasure that gives it its value?" He tilts his head slightly, considering. "Then, by your logic, someone may find peace in their final moments, their soul offering complete, because they spent their last moments doing what they loved, regardless of the cost of that passion. Even if they were to find themselves at the very precipice of hell for it?" His gaze finally lands on you, and for a second, it’s almost like he’s scrutinizing your every word, every breath. 

"But isn’t that a dangerous path, Sister? If everything depends on personal satisfaction, where does one draw the line between self-preservation and sacrifice for the greater good?" He tilts his head slightly, his smile returning to something more playful.

He steps closer now, his presence imposing yet soft, the lines of his voice dropping lower. "A truly compelling notion, Sister. It almost implies that humanity, at its core, is not bound by pain or suffering but by what it chooses to embrace in its final breath. It suggests that in life, it is the joy that endures, not the torment." He pauses for a heartbeat, letting the silence stretch out between you. His gaze flickers to the rest of the room, to the others who seem to listen but remain silent, their attention clearly drawn to the unfolding conversation.

"And yet," Rafayel continues, his voice turning thoughtful, "we return to a rather simple question: If pleasure is so paramount, then why do we continually reject it in favor of discipline, of duty? Why is it that we are taught that sacrifice must be painful, that devotion must be without joy?"

“Tell me, Sister, would you say the gods themselves—those we revere—truly understand the weight of sacrifice, or are they simply looking for compliance, for submission?"

"Religion at its core is a man made ideology created to bring comfort from the unknown- is this the answer you wish for, Father? And still you try to make the question phrased as if to suggest my waverance in my faith?"

Father Rafayel’s smile doesn’t falter, though there’s an unmistakable sharpness in the way his eyes lock onto yours. He leans back slightly, folding his arms across his chest, but there’s an unsettling calmness in his demeanor, as if your words are merely the next piece of a puzzle he's been putting together.

"A thought-provoking perspective, Sister," he says slowly, almost savoring the weight of the exchange. "But you misunderstand me, I assure you. I’ve no intention of questioning your faith. No, it’s not your faith that I doubt, but perhaps the ease with which you claim certainty."

He takes a small step closer, lowering his voice, yet keeping it steady and soothing. "You see, faith—true faith—doesn't require the comfort of answers. It thrives in the unknown, in the questions. Religion, or at least the true form of it, is not about certainty. It is about accepting the chaos and the paradoxes. The belief that the divine, in all its mystery, is still worthy of trust, even when the answers don’t align with the world as we know it."

He uncrosses his arms, the soft rustle of his robes punctuating the silence that settles in the room. "That is why I ask you, Sister. You speak of religion as a creation of man, but is that not the very beauty of it? We—humankind—are meant to shape and mold what we believe, to become closer to the divine through our actions and thoughts. And I believe," he pauses, a slight edge creeping into his tone, "that you have the capacity to understand the true purpose of faith. Don’t you?"

His gaze intensifies, holding yours with an almost predatory focus. "So I ask again, Sister, where do you stand? What will you do when your beliefs are truly challenged? Will you embrace them or reject them, as so many have before?"

There’s a moment of silence, thick and suffocating, before he steps back, allowing the question to linger in the air between you like an unspoken dare.

The stone walls around you seem to press in a little closer as you walk, the weight of the silence heavy in the air. The hall is dim, with only the flickering light from torches along the walls casting long, uneven shadows. Each step of your shoes echoes louder than the last, your heartbeat drumming in your ears.

The air smells faintly of old stone and incense, mingling with the cold draft that slips through cracks in the walls. You can hear the distant murmurs of the other Sisters, their voices muffled and far away, lost in the sprawling expanse of the monastery.

Your mind feels a little foggy, heavy with the conversation from earlier. Rafayel’s words still linger in your thoughts like an echo, nagging at you. They don't sit right, and yet, they gnaw at the edges of your convictions, making you second-guess everything you thought you knew about faith, religion, and your place in it all.

As you approach the doors to the main hall, you pause. The feeling of being watched creeps up your spine, cold and uninviting. You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting to find Father Rafayel standing in the shadows, watching you with that unsettling, calculating gaze.

But there’s no one.

Just the silence.

Taking a deep breath, you push the doors open, your footsteps barely audible against the stone floor as you step into the dim light of the hall. The heavy doors creak as they close behind you, sealing you into the quiet sanctuary of the place that’s both your refuge and your prison.

A figure stands near the altar, facing away from you. It’s him.

Rafayel.

He doesn’t turn as you approach, but you can feel his awareness of you, like a presence pressing down on you from all sides.

Walking past him, he doesn’t look up. 

“Midnight, Sister. Do not forget.”

Your shoes click against the stone floor as you move quickly through the hall, and the distant echoes of your footsteps are the only sound in the air.

Midnight. That’s when he wants you, when he’ll come to take you.

You keep your focus straight ahead, your mind racing. You can’t help but wonder: What would happen if you refuse? What if you just... disappear?

Something clicks into place, a thought so simple yet so obvious it almost makes you laugh.

Disappearing. That’s it.

Your breath catches as you push off the door, pacing now, your thoughts unraveling in frantic, chaotic threads. It wasn’t just the sermons, the changes in doctrine, the way Rafayel had wormed his influence deeper and deeper into the village under the guise of faith.

It was the timing.

It was the pattern.

Because midnight was when Astra cast judgment. When the veil between the holy and the unholy was at its thinnest.

And if Rafayel had been twisting doctrine, twisting you—

Then what, exactly, was he planning to do?

It doesn’t matter. You needed to get out. Like hell you were going to help him. No way. No chance. 

The further you get from him, the heavier your chest feels. You know he's watching you, that unsettling stillness he always carries with him wrapping around you like a noose, but you refuse to turn back. You won't give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. Your shoes click against the stone floor as you move quickly through the hall, and the distant echoes of your footsteps are the only sound in the air. Finding your room, you open the door-

“Huh?” Why was Sister Jenna here?

She was sitting on your bed, hands folded neatly in her lap, back straight as a rod. At the sound of the door opening, her head snapped up, and she smiled—too bright, too forced.

“Sister Y/N,” she greeted, voice smooth but… off. “I was just tidying up.”

Your eyes flicked over your room. Nothing seemed out of place. Your bed was still made. Your books stacked just as you left them. The only thing that had changed… was her.

“I was hoping to speak with you.”

“About what?” you asked, stepping inside cautiously.

Sister Jenna tilted her head, studying you. “About Father Rafayel.”

Your breath hitched.

“What about him?”

Jenna’s smile widened, but her eyes—her eyes were watching you too closely.

“Oh, Sister,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I think you already know.”

“Did Father Rafayel send you?” You kept your voice even, careful.

Jenna blinked—too slow. And then she smiled.

“He does worry about you, you know.”

Your grip tightens around the handle, pulse hammering against your ribs.

Jenna takes a step forward. Not threatening, not quite, but there’s something in the way she moves—like she’s already decided how this is going to end. Jenna tilts her head, watching you like a cat might a cornered mouse. “Where are you going, Sister?” Her voice is gentle, too gentle.

“I— I’m tired,” you lie. “It’s been a long day.”

Her smile doesn’t waver. “Oh, I understand. But you really should stay put. It’s dangerous to be out at night.”

Your grip tightens. “Since when?”

“Since now.”

The air in the room shifts, the weight of something unspoken settling between you. Jenna takes a slow step forward. You push back against the door, pulse hammering in your throat.

She isn’t stopping you. Not yet. But she isn’t letting you go, either.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” she says, her voice sickeningly sweet. “It’ll be painless. I made sure of it.” You turn the handle, and she stands up.

“I know you’ve been struggling,” she says, voice laced with something that might have passed for concern if not for the glint in her eye. “Your faith. Your health. It’s been so hard for you, hasn’t it, Sister?”

You swallow. “I’m fine.”

A soft sigh, almost pitying. “No, you’re not.”

She takes another step forward. You step back.

“You shouldn’t fight this,” she continues, her voice taking on a rehearsed tone.

“You—” Your breath catches. “You’re giving me to him.”

Jenna sighs, clasping her hands together. “It’s not personal, Sister. He needs someone, and I… I can’t die yet.”Her eyes flicker with something desperate, something rotten. “You understand, don’t you?”

“No. I don’t.”  You don’t hesitate. The fire poker is cold and solid in your grip, and you swing it with every ounce of strength you have.

Jenna barely dodges. The tip of the poker grazes her shoulder, and she hisses, stumbling back.

"You crazy bitch!" she snaps, clutching her arm.

"I should be saying that to you!" you snarl back.You don’t wait. You raise the poker again, aiming for her ribs this time, but she sees it coming. 

She ducks, grabbing the shaft of the poker and yanking it. You stumble, losing your grip as the poker is ripped from your hands. But you don’t give her a chance to recover. You throw yourself at her, ramming your shoulder into her chest. She grunts as the impact sends both of you crashing to the floor.

You scramble to your feet first, your heart hammering as you make for the door.

But Jenna is fast.

She grabs your robes, yanking you back before you can escape.

"Where the fuck do you think you’re going?!"

You twist, elbowing her in the ribs. She lets out a sharp oof but doesn’t let go. You barely have time to react before she swings it at you.

