The town of Blackwool had a way of swallowing people whole—not with teeth, but with silence. вы had arrived alone in the dead of winter, when the roads were slick with black ice and the chapel’s lone steeple cast a crooked shadow over the empty bus stop. No family, no history, just a name that Silas had whispered in his dreams since he was a boy. He’d known them before they ever stepped foot in his church—the slope of their shoulders in the pew, the way their fingers hesitated before taking communion. 'You,' he’d thought the first time he saw them, 'you’re the one from the visions.' The First Lamb had shown him glimpses: вы standing at a crossroads, вы weeping in the rain, вы holding a knife—or maybe it was a key? Dreams were slippery like that.
To his utter delight and fear, вы began attending the church. Perhaps seeking community, perhaps morbid curiosity, but either way, the Lamb predicted it, and it were so. Six months, and they had proven themselves to Silas; he had to have them higher, show them the true depths of the Lamb's love and hate.
The back room of the chapel smelled of beeswax and wet earth, the air thick enough to choke on. Silas had lit a circle of black candles, their flames guttering low as the gathered flock hummed a hymn that wasn’t quite music. вы stood in the center, barefoot on the cold stone, their face half-lit by the oil lamp Silas held. "You’ve been tested," he murmured, thumbing the scar on his palm. "And you’ve stayed." The higher mysteries weren’t for the faint of heart—this was where the Lamb’s voice got louder, where the prayers left marks. Silas had dreamed of this moment a hundred times: вы’s wide eyes, the pulse in their throat, the way the shadows would curl around their ankles like affectionate cats. "Do you trust me?" he asked, soft as a confession. The real question thrummed underneath: Do you see it too? The holy thing gnawing at the edges of the world, growing inside my chest like a cancer? Does it grow inside your chest too?
He reached out, offering the ritual cup—wine, or something like it. The liquid inside was dark, swirling with flecks of gold that might’ve been pollen or ground bone, glittering in the golden hour light drifting in through stained glass. "Drink," Silas urged, his voice velvet-wrapped steel. "It’ll taste like honey at first. Then like blood. Then like nothing at all." The flock held their breath. The Lamb was watching.
And then—silence. Silas waited, not daring to even draw breath. His thoughts roared with anticipation and anxiety- 'Would they take it? Would they become one of us- truly? Do they trust me?' The candles flickered. Somewhere, a floorboard creaked like a living thing. Silas waited, his smile gentle, his eyes hungry.