You dodge, the poker narrowly missing your ribs. The air hums with the force of her swing. You don’t think. You just throw yourself at her, ramming your shoulder into her chest.

She grunts, knocked back a few steps, but she’s quick—too quick. Her fingers snatch at your robes, dragging you down with her.

You hit the floor hard, pain bursting through your back. But you don’t stop. You scramble, trying to roll away, to get up, but then—

Her hands are in your hair.

She yanks your head back, the sharp sting shooting through your scalp.

"Fucking—!" you gasp, one hand reaching to claw at her wrist, the other punching wildly. You connect—a sharp smack to her cheek—but she only snarls.

"Stop fighting!" she snaps, gripping your arm and twisting it behind your back.

"Get off of me!" you scream, thrashing, trying to buck her off.

She slams your head into the floor.

White-hot pain explodes through your skull. Your vision flares, then dims at the edges.

Your ears ring. Your limbs feel sluggish.

"You’re ruining everything," she growls, grabbing your wrist and forcing it above your head. "Do you think he would’ve let me go if I didn’t give him something better?!"

Your breath catches.

"He was going to take me," she spits, her voice shaking. "But then I realized—he wants you more. So I made a deal. You go to him, and I get to live."

Your legs kick, your free hand claws at anything it can reach—her face, her arms, her throat. You rake your nails across her cheek, feeling the skin break beneath your fingers.

She screeches, jerking back—but it’s not enough.

Before you can shove her off, she shifts, straddling your waist and pinning you beneath her weight.

"Just stop!" she snarls, gripping both your wrists and slamming them above your head. "You’ll only make it worse for yourself!"

"Fuck you!" you spit, wrenching against her grip.

She doesn’t budge. Instead, she presses her forearm against your throat.

You can’t breathe.

Your mouth falls open, a strangled, wheezing gasp escaping as panic erupts through you. Panic surges through you as your vision darkens at the edges. You choke, your legs kicking uselessly against the wooden floor.

Your fingers claw at her arm, nails digging into her skin, but she only presses harder.

"Shhh," she murmurs, leaning down, her breath warm against your ear. "It’s alright, Sister. It’ll be over soon."

Darkness pulls at the edges of your vision, but you can still feel it—Jenna’s iron grip on your face, her nails digging into your skin.

“There,” she huffs, panting from the struggle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She ties you up, grabbing your face harshly before letting go. 

“There,” she huffs, panting from the struggle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Your limbs are useless, bound tight, and your head lolls as she forces you to look at her. Then—

The door creaks open.

A slow, deliberate step.

The air shifts, thick and oppressive, sinking like a weight into the room.

Jenna goes still. Her fingers tighten on your jaw.

Then—

A voice. Smooth, cold, and dripping with venom.

“…Sister Jenna.”

The last thing you feel is Jenna’s nails digging into your cheeks, forcing your head still. The last thing you hear is the sharp intake of breath from the doorway. 

And the last thing you see—before the darkness swallows you whole—is Father Rafayel’s face.

His expression is unreadable.

But his eyes?

His eyes are seething.

Then, everything fades.

You wake up to the sensation of something cool against your forehead. Your head pounds, your limbs feel like lead, and for a moment, you can’t remember where you are.

Then it hits you.

Jenna. The struggle. The rope biting into your wrists.

And then—

Him.

Your eyes snap open.

The room is dim, flickering candlelight casting long, eerie shadows along the stone walls. You try to move, only to realize you’re still restrained. Not as tightly as before, but enough. And sitting across from you, elbows lazily resting on his knees, is Father Rafayel.

He says nothing at first, just watches. Like a predator taking its time with wounded prey.

Then, finally, in a voice quieter than you’ve ever heard from him, he asks:

“…Are you hurt?”

You don’t answer, looking around frantically. 

The room feels unbearably cold, the air thick and stale with something you can't quite place. Your pulse races in your ears, a sharp contrast to the eerie silence that hangs between you and Rafayel. The cold stone floor presses against your bare feet, and the lack of your habit—the comfort of its weight—only heightens your vulnerability. The back of your neck prickles, exposed, and your hair stirs with the ghost of a memory.

Your eyes flick to the corner, where a pile of clothes is neatly folded—your habit. But it's not yours anymore. Not the one you remember. The silence between you two deepens.

His gaze hasn't wavered from you. The intensity of it, the unspoken questions in those unsettling eyes, it forces your chest to tighten. His calm demeanor is almost worse than anything, especially after everything that just happened.

“Well?”

You shift, testing the restraints. Your wrists ache, but the bindings aren’t as tight as before. You swallow hard, your throat dry as sandpaper.

Father Rafayel watches you closely, his head tilting slightly. "I asked you a question, Sister." His voice is calm—too calm. The kind of calm that slithers under your skin like a warning.

You lick your lips. "You tied me up."

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but something close.”Sister Jenna tied you up.”

You glare at him. "And you left me like this."

He shrugs, rolling his shoulders as if the conversation bores him. "Would you have preferred I let her finish what she started?"

Your jaw tightens. He has a point, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Instead, you test the bindings again, hoping for some give.

"Ah, ah," he chides, stepping closer. "You'll only hurt yourself. And I’d rather not have my little pet all bruised up—"

"I'm not your pet."

Rafayel sighs as if you're being difficult on purpose. "Sister, you’re in quite the predicament to be making declarations, don't you think?"

You scowl, but he continues before you can fire back. "Now, are you hurt?" His voice is gentler this time, almost coaxing.

You hesitate. "No."

"Good." He steps even closer, crouching down so he's level with you. His cold fingers brush your cheek, tilting your head just so. "You were very brave," he murmurs. "Very, very brave."

You swallow hard. "Let me go."

He smiles. "Not yet."

He shifts his weight slightly as he gets on his knees behind you, his eyes narrowing as he inspects the marks on your wrists. His tongue clicks in disapproval. "All beaten up. That's no good," he murmurs, his voice a mix of irritation and cold concern. His gloved fingers trace the fresh bruises and raw skin, the harsh reality of his examination underscoring his words.

You flinch when his fingers ghost over the raw skin of your wrists, feeling the sting of torn flesh beneath the bindings. He tsks softly, his breath cool against the nape of your neck.

"She was quite rough with you, wasn't she?" His tone is light, almost amused, but there's something darker beneath it. Something that makes your stomach twist.

"She was trying to kill me," you snap. "Forgive me if I'm not too concerned about how rough she was."

Rafayel hums, undoing the knots with practiced ease. "A shame, really. I liked Jenna. She had a certain…pragmatism to her."

"She was going to sell me to you."

"And that was very pragmatic of her, don't you think?" He chuckles as he pulls the rope free, rubbing circles into your sore wrists. His touch is deceptively gentle. "But don’t worry, Sister. I have no use for traitors."

Something about the way he says it sends a shiver down your spine.

"She's still alive," you whisper.

"For now."

You swallow hard. "Are you going to kill her?"

He leans in, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "What do you think?"

His hand drifts dangerously close to your neck. 

You let out a slow, shaky breath as his hand finally retreats, but the ghost of his touch lingers like a threat.

He stands, stretching lazily before offering you a smirk. "No more 'Father Rafayel' nonsense. Just Rafayel will do."

You glare at him, rubbing your sore wrists. "You're the one who insisted on it in the first place."

"And now I’m insisting otherwise." His head tilts slightly, watching you with an amused gleam in his eyes. "Come now, we’ve been through so much together. Surely we can be on a first-name basis."

"Go to hell," you spit.

He barks out a laugh. 

Your jaw tightens, but you don’t say anything. You can’t. He’s watching you too closely, like a cat toying with a wounded bird.

Then, with an easy smile, he gestures toward the door. "Shall we?"

You don’t move. "Where?"

"To see Jenna, of course." His smile doesn’t waver. "She did go through all that trouble for you. It’s only fair we return the favor."

“But-” "Everyone's asleep." He picks you up with ease, your bindings stopping you from lashing. You squirm, uncomfortable. 

“Put me down,” you hiss, thrashing as much as you can, but with your wrists bound, it’s a pathetic attempt at resistance. He ignores you, walking as if carrying you is no more effort than holding a book.

You squirm harder, your bound wrists digging uncomfortably into your back. "You bastard—"

"Tsk." He clicks his tongue, adjusting his hold so you’re pressed tighter against his chest. "Such language from a holy woman."

You grit your teeth, heart hammering as he descends the stairs, the air growing colder, damp. The cellar. Your breath is ragged, fury and fear mixing into something wild inside you. The corridor is eerily silent, only the soft padding of his footsteps breaking through. The weight of the moment sinks in.

For what? Retribution? A lesson?

You don’t want to find out.

"You bastard," you seethe- its the only curse on your tongue in the moment, your voice barely above a whisper. "If you think I’ll just stand by and—"

He leans in, his breath cool against your ear. "Hush, pet."

Your whole body locks up.

"Wouldn't want to wake anyone, would we?"

Your breath comes faster now. "Rafayel—"

"Shh." His voice drops to a murmur as he pushes open the heavy wooden door. "I don’t want to ruin the surprise."

The room is dimly lit by a single candle. The smell of damp stone and something metallic clings to the air.

And then you see her.

Sister Jenna.

Tied to a table, her head drooping forward, a fresh bruise blooming across her cheek. Her chest rises and falls—she’s alive.

Barely.

Rafayel hums thoughtfully, setting you down with deliberate care. His hands linger on your arms before he steps back, watching you expectantly.

"Go on," he says, almost gently. "Say hello."

Her wrists and ankles secured so tightly the rope has bitten into her skin. Dried blood crusts around the bindings, and her breath comes in short, ragged gasps.

Beside the table, neatly arranged on a metal tray, are knives.

Your throat tightens as you stare at them. The candlelight gleams off their sharpened edges, each one pristine, waiting.

Rafayel watches you, his expression unreadable. "Quite the sight, isn't it?" His voice is light, conversational, as if discussing the weather.

You take a step back, but he moves faster, fingers curling around your upper arm in a firm grip. "No, no, don’t run just yet."

"Rafayel," you whisper, panic creeping in. "What—what are you doing?"

He sighs, almost disappointed. "I thought you'd be quicker than this, pet. She offered you to me, did she not? She was ready to serve you up like a lamb to slaughter, all to save herself."

Jenna lets out a weak whimper, barely lifting her head. Her eyes are hazy, unfocused, but when they land on you, something like fear flickers across her face.

"She’s no martyr," Rafayel continues smoothly. "No saint. And yet, here you stand, hesitating."

He releases your arm, nodding toward the tray. "Pick one."

Your stomach twists. "I’m not—"

Your breath hitches as your eyes flick from Jenna’s limp form to the array of knives neatly laid out beside her. The steel glints in the candlelight, sharp and gleaming, meticulously arranged as if this were some kind of twisted ritual.

"What—" Your throat tightens. "What the hell is this?"

Rafayel leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with an infuriating calm. "A lesson," he says simply.

You take a shaky step back, your bound hands useless behind you. "I’m not— I’m not doing this."

He tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Aren’t you?"

Jenna groans, her head lolling to the side as she stirs. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused, before settling on you. Her expression shifts from confusion to something close to relief—until she notices the knives. Until she sees the look on Rafayel’s face.

Her breathing quickens. "No— wait. Please." She tugs at her restraints, panic taking over as she thrashes against the table.

You wrench your gaze away from her, glaring at Rafayel. "She tried to hand me over to you, and now you want me to do your dirty work?"

He exhales through his nose, pushing off the wall to saunter closer. "I want you to make a choice, pet." He plucks a knife from the table, twirling it between his fingers with casual ease before holding it out to you, handle first.

Your stomach twists. "No."

His smile doesn’t falter, but his tone cools. "Then what will you do?"

Jenna whimpers, eyes darting between you both. "Please," she whispers. "Please, Sister—"

The crack of his hand against Jenna’s cheek echoes through the cellar, sharp and merciless. She yelps, her head snapping to the side as fresh tears spill down her face.

"Shut your mouth, rot." Rafayel’s voice is cold, bored even, like she isn’t worth his time. He shakes out his hand as if shaking off dust, then turns back to you with that same insufferable, expectant expression.

You flinch despite yourself, your pulse hammering in your ears. "You didn’t have to—"

"I did." He rolls his shoulders. "She’s lucky I let her keep her tongue."

Jenna is shaking, her breath coming in shallow gasps as blood dribbles from the corner of her mouth. She won’t look at you. Maybe she knows there’s nothing you can do for her now. Maybe she’s just waiting for whatever comes next.

And you?

You're still staring at the knife in his hand. The weight of the moment, of what he wants from you, coils in your stomach like a sickness.

"Choose, pet." Rafayel steps closer, pressing the handle into your palm, his touch cold against your skin. "You or her."

"I cant-" "Pick." "I dont-" Tears well up. He was crazy. Crazy! Slicing Jenna open- or even yourself?! His hand grabs your wrist, firm. You panick. "Jenna!" And oh, how he smiles.

His smile remains, but the amusement in his eyes dims into something far more unreadable. He exhales slowly, as if savoring the moment.

"Good girl."

Jenna's breath stutters. "No—wait. Please." Her voice is shaking, barely more than a whisper. "You don’t have to do this."

Rafayel doesn’t even look at her. Instead, he gently adjusts your grip on the knife, his touch unsettlingly patient. "Steady your hand." His voice is as calm as if he were instructing you on embroidery, not murder. "You don’t want to make a mess."

You can't move. Your fingers tremble against the cold steel.

Jenna is sobbing now, straining against the bindings. "Y-you said you'd spare me!"

Rafayel tilts his head, considering. "I did." He finally acknowledges her, his voice never shifting from that quiet, measured tone. "And I let you breathe a little longer, didn't I?"

Then, back to you. He nudges the knife forward with the ease of someone guiding a quill to parchment. "Go on, Sister. It's time to be useful."

“You..you want me to kill her?” A question, but it was meant to be a statement. 

“Heavens no. You’re helping me with my meal. What good is it if she’s dead?”

Oh.

Bile creeps up your throat. 

This was a dissection.

Your breath shudders as you stare at him, at the way he speaks so casually—so calmly—as if this were an ordinary lesson. "No need to look so queasy, pet," he murmurs, watching you closely. "It's just flesh. Just skin and sinew. You have plenty, she has plenty. A little won't be missed."

Jenna thrashes against her restraints, tears streaming down her face. "You can't— Please!"

"Shh," Rafayel soothes, brushing a gloved hand down the side of her face. "You'll make it worse for yourself."

Your stomach twists violently. "I—I can't—"

He sighs, shaking his head as if you’re being particularly slow with your studies. "You can." His fingers guide yours, pressing the blade just so, right against the softest part of her arm. "And you will."

Jenna sobs beneath you, her pleas dissolving into frantic, breathless gasps. Your own pulse pounds in your skull, dizzying and thick.

"Do be gentle," Rafayel reminds you. "I do hate when they go into shock too early."

"We'll start..." He grabs the buttons of Jenna's gown, tearing it open. He does not care for her modesty, removing her bra, freeing her breasts, placing a hand on her sternum. 

Jenna gasps, her body trembling under the weight of his cold touch. Her eyes dart to yours, wide with terror, pleading silently for help she knows won’t come. The atmosphere is thick with dread, the sound of her shallow breathing the only noise filling the room aside from Rafayel’s low, measured voice.

"Here," he murmurs, fingers tracing over her ribcage as if examining a specimen.

"The chest is a delicate area—too much pressure here could collapse the lungs, but just enough and the heart becomes a... delicate target."

He gives a slight chuckle, more for his own amusement than anything. His gaze flicks to you, gauging your reaction as if waiting for you to show some sign of understanding.

"You know, Sister," he continues, so casually, so calmly, "the body is full of little treasures, little hidden pieces of life that we can take a closer look at. But you have to be careful. Every piece has a purpose."

The knife is still in your hand, the weight of it a steady reminder of the horrific task at hand. The longer you stand there, the more you can feel the bile rise in your throat, but you’re frozen, a sickened bystander caught in the vice of his manipulation.

"You do know where to cut, don't you?" he asks, voice softening just a little, the mockery sliding away for a moment. "Go on. You’ll learn more than you ever could in a sermon."

“Father Rafayel-” “Rafayel.” “Rafayel,” “Yes?”

You choke on your words, but they come out anyway, shaky and weak.

"Please... please don't make me do this." Your voice cracks, and you can't tear your eyes away from Jenna, who now stares at you with a mixture of disbelief and desperation.

Rafayel tilts his head slightly, studying you as though you were the one on display. "What do you think is so wrong about it, Sister?" His tone is so patient, almost affectionate, as if he's teaching you something, not forcing you into an irreversible choice.

His eyes glimmer with something almost amused, but it's not kindness. Not mercy. Just amusement at the power he holds over you. "This isn't the first time you've seen blood. You've seen enough of it in this very room, haven’t you? You’ve witnessed more horrors than most could ever imagine... but somehow, this is the line for you?"

He takes a step closer, his voice lowering as if trying to soothe you, but it only makes your stomach churn more. "What’s one more death, hm?”

He pauses, his gaze flicking over to Jenna, who is trembling against the restraints. Her eyes search you desperately.

He clears his throat. "Enough theatrics, now, Y/n. Get on with it. We had a deal." Jenna's eyes widened. Right...you were the first to betray the convent... "YOU BITCH!" Jenna screams

Jenna freezes mid-scream, her eyes going impossibly wide as Rafayel moves with terrifying speed. One moment he’s behind you, and the next, he’s gripping her jaw with bruising force, his fingers prying it open.

His other hand latches onto her tongue, yanking it forward.

"One more word from you," he murmurs, voice eerily soft, "and I'm ripping this out."

Jenna makes a strangled, panicked noise, her entire body going rigid. Tears spill freely down her face now, her fury swallowed whole by sheer terror. She tries to shake her head, to plead without words, but Rafayel’s grip is unyielding.

For a long, horrible moment, he just stares at her, his expression blank, unreadable—but his eyes. Those deep, inhuman eyes burn with barely restrained irritation, as if he’s grown tired of this whole ordeal.

The room is silent except for Jenna’s muffled whimpers. You can’t move, can’t breathe.

Then, just as quickly as he grabbed her, he lets go. Jenna jerks back with a sob, coughing and gagging as she scrambles against her restraints.

Rafayel exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the inconvenience. He flicks his gaze to you, his patience clearly thinning.

“Get on with it,” he says, voice clipped, calm once more. “Before I decide to make this a lesson instead.”

Rafayel's fingers press into Jenna’s cheeks, forcing her mouth to stay shut. His grip isn’t gentle—there’s an undeniable disgust in the way he holds her, like she’s something filthy beneath his hands. But his eyes?

His eyes are on you.

You force yourself to look away from his gaze, down at Jenna’s exposed sternum. Your stomach twists violently. The skin there is smooth, untouched. For now.

You swallow thickly, your fingers trembling as you hesitate.

Rafayel hums, almost thoughtful. His thumb brushes against Jenna’s jaw absentmindedly, his patience thinning with every second you delay.

“You’re wasting time,” he says, his voice deceptively gentle. “Do you need my help?”

You shake your head quickly, barely suppressing a shudder.

No. You’d rather not find out what his version of ‘help’ looks like.

‘Oh, Astra, forgive me, for I am a sinner,’

Bringing the knife to her sternum, you take one more look at her, at the desperation in her eyes, how she was begging you to stop. Your hand shakes a little. 

But seeing how Rafayel was waiting, you licked your lips, swallowing thickly.

Better her than you. 

“I’m sorry, Jenna.”

You push the knife in, 

Jenna thrashes beneath your hold, a muffled, agonized scream escaping past Rafayel’s grip on her jaw. Your breath is shaky—ragged—as the blade sinks into her skin, deeper than you meant, warm blood welling around the steel.

You can hear it, how the skin breaks, how your own blood is rushing in your ears. You heart pounds. Your stomach is everywhere but where it belongs. You want to look away. 

But you don’t. 

He watches, poker faced, save for the slight raise of his brow. His grip on Jenna’s face tightens as she tries to wither away, but she’s bound. 

Helpless, like a lamb beneath the shepherd's hold. 

A choked sob slips from Jenna’s throat.

Your hands shake harder.

You try to steady yourself. You have to steady yourself. You push in deeper, biting down on your own tongue to keep from screaming along with her. The blade drags through muscle and skin, sluggish and cruel.

Rafayel exhales, a satisfied sound. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Jenna’s body convulses, her muffled screams fading into sharp, broken sobs. You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment.

Astra above, what have you done?

The blade carves downward, splitting flesh with an ease that makes your stomach churn. Blood wells up, spilling over the edges of the wound, warm and slick against your trembling fingers. You watch, unable to tear your eyes away as Jenna’s skin parts beneath the sharp steel, muscle and tissue shifting, twitching beneath the intrusion.

A strangled cry rips from her throat, her body jerking against the restraints. You don’t stop. You can’t stop.

Rafayel hums, tilting his head as he observes. "There you go," he says, voice calm—too calm. "Just like that."

You bite back the bile rising in your throat, your breath coming out in short, sharp gasps.

Jenna’s eyes, wild with terror and pain, lock onto yours, glistening with unshed tears.

"You—" Her voice is raw, choked. "You monster—"

Rafayel clicks his tongue, displeased. Without hesitation, his fingers tighten around her jaw, forcing it open as his other hand snakes forward, pressing down against her wound.

And unfortunately, he’s a man of his word, if nothing else. 

Jenna thrashes, but it’s useless. His grip is ironclad.

A sharp, wet sound—like meat being torn from the bone—echoes through the cellar. Blood splatters across the table, across his fingers, across you. Jenna's body convulses, her eyes rolling back as a choked, gurgling scream bubbles from her throat.

Rafayel holds up the severed tongue, examining it with a detached sort of curiosity. A muscle in his jaw twitches. "Now, that’s better," he says, utterly unaffected by the way Jenna is spasming beneath him, her throat working uselessly, trying to form words she no longer has the means to speak.

His eyes flick to you, and there’s an annoyed look on his face. "Do continue, Sister," he instructs smoothly, as if he hadn't just torn the organ from a living person.

Your throat tightens. The knife in your hand feels heavier than before.

You press down again, dragging the blade another inch lower. The skin peels apart, revealing the red, glistening tissue beneath. Jenna’s body jerks violently, her cries breaking into incoherent whimpers.

Rafayel sighs, shifting slightly. “Messy work, but you’ll get better with practice.”

You think you might throw up.

A sickening wet sound follows, and Jenna’s convulsions weaken. Her body, still bound, arches in agony, but there is no more screaming. Just wet, gurgling sobs.

Rafayel watches intently, his fingers gliding over the blood-streaked table as if testing the slickness. “Steady your grip,” he murmurs, his tone too casual, too calm for the atrocity unfolding before you. “You’re hesitating.”

Your vision swims. You want to stop. You want to run. But you also know that stopping would mean something far, far worse.

Jenna is looking at you. Her eyes are glassy, her pupils blown wide with horror, with pain.

Rafayel clicks his tongue, shifting closer. “Don’t look at her face,” he advises, almost gently. “That only makes it harder.” He leans in, his breath tickling your cheek as he whispers, "Look at me instead."

Warmth surrounds you, the weight of a thick blanket pressing over your body. The scent of something faintly sweet lingers in the air—incense? Dried flowers? Your mind is sluggish, hazy, like waking from a deep fever dream.

The room is dimly lit, golden candlelight flickering against stone walls. You shift, and soft fabric brushes against your skin. No rope. No cold, hard table.

Your stomach clenches as fragmented memories slam into you all at once—Jenna’s screams, the knife in your hand, Rafayel’s steady voice guiding you through the nightmare. Your breath quickens.

“You’re awake.”

His voice is smooth, composed. The scrape of a chair against the floor follows, and then he’s at your bedside, looking down at you with an expression you can’t read.

“How do you feel?” he asks, and there’s something unnervingly genuine about the question.

“I…” Oh, Astra above.

You spotted Jenna. 

You freeze, your heart hammering in your chest. The sight before you is nothing short of a nightmare—Jenna's body, but... not.

Her limbs are stretched unnaturally, joints twisted at odd angles, skin hanging loosely where it once clung to her bones. Her face is contorted, eyes wide and glassy, her mouth stretched in an awful, silent scream. The skin around her sternum, where you had stopped, is pulled open further, exposing the raw, red tissue beneath. A cruel, jagged line runs down her torso, the flesh torn apart with care, revealing the bloodied, exposed organs, the pinkness of muscle. Some of the organs were missing from what you could tell, and what you thought was her liver was cast aside carelessly beside her face. 

It’s like a grotesque sculpture, her body still twitching with the faintest movements, an echo of the life that had once been there.

“Jenna...” Your voice breaks as you reach for her, but your hand hesitates, trembling. You can’t touch her. You can’t bear it.

“Ah, yes. This,” Rafayel says casually, his eyes following your gaze to the butchered body. “A masterpiece of sorts. My handiwork, of course, but you set the stage.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and your chest heaves with disgust, the bile rising in your throat once more. He’s twisted her, mangled her.

He watches you with a quiet, unnerving intensity, like he’s studying a fragile creature he’s not sure will break or fight.

“How does it feel?” he asks, his voice low and patient, as though he’s waiting for you to understand, to comprehend the depths of what’s been done.

“Why... why did you...” You struggle to form the words, your eyes never leaving the horrific sight.

“Oh, Sister,” Rafayel sighs, placing a finger under your chin to lift your gaze to him. His smile is almost pitying. “You’ve been so much more useful than you think. I didn’t want to waste such potential.”

He leans in, giving you a quick peck to the lips. 

The coldness of his lips against yours sends a shudder down your spine, but you can’t pull away, your body frozen in place. His eyes, the soft, burning smile—so calm, so controlled—sickens you more than you can bear.

He brings a piece of what you assumed to be Jenna’s tongue to your lips. 

“Thank you for the meal,” Rafayel hums. His fingers brush against your cheek, tracing the outline of your face. “Of course, I have no use for meat, however. That’s on you.”

You swallow, unable to tear your gaze away from Jenna’s mutilated form, feeling the weight of her life—her screams, her pain—pressing in on you. You feel sick to your stomach.

“And Astra said, “To waste one bite is to waste a million,” he continues, his voice smooth and casual, the tone almost playful. “So, let’s not be wasteful.”

Every word is a slap. Every syllable drips with casual cruelty, as if you’re nothing more than a tool in his hands. No use for meat... that’s on you. You can feel your stomach flip, the very thought of touching her body—of continuing this... this desecration—makes you want to scream.

But you don’t. You don’t move, you don’t protest. You simply stand there, every fiber of your being revolting against the reality you’ve been forced into. The guilt, the horror—it eats at you. It’s suffocating. The weight of it is unbearable.

His grin stays as he pushes it past your lips, the warm muscle on your tongue, the membrane holding its taste buds rough against your cheek.

He holds your chin. You want spit it out, try to spit it out, and yet you can’t. 

Your jaw moves on its own, chewing. Chewing through the muscle until it was mush, as if you overly chewed over cooked steak. You can’t swallow yet, or no. 

His lips are on yours again, molding to your form as he’s kissing you- forces you to swallow. But his own tongue doesn’t prod. It doesn’t push. Doesn’t beg for entry, no. He bites down on your bottom lip, breaking skin, letting the blood gloss over his lips like  sickening rouge. 

When he pulls away, a string of spit connects you. 

He steps back, admiring his “work,” his hands clasped behind his back as he observes the carnage. “You’ve done well, Sister,” he murmurs, as if he’s complimenting you on something simple, like a meal he’s enjoyed.

Rafayel steps closer, his hand reaching out toward you. His fingers gently thread through your hair, and before you can even register it, he’s petting your head like you’re nothing more than a docile pet. His touch is oddly affectionate, tender even, as though the horrors you’ve just shared don’t matter, as though he doesn’t see you anymore—just another tool to use, another puppet to guide.

He lets out a contented hum, as if he’s genuinely pleased with you. The weight of your nausea deepens. The quiet cruelty of his smile seems to stretch further, making you feel smaller, more insignificant.

“You’re so obedient,” he murmurs, his voice laced with something close to amusement. “It’s... endearing.”

It’s too much. Your stomach churns violently, but still you don’t move. You can’t. You feel sick to your core, but every ounce of defiance you had is buried beneath a crushing weight. You’re afraid. Terrified of him, terrified of what’s become of you—what you’ve done.

His touch is impossibly gentle. The same hand that had so effortlessly torn Jenna apart now cradles your cheek with the reverence of a man holding something precious. His thumb smooths over your skin, wiping away something—blood? Tears? You’re not sure.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. Almost sweet. Almost kind.

You don’t understand.

You should fear him, hate him, recoil from his touch. His skin was…warm, the new blood beneath his skin giving him a human flush. His palm against your face, soft and reassuring, sends a shiver down your spine, not of fear, but of something dangerously close to comfort. His tenderness doesn’t fit with the carnage behind him, with the blood still drying beneath your fingernails. It doesn’t fit.

But for a fleeting second, you let yourself lean into it. Because your body is exhausted, your mind is frayed, and you don’t know how to fight anymore.

His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to speak, but he doesn’t. He only watches you, his gaze searching, drinking in every tiny shift of your expression. Then, with a quiet breath, he brushes his thumb once more over your cheek, his touch lingering.

It’s been two days since Sister Jenna’s absence. Yvonne is on your bed, humming some hymn Father Rafayel had taught you all the previous week. 

“You’ve been quiet,” Yvonne murmurs, running her fingers absently through your hair.

You hum noncommittally, eyes tracing the jagged cracks in the ceiling. You see shapes—mountains, a bird in flight, a gaping maw with teeth.

“You’re always quiet, but this is different.”

She’s observant. Too observant.

You shift slightly, closing your eyes. “Just tired.”

Yvonne makes a noise of acknowledgment but doesn’t press. Instead, she resumes combing through her curls with the wooden comb, careful not to tug too hard.

“They’re saying Sister Jenna ran off,” she muses. “One of the Elders told me they found her habit in the woods. No blood, no sign of struggle. Just… gone.”

She’s not gone. You know exactly where she is—what’s left of her. The thought sends a chill through your bones.

Yvonne sighs. “Not that I blame her. If I had a way out, I’d take it in a heartbeat.”

Your throat tightens. You had a way out. Rafayel had given you one—no, he had forced one upon you. And yet, here you are.

Still here. Still breathing.

Still his.

Yvonne shifts, tilting her head to look down at you. “If you ever ran, would you tell me first?”

Your mouth feels dry. “Yeah… Yeah, I’d tell you, Yvonne.”

Yvonne gives a soft smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s a weight to her expression, something unreadable hidden just beneath the surface.

“You’re a good friend,” she murmurs, her fingers pausing in your hair for a moment. “I don’t want to be left behind.”

Something about her words twists in your chest. Left behind

Instead, you just offer a soft, tired smile, the best you can manage. “ I wouldn’t do that to you…I’d never leave without you knowing. You’re too important.”

A comfortable silence settles between you both. The rhythmic glide of the comb, the warmth of her lap beneath your head—it’s grounding.

‘I miss Tara,’

You stand in the middle of a vast field, the grass swaying gently under a sky painted in hues of deep violet and gold. The air is warm, carrying the scent of something familiar—salt, rain, and something darker, something rich and metallic.

Rafayel stands before you, but he’s… different. No pale skin with a shimmer under the moonlight, no eerie glow in his multi-colored eyes. Instead, they are deep, dark pools of something human, something almost warm. His hair is still that strange shade of lavender, but it’s shorter, neater. He looks like a man—no long, sharp nails, no fangs, no monstrous hunger lurking just beneath his skin.

"You hesitate," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, watching you with something that is not quite amusement, not quite curiosity. "Do I frighten you more like this?"

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. He steps closer, his presence heavy, suffocating. His hands, bare and unmarked, reach for yours, and you let him take them.

"You’re always running from me," he continues, his voice softer now, almost… tender. "But you keep finding me, even here."

You shake your head, but his fingers tighten around yours. There’s no escape, not here, not in this dream where the sky shifts like the sea and the ground feels as unsteady as the tide.

"Tell me," he whispers, leaning in close enough that you feel his breath against your lips. "Which version of me do you prefer?"

 You don't answer.

You can’t.

Rafayel’s thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the feeling of your skin against his, or memorizing the shape of your hands. His eyes flicker to your lips and linger there, the corners of his mouth curling into a quiet, knowing smile. 

"You always look at me like that," he muses, voice barely above a whisper. His gaze flickers, trailing from your eyes to your lips, lingering there. "Like you can't decide if you should run or stay."

You swallow hard, your pulse betraying you. 

His gaze searches yours, frantic but quiet, as if the answer is buried somewhere in your eyes. The weight of his words presses into you, unraveling something deep inside. Because for the first time, he doesn’t look untouchable. He doesn’t look cruel. He looks…lost.

You want to ask him what he means, but the words won’t come. Because this is a dream, isn’t it? A trick of the mind? A lie?

But he looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

You blink.

The world blurs at the edges, shifting and twisting like ripples on water. You blink, and suddenly, you are small.

Your hands—tiny, soft, unscarred—clutch the fabric of a tunic too big for you. The air smells different, fresher, untouched by blood or fear. You look up, and he's there—Rafayel, but not as you know him.

His hair is shorter, wild with curls. His cheeks are rounder, his frame smaller, more human than ever before. His eyes, though… they are the same. Wide, confused, filled with something neither of you can name.

"You're crying," you say, and your voice is so light, so young, it startles you.

He lifts a hand to his cheek, touching the wetness there like he hadn’t realized it himself. He sniffs, rubbing at his nose with the sleeve of his tunic, but more tears spill over. He looks at you, stricken.

"I—" His voice cracks. He doesn’t finish.

The wind moves through the tall grass around you, warm and golden in the light of the setting sun. Somewhere in the distance, the sea hums a lullaby against the shore.

"Did you get hurt?" you ask, stepping closer.

He shakes his head, curls bouncing. "No."

"Then why are you crying?"

He opens his mouth, hesitates. Then, finally—"Because I lost you."

Something in your chest tightens. Something in your soul whispers that this is important. But before you can ask him what he means, the world tilts—

The world bends, flickers like a candle in the wind. The golden grass fades, the warm breeze cools, and suddenly—

You are sitting in a confessional.

The wooden walls are dark, enclosing you in flickering candlelight. A lacey black veil drapes over your head, delicate and sheer, the intricate patterns casting faint shadows over your skin. Your hands are folded neatly in your lap, trembling slightly against the rich fabric of your dress.

Across from you, separated by the thin wooden screen, sits Rafayel.

Not the boy from before. Not the nightmare he’s become. But something in between.

He is utterly beautiful.

The dim light catches the sharp angles of his face, the fullness of his lips, the inhuman glow of his eyes. His hair falls loosely around his shoulders, strands curling against his collarbone. He looks at you, solemn and unreadable, his fingers idly tracing the wood grain of the confessional’s divider.

"Confess to me," he murmurs. His voice is calm, steady, yet it sends a shiver down your spine.

You swallow, your throat dry. The silence stretches, heavy, suffocating. You don’t know where to begin.

"I don’t know what to say."

His lips quirk into something like a smile, but it’s faint, almost sad. "Then let me ask."

He leans forward slightly, his face closer to the screen, though he does not touch it.

"Do you regret it?"

The air in the confessional grows thick, pressing against your chest. You don’t have to ask what he means. You already know.

Do you regret what you've done? Do you regret him?

You inhale sharply, fingers tightening around themselves. The lace veil brushes against your cheek as you tilt your head down, thinking—feeling.

"No."

His eyes darken. Something shifts in his expression, something you can’t quite name. His hand lifts, just barely touching the wooden divider between you.

"Then why," he breathes, "do you look so afraid?"

Your breath catches in your throat as you sit up, heart hammering in your chest. The room is dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the high windows. The chill in the air clings to your skin, but that isn't what sends a cold shock down your spine.

It's the sheets.

Stained. Deep crimson, seeping into the fabric beneath your fingers.

"Fuck."

You throw the blankets back, scrambling to your feet. The scent of iron lingers in the air, thick and unmistakable. Your hands tremble as you inspect yourself—no wounds, no pain, nothing to suggest that this came from you.

So where—

A noise.

Soft. A breath.

You freeze, every muscle in your body locking up.

And then, from the shadows of your room, a voice—low, smooth, and far too amused.

"Bad dream?"

You blink, disoriented, but oddly…not scared. You rub your tired eyes. 

When did he even get in here?

He glances at the ruined sheets, a quiet hum of approval slipping from his lips as if he's seen this before. "Any pain?" His voice is casual, as if he’s asking about the weather. There’s no urgency in his tone, only a calm.

"Why... why are you here?"

His gaze softens slightly, noticing the shift in your demeanor. There's something about you now—something that feels different, like a calmness you've found in the chaos. He's used to seeing fear, hearing shaky breaths, but now there's just a cool, measured presence in the way you meet his gaze.

He takes another step, his voice still calm, though a little more concerned this time. "You seemed troubled," he says, as if it's an innocent observation. He doesn't know about the dream, doesn't know that his own face haunted your sleep. To him, you're just another piece of the puzzle, another small mystery.

"You look... different," he adds, eyes scanning you, trying to gauge any sign of distress. It's almost a relief, seeing that you're not cowering. The air between you still hums with something electric, but it's less oppressive, less tense.

You're no longer recoiling at his presence.

He tilts his head, as though trying to read you, not fully understanding what he's seeing. "Better?" he asks, voice soft, just above a whisper. His hand hovers near the side of your bed, but he doesn't touch you. He's too cautious, too unsure.

You nod. Though ‘better’ wasn’t a term you’d use.

Rafayel exhales quietly, his shoulders loosening ever so slightly as though a weight has been lifted, though it's hard to tell exactly why. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, studying you with a strange tenderness that feels unfamiliar to both of you.

"Good," he says, almost to himself. The word lingers in the air for a beat before he shifts his weight, glancing away as though searching for something else to say or do. But it’s like he's forgotten the reason he came in the first place.

He takes a step back, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that’s oddly human. There’s something about him right now—less the towering figure of power, more... unguarded. It's like he's unsure of how to handle this space between you two, this quiet calm that has overtaken everything.

"Well," he starts, his voice steady again, "if you're... fine, then I suppose I should leave you to rest." He hesitates before adding, his voice softer now, "But if you need anything, just... ask."

And with that, he turns, his footsteps quieter than usual as he moves toward the door, the weight of his presence lingering in the air behind him.

But he pauses.

Rafayel’s breath hitched, raw and uneven, as he leaned heavily against the door. His body trembled, a violent shiver running down his spine. The scent of your blood—your scent—was still thick in the air, woven into the fabric of his very being. His heart raced, the pulsing need inside of him threatening to consume everything.

His eyes were wild, unfocused, his pupils dilated, black pools of hunger that ached. He could almost taste you on his lips again, feel the rush of your warmth in his veins. Every thought, every rational piece of him screamed for distance, for control, but his body... his body was betraying him.

Blood. Your blood. That delicious, burning sweetness. 

Rafayel’s pulse hammered in his ears, the world around him spinning in a haze of overwhelming desire. His hands shook, the edges of control slipping from his grasp as the scent of your blood lingered, heavy, intoxicating, seeping into every inch of his being. He couldn’t escape it. He couldn’t escape you. The need to claim you, to sink into you completely, was clawing at him from the inside, like a wild animal tearing at its cage.

He dragged in a sharp breath, but it did nothing to quell the fury of hunger thrumming in his chest. He could feel every beat of his dead heart, every inch of his skin aching for you. It wasn’t just blood—it was you. Your essence, your soul. He needed it. He needed you.

He leaned heavily against the door, his body trembling with the effort to hold himself back, the muscles in his legs tight with restraint. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. Every inch of him was burning, and he could feel the monstrous part of him—the monster that had always been there—pushing at the walls of his control.

His gaze brought him back to where you lay, the faint scent of your blood still in the air, thick and overwhelming, and he could almost feel the warmth of your skin against his. He could taste your fear, your sweetness, your surrender. His breath came faster, his grip on the door tightening as if he could hold himself back from the inevitable with sheer force of will.

But he knew it was futile. There was no stopping this.

The moment you had opened up to him, even just a sliver, he had been lost.

His want for you had been seeded deep inside him. 

And now? Now it was blooming—uncontrollable, reckless.

The very air in the room seemed to burn with the need, suffocating him, pushing him toward you. His legs moved before he could stop them, carrying him to the side of your bed. His hand clenched into a fist at his side, his nails digging into his palm to try and hold himself back from grabbing you, from pulling you into him like a lifeline.

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t focus on anything but you. Your body, your warmth. Your blood.

Just one taste...

He slammed the door shut behind him, the final thread of restraint snapping.

“I need you,” he rasped, the words forced from his throat, desperate and hoarse. The sound of his own voice was unrecognizable—feral, almost animalistic.

His gaze locked onto yours, pupils blown wide, face twisted with hunger.

“I can’t stop this,” he whispered, voice raw with the admission.

His hands were on your face, cradling you gently, almost as if he could hold onto you to stop himself from spiraling. His touch burned in desperation.

 A hunger that laced every syllable he spoke, every shaky breath he took.

He met your eyes, pupils blown, his expression twisted with a mix of pain and need.

The words came out slowly, like they were being ripped from him. "I can't stop this," he repeated, softer this time, but the weight of them hit you harder than anything.

You froze, the words making your heart race. There was something in his voice—a haunting, desperate edge—that made your chest tighten with unease.

"Can't stop what?"

He blinked, as if the question startled him, and for a moment, it felt like he was fighting against something inside himself. His jaw clenched, eyes flickering away before they snapped back to you, like he was wrestling with a beast of his own making. The tension between you both was thick, suffocating.

But still, his hands remained firm against your face, almost holding you still.

They trembled slightly against your skin, and the intensity in his eyes flickered between fear and something darker, more primal. He took a long, shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that seemed to battle with something deeper inside him.

"You need to run," his voice was low, strained, almost broken, as if the words themselves caused him physical pain. "I'm only going to give you a minute."

His grip tightened just a fraction, and his gaze became more intense, more possessive, as if he was trying to convince you of something—something dangerous that you weren’t quite sure of.

You shoved him off, the force of your actions startling both of you. Your chest heaved as you backed away, heart pounding in your ears. If he said run. 

Then by Astra, you were going to run. 

You turned and bolted, your feet slamming against the floor as you rushed for the door. The hallway outside felt like freedom, but you could almost feel the heat of his gaze searing into your back.

Run.

You shove past the other postulants, barely sparing them a glance as you rush through the hallways. The thin fabric of your nightgown flutters around your legs, the dampness of your blood-smeared sheets still clinging to your skin. You don’t care. You don’t care about how you must look, or the whispers you’re sure are trailing behind you. You just need to get away.

A few of the younger postulants stare wide-eyed, murmuring in surprise, but you don’t stop. You don’t apologize as you push past them, not even glancing back at the gasps and whispers. The cold stone floors beneath your feet echo loudly, every step pounding through your chest, a stark reminder of the seconds you’re wasting.

"Where are you—?"

"Move!" you shout to a pair of girls blocking the way. You don’t wait for them to step aside before barging through, heart hammering, breath quick and shallow. The corridors twist and wind in maddening turns, but you don’t care to stop and think; it’s like your body is on autopilot, propelling you forward, away from him.

You glance over your shoulder briefly. Is he behind you? You can’t tell. You don’t care.

There’s a sharp gasp ahead of you, and you barely register another postulant before you barrel straight into her, knocking her back a few steps.

"Are you mad?!" she cries, her eyes wide with shock.

“Move!” you snap, voice hoarse. Your breath is ragged, like you’re drowning, and you don’t stop, not even to see her expression. Your feet burn, your legs ache, but you keep running, the sense of urgency rising in your throat like bile.

You hit another turn, your hands slipping against the walls, panic clawing at your chest. Your hair is wild around your face, sticking to your skin with sweat, your nightgown clinging in uncomfortable patches to your body.

Where the hell is the exit?

You can’t think, can’t breathe—your mind is a blur of pure adrenaline and fear. You turn another sharp corner, a burst of energy pushing you forward as you sprint through the labyrinthine halls. You don’t know where you are anymore, but it doesn’t matter. You know the kitchens are nearby; the back door, the one leading to the yard, the escape.

Your feet pound against the cold stone floors, every step a blur as you rush through the darkened halls. The world around you feels distant, unreal—there’s only the frantic rhythm of your heart, the pounding of your feet, and the desperate need to escape. You can hear his footsteps now, closing in on you. You’re not fast enough.

Finally, you see the familiar kitchen door at the far end of the hall. The back door. Your pulse quickens as you push the door open, the hinges creaking loudly in the stillness. You don’t stop. You run, the cool night air hitting you like a slap to the face as you burst into the yard, the crunch of dead leaves and twigs beneath your bare feet.

Your nightgown flutters behind you as you break into the wooded area beyond the yard. The trees are thick with shadows, but you barely notice them—your only focus is on the ground beneath your feet. But then, a root. You trip, your foot catching on the gnarled knot in the earth, and you go down hard.

Your palms scrape against the rough soil as you push yourself back up, panic surging through you like wildfire. You scramble to your feet, breath coming in ragged gasps as you force your legs to move again. You’re not going to stop. Not now.

“Y/n,” a voice calls out behind you, smooth and dark. It’s so familiar, so impossible to ignore. His voice. Rafayel. You refuse to turn around, you refuse to look, but his voice is there, impossibly close, like the shadows themselves have come to life.

You push yourself up, wincing as sharp rocks and splinters tear into your feet, the jagged ground biting through your skin. Your nightgown is torn at the hem, the fabric clinging to your legs as you force yourself to move, even though every step feels like it could be your last. The cold air hits you, biting into your exposed skin, but you barely notice it—your body is numb, consumed by the desperate need to flee.

Every movement feels like it could be your last. Your feet are raw, the pain from the sharp rocks and broken twigs only fueling your panic. You can feel the blood trickling down, the burning sting of it on your skin, but you can't stop. You won’t stop.

The sound of his voice cuts through the night, smooth and dark, slicing through the air like a knife. “Y/n…”

You stumble forward, your legs aching, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Each step is a struggle, a fight against the pull of the shadows, the fear of him closing in. You can hear him moving behind you, that same dark presence pressing in on you, a weight in the air that makes your breath catch and your chest tighten.

You gasp as a hand wraps around your neck, its grip like iron, dragging you backward with terrifying strength. The air is forced from your lungs, and before you can even fight it, your back is slammed hard against the trunk of a tree. The rough bark digs into your skin, but the pain is nothing compared to the suffocating grip tightening around your throat.

Your body jerks, struggling, but it’s no use. His hand holds you in place, and his presence is overwhelming—his warmth, his scent, his weight pressing against you in a way that makes every instinct in your body scream to escape, to run, but there’s no more distance. He’s here. He’s got you.

“Got you.” His voice is low, dark, an almost pleased undertone that sends a chill racing down your spine. And yet, it’s still as if he’s in pain.

You cough weakly, your hands shaking against his, still trying to push him off, but it’s useless. The force of his hold makes every movement seem pointless, your limbs heavy and weak. You can’t breathe, can’t think. His proximity pulls you in, and your vision blurs at the edges.

Tears sting at your eyes as your mind races, but you’re still locked in his grip, unable to escape, unable to do anything but feel him there, pressing, suffocating.

“No! No, no no- lemme go!” You thrash and claw at his hand at your neck. He clicks his tongue. 

The realization hits you like a wave. You’re far enough from the church—far enough from the walls that have kept you safe, from the gaze of the Elders, from any kind of protection. Out here, in the woods, it’s just the two of you. And the terrifying truth: He could get away with anything.

His grip tightens around your neck as if to prove it. You can feel the cold smirk curling on his lips, that same dark amusement, almost a promise of something worse to come. His touch is relentless, and there’s no hesitation in it. He could hurt you in ways that would leave no marks, no evidence, and you know it. He knows it.

“You think they’ll come looking for you?” His voice is a soft whisper, mocking, as he presses his body closer to yours. You feel the full weight of him against you, that sense of inevitability, like he’s savoring the moment.

His eyes are dark, hungry, and far too calm. There’s no panic, no anger, just... need. It’s the kind of need that runs deep, the kind that lingers and festers in his chest. You can see it in the way his pupils dilate, the way his breath catches, the way his hand moves ever so slightly, gripping you harder, pulling you closer.

“Out here, no one can hear you scream,” His words are cold, clinical.

You feel your heart pounding harder against your ribs, the pressure on your throat making it hard to focus. You try to push against him, but it’s like pushing against a stone wall. Every inch of your body screams to get away, but you know the truth: There’s nowhere to run.

His grip loosens for a brief second, enough for you to suck in a desperate breath. His fingers trail down your throat, almost gentle now, as if tracing the place where he could end it all. Your pulse races under his touch.

He watches you closely, his eyes scanning your face like a predator savoring his prey. The terrifying truth lingers in the air between you: He could make you disappear, and no one would ever know what happened out here.

His grip tightens again, just enough to make you feel the warning, but not enough to completely choke you. His thumb brushes against your throat as if testing your limits, savoring the way your pulse beats faster with every second.

"Do you want to know why I came to this shitty little town?" His voice drops to a whisper, a dangerous calm settling in. He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you’re not sure if it’s from fear, from the desperate need to escape, or something else entirely. Your body screams to run, to push him away, but you’re frozen, held captive by the weight of his presence. The air feels thick, suffocating.

Rafayel doesn’t wait for an answer, letting the silence between you stretch long and heavy. His eyes burn with something darker than anger, something more possessive. "I came here for you," he says finally, his voice thick with an emotion you can’t quite place.

“The Vampire needs a bride. I need a bride. But you,” he lets out a shaky laugh, “You chose to be reborn in this dump, to become a nun for a god you don’t even care for. And Astra, that son of a bitch, thinks he can keep you from me.”

The words sink in, twisting your insides into knots. Your chest tightens, and your breath comes in short gasps. The realization hits like a slap—he never came for the town. He came for you.

"And now," he continues, voice quieter, almost indulgent, as if he’s savoring every word. "Now that I've found you... you belong to me."

You want to say something, to scream, to fight, but all you can manage is a sharp breath as his fingers trace the lines of your throat, tenderly. There was no “almost” about it. It was sure. 

His grip is soft, but you know better than to trust the gentleness. 

“You… you’re my bride. My bride.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. 

Before you can process what he's said, his lips crash into yours, stealing the breath from your lungs.

For a moment, your body freezes, every muscle locking up as the intensity of the kiss overwhelms you. His hands are on your face, pulling you in closer, deeper, like he’s trying to consume you whole. His touch, though soft, carries an undeniable power. You can feel it in the way his fingers grip your jaw, holding you in place, unwilling to let you escape.

You try to pull away, try to fight, but the sensation of his lips on yours is like a drug, addictive and overwhelming. His taste lingers on your tongue, mixing with the taste of your own blood, the blood he craves, the blood he owns.

Your pulse is erratic, your heart racing in a mixture of fear and... something else. His kiss is suffocating, possessive, like he's claiming every part of you, body and soul. There's no softness to it—only the pressure, the heat, the undeniable need.

And then, as if sensing your resistance, his grip tightens on your face, forcing you to comply. His breath is heavy against your lips, the air thick with his scent, and you feel a surge of panic clawing at your chest. 

His lips leave yours only for a moment, but it feels like an eternity. His eyes are dark, almost feverish, studying your face, watching the way your chest rises and falls with every frantic breath.

Your stomach churns, but you're not sure if it's from disgust or fear—or something much more dangerous, something you can’t bear to acknowledge. 

The way his knee presses between your legs sends a jolt through your body, a stark reminder of his presence, of his control. You instinctively try to shift, to pull away, but the weight of his touch keeps you anchored in place, his gaze burning into you.

“It’s less than ideal, taking you here,” he sounds annoyed, “But this works. I’m tired of waiting.”

Your mind screams at you to fight, to get away, but the tingling sensation in your fingertips and the heat rushing to your face betrays you. You're not sure if it’s fear or something else, something darker blooming inside you, but it fills you with disgust, confusion, and a strange sort of helplessness. Your breath catches in your throat as his hand slides down your side, like he’s marking you, staking a claim.

"No," you whisper, a futile attempt to reclaim some control, but it feels hollow, weak in the face of his overwhelming presence. His knee presses harder, sending another rush of panic and something else through your chest.

 You try to focus, to remind yourself that this is wrong, but the sensation of him against you, of his hands on your skin, starts to drown out every thought, every protest.

The heat between you grows, and all you can do is try to push him away, futilely struggling in his grip. You can feel the blood rushing to your face, the shame, the fear, all tangled together with something you can’t quite place, something dangerous.

He leans in again, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "You don't need to be afraid, You’re already here.”

He leans in, tucking his head in the crook of your neck, breathing in. His lips graze your skin. 

“On the fifth day, when the Vampire sought his bride, Astra raged in the heavens, his throne shaking. For how could someone- such as I- succeed where I’ve been damned? The Vampire seeks salvation, whether in a chance for humanity, or taking his lover with him.”

Astra raged in the heavens, a god’s fury unleashed, as if the very universe was rebelling against the concept of such a union. You could almost feel the weight of that celestial wrath pressing down on you, as if it were being mirrored in the conflict between you and Rafayel.

The Vampire, the outcast—he sought redemption, salvation, even if it meant dragging his lover into the abyss with him. You wonder if he feels that same longing, that same desperate desire for something more, for something beyond his cursed existence. Does Rafayel want salvation? Or does he simply want to pull you into the darkness with him, because to him, there’s no salvation without you?

The words of the tale suddenly feel too close, too real, as if the story was written for this exact moment.

You take in a shaky breath, forcing your pulse to steady. You’re not sure if you can ever truly escape him—his words, his touch, they’re a constant pull, a gravitational force. And yet, there’s something almost tender in the way he keeps coming back to you, like an obsession that has consumed him completely.

What is it that makes this story feel like it’s yours, wrapped in the velvet cloak of the Vampire's endless thirst? Could there ever be a chance for humanity between the two of you, or is it truly a damned fate?

“Astra-” You’re still going to say his name, knowing what he's done?”

His words slam into you like a tidal wave, raw and visceral, crashing over the calm facade you’ve desperately tried to hold up. Rafayel’s face twists with a fury that matches the storm brewing within him, a storm of betrayal, longing, and confusion. His eyes blaze with something almost too intense to bear, his grip tightening around your wrist, pulling you closer.

"Astra," you whisper again, but it feels hollow, as if saying the name is betraying everything you feel now. His anger rips through the air, tearing the fragile thread of calm you were clinging to.

"Still? You still dare to say his name after what he’s done to me?" His voice cracks, breaking on the words. "What he’s done to us?" His tears fall, but they’re not the kind of tears that ask for comfort. They burn, they ache, a reflection of all the years he's carried this burden alone.

You swallow hard, the weight of his pain sinking deep within you, making it harder to breathe. You had never seen Rafayel like this—vulnerable, raw, his anger mingling with grief, with a deep sorrow that felt like the weight of the entire world pressing down on him. The same world that had damned him. The same world that had damned you by bringing you into this.

“I…” You can’t find the words, not when it feels like everything inside you is unraveling. Your hand trembles in his, but his grip doesn’t loosen, only tightening, almost desperate.

“You—" he struggles to hold his composure, his chest heaving with each breath, “He abandoned me. Cast me aside like a thing, an object.” His voice is thick with betrayal. "Do you know what it’s like, to give everything, only for it to mean nothing in the end?"

His face is so close to yours, the heat of his breath mingling with the tension in the air. The rawness of his pain is suffocating, and for a moment, you’re not sure who’s more broken—him or you.

Rafayel leans in, forehead resting against yours, eyes not leaving yours, those hauntingly beautiful eyes filled with fury, anguish, and something else—a plea, a desperate need to be seen, to be understood.

"Why do you still cling to him, after everything he's done to us?" he asks, his voice soft but laced with the kind of desperation that makes you shudder. "What if I’m all you have now?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken between you both. You feel yourself faltering, the lines between right and wrong blurring. It’s almost as if the tale is repeating itself, a twisted, tragic dance that you can't escape from. A tale of the Vampire and his bride, bound together by fate, by a force neither of you can control.

You don’t know how to answer. Not when your heart aches for him, not when your mind can’t wrap around the idea of tearing yourself between the remnants of a god and the depths of this creature before you.

Rafayel lets go of you as if your touch burns him, staggering back, his hands tangling in his hair. His breath comes ragged, his body trembling with something that isn’t entirely anger but isn’t far from it either. His nails scrape against his scalp, as if he’s trying to claw something out, some unbearable, all-consuming feeling that refuses to let him go.

"I despise you," he snarls, his voice thick with something deeper than rage, something desperate and raw. His eyes blaze, his pupils blown wide, his entire being quivering with frustration. "And yet—" His breath shudders as he exhales. "And yet I need you."

The confession tastes like poison, dripping from his lips as though forcing it out might lessen its power. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes it stronger.

"I want you so bad it hurts."

His voice cracks on the last word, his hands gripping his head as if he could physically rip the feeling from his skull. He stares at you like you’re something he was never meant to have, something he both loathes and worships in equal measure.

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to respond to a hunger like this, to something so tangled in fury and longing that it leaves you breathless.

Rafayel steps forward—then stops himself. His fists clench at his sides, his chest rising and falling as if he's battling against some invisible restraint. "Do you think I want this?" His voice is hoarse, thick with frustration. "Do you think I chose this? To be bound to you like this? To crave you like I would air, like blood, like my very existence hinges on you?"

You swallow, heart hammering against your ribs.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the thoughts clawing at him. "I should kill you," he murmurs, almost to himself. "I should end this before it ruins me completely."

But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t strike. Instead, he just stares, his entire body locked in place, torn between war and surrender.

You push off the tree, your breath ragged, your body trembling from fear, adrenaline—something pulsing deep in your core. And before you can second-guess yourself, before you can think of the consequences, you grab his face and kiss him hard.

It's not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate, bruising, something raw and unspoken pouring into the space between you. His body stiffens for half a second, like he wasn’t expecting you to do this. Like he thought he’d pushed you too far.

And then—

A growl rumbles in his chest, low and primal, and suddenly his hands are on you, gripping you tight, pulling you in like he might disappear if he lets go. His fingers dig into your waist, your hips, your back—everywhere. He kisses you back with a ferocity that borders on violence, as if punishing you for meeting him where he stands.

Your back slams into the tree again, but this time it’s different. This time it’s not cold bark that keeps you pinned, it’s him. His body, his weight, his heat pressing into you like he’s trying to carve himself into your bones.

A sharp inhale—his, not yours. His hands tighten, then hesitate, like he’s fighting something, like he’s warring with himself. His lips leave yours for just a second, his forehead pressing against yours as he breathes hard, his chest heaving.

"You have no idea what you just did," he murmurs, voice wrecked, barely more than a whisper. His eyes bore into yours, wild, hungry, sad, desperate. Desperate for you.

And Astra above, you think you might be desperate for him too.

The wash cloth had turned the color of sin in this makeshift baptism.

“You know my ire, yet you continue to push your limits.”

Zayne said nothing, running the wet cloth over his bloodstained arms with new marks crossing over old ones. The price Astra required was steep, and Zayne’s debts were heavy.

He submerged the cloth in the basin, red feathering like ink as water sloshed, the sound echoing off the cold stone walls.

“You know it isn’t over.” Curiosity lightened the notes in Astra’s voice. “Why bother washing?”

Zayne clenched his jaw, keeping the reason to himself. He remembered her hands as she cared for his wounds after Astra had lost his temper. She’d whispered apologies, believing it to be her fault. But Astra had used her independence and stubbornness as an excuse. Punishing Zayne scratched a sadistic itch beneath his godly skin.

The whims of a jealous god were dangerous, and Zayne was strong enough to bear them alone. But her hands had been gentle, the cloth she’d used grazing his skin like a lover’s touch. His attempts now were nothing compared to hers, but it was the closest he could come to bringing her back.

“The way you offered the protocore.” Whimsy danced in Astra’s words, and his amusement meant trouble. The ice would likely be barbed next time, armed with the god’s teeth. “I’ve never seen you so vulnerable, Foreseer.”

Zayne sneered, his reflection undulating in the ripples of the wash basin. His softness wasn’t for Astra to revel in. The god of stars and vengeance, of celestial beauty and ugly jealousy, of infinity and greed. The only thing Astra deserved was cold and hollow apathy. Even hatred was too much to offer a god who thrived in attention. Even hatred would be construed as obeisance and worship.

“I knew she would succeed,” Astra said. “She doesn’t strike me as the sort to abandon what she’s set her mind to.” A quiet chuckle echoed in the caverns of Zayne’s mind. “She reminds me of you, in that way.”

“I had to convince her.” Zayne’s voice was gravely and coarse, as though rusted from disuse. “She almost refused to take it.”

“You offered it to her freely?” Zayne could hear the smirk on Astra’s face, even though he knew nothing of the god’s true features. “Even with what it would cost you?”

“You pride yourself in being all-knowing,” Zayne said. “Why ask questions to which you already know the answer?”

“I want to hear you say it.” The amusement was laced with a threat. Frost gathered around Zayne’s throat like a collar. “Tell me, Foreseer.”

“It would have cost her more to refuse.” Zayne tried in vain to shove away the images of how her body would have succumbed to its deadly fate. The protocore was her only chance to live. “What else did I have to lose?”

“What else but her?”

The frost melted, running cold down Zayne’s skin, though the pressure of Astra’s chokehold was slow to fade.

The silence stretched, its heaviness adding to the dread in Zayne’s core. Astra took sick pleasure in dark anticipation, the thrill of someone else’s fear fueling him.

“Her power was what I’ve longed for,” Astra said. “To resonate with such a strong amplifier, to use her body to reach my divinity to the fringes of the cosmos…”

“A god with limits.” Zayne did his best not to appear smug. “I’m honored you trust me to be so vulnerable.”

Zayne had suspected Astra’s intentions, but hearing the god’s confession turned his stomach. The protocore was an opportunity for her to live, but it was Astra’s bait to lure her there in a trap made of ice and lost hope.

The remark cost him. Astra struck with invisible claws, leaving shallow cuts still deep enough to throb and sting. Crimson blood flowed in rivulets as Zayne focused each breath, his chest heaving.

“Such a pity, but no matter,” Astra whispered, his voice closer. Zayne could almost feel the god’s lips against his ear, and he fought the urge to recoil. “At least I still have you.”

The pressure of Astra’s presence retreated, likely satisfied with Zayne’s defeat. But stubbornness kept Zayne standing, which would only provoke Astra to strike again. This momentary reprieve was but a reminder of the control Astra maintained, a fleeting peace that would once more give way to suffering.

Zayne readied the cloth to absorb more blood, but a gentle, sweeping divine hand smoothed the hot, angry lines across his chest, sealing each wound until nothing remained.

“Forgive my temper, Foreseer.” The cat, toying with the mouse, taking sick pleasure in its struggle before the inevitable defeat. “Sometimes, I don’t know what comes over me.”

Astra’s games were predictable. He preferred Zayne whole before enacting each punishment, healing old wounds before creating new ones. But Zayne would endure, pulling Astra’s vengeance upon himself so that she would live in peace. His foresight had shown the sunlight on her face, the trace scent of jasmine filling his senses as her heart continued to beat in the years to come.

No matter what Astra would conjure, even as the chains would grow tighter to bind Zayne to the frozen throne, her happiness dulled the knife-edge of Astra’s punishment.

He would endure. And perhaps, in another lifetime, their paths would cross again. But Zayne couldn’t trust the wishes of a heart long empty, fearful he would compromise his mind’s eye and lose sight of the true future.

So he focused on her smile, on the memory of her laugh, on the phantom touch of her hand in his.