25.| Who Do They Think I Am?
I woke with a jolt, my head throbbing like it'd been used as a Punisher's punching bag.
Darkness pressed in around me, broken only by the faint trickle of water echoing from somewhere unseen. The air was thick with the stench of mildew, making me cough and gag as I struggled to catch my breath.
Blinking hard, I tried to force my eyes to focus. As the fog in my brain slowly cleared, cold realization seeped in. Stone walls. Iron bars. Shit. I was in a dungeon.
The last fragments of memory flashed through my mind—Punishers tearing through the barracks like rabid dogs, yelling something about me being the culprit. And Anyae's face, watching with that infuriating mask of indifference as they dragged me away.
That damn Daemon, I thought, anger bubbling up inside me. She let them take me in her stead. I should've snitched on her the moment I had the chance. Now look where playing cordial got me.
I tried to sit up, only to be greeted by the clank of chains.
Great. Just great. I glanced down at myself—be shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of grimy white cotton pants that had seen better days. Cold metal bit into my wrists and neck, the links rattling with every small movement.
Gritting my teeth against the ache in my muscles, I forced myself to stand. Behind me, moonlight slanted through a barred window, casting shadows across the damp floor.
My new "bed" came into view; a sad pile of straw that looked and smelled like it had been used as a toilet by the last dozen occupants.
"Fan-freaking-tastic," I muttered, my voice scraping out of my dry throat. "And here I thought the barracks were bad."
I shuffled towards the cell door, the chains scraping across the stone floor with each step.
Suddenly, they went taut, jerking me backwards. I gasped, my hand flying to my neck where the metal collar had dug into my skin.
"There's no use in fiddling with that," a voice rasped from the cell beside me. "It'll tighten up and choke you unconscious if you do."
I turned to see an old man with wisps of white hair and a toothless grin leaning against the bars of his cell. "And let me tell you," he continued, "those guards won't make rounds fast enough to see if you're purple or blue."
Great. Just great.
"Where are we?" I asked, trying to get my bearings. Yeah, I knew it was a dungeon, but were we still in the Hollows?
The old man scratched at his patchy beard, considering. "In the prayer keep's dungeon. It's where they take all the people they assume are against their All Mother or possible vessels."
There was that word again. Vessels. It niggled at the back of my mind, reminding me of the system notification I'd received when they'd found Crewcut's body split in two in front of the infirmary. I hadn't had time to check it then, but now...
I nodded at the old man so he wouldn't think I was ignoring him, then focused inward, calling up the menu in my mind. I navigated to the dictionary, scrolling quickly until I found what I was looking for: Vessels.
[Vessels]
|Daemon Hosts|
[Category: Daemons]
[Type: Possessed Vessels]
[Description: Beings that serve as physical vessels for daemonic entities, existing in various forms based on the method and extent of possession.]
︶♱︶︶♱︶︶♱︶
|Subtypes|
(1.) Devoured Host (Type A)
Process: Human killed and devoured by a Daemon
Characteristics:
• Daemon can perfectly mimic the human's form and speech
• Lacks the original human's personality
︶♱︶︶♱︶︶♱︶
(2.) Soul-Merged Vessel (Type B)
Process: Temporary merging of Daemon's soul with a human
Characteristics:
• Daemon's true form remains untargeted
• Limited duration of possession before host begin to rot
︶♱︶︶♱︶︶♱︶
(3.) Flesh-Bonded Vessel (Type C)
Process: Daemon merges its body with a mortal
Characteristics:
• Slows the decay of the hosts body
• More durable than Type B
• Duration depends on the Daemon's strength and rank
︶♱︶︶♱︶︶♱︶
When I closed the menu, I couldn't help but wonder which version of Anyae this was. A flicker of hope stubbornly clung to life—maybe she was a soul-merged vessel, and somehow, I could reclaim the Anyae I once knew. But the image of her in the wagon, eyes devoid of of life, whispered a painful truth I wasn't ready to accept.
"What are you in here for?" The old man's raspy voice cut through my brooding silence, yanking me back to our fucked reality.
I hesitated, then decided on a half-truth. "I'm guessing they think I'm a Vessel."
The effect was instantaneous. The old man scrambled away from the bars, chains clanking as he retreated into the shadows of his cell. "Are you?!" he yelped, fear palpable in his voice.
I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "Old man, if I were, do you think I'd tell you?"
His ragged breathing echoed in the darkness. "I suppose you're right," he spoke after a moment. "But I hope you make them believe it. They'll get it out of you, through torture. Throwing you in the arena early. The top tier ones."
A chill slithered down my spine. "What do you mean?"
The old man's voice took on a knowing tone. "There are levels to the arena, boy. But when they suspect a Daemon... they force it through trials that no mere vessel can sustain. They push and push, breaking body and spirit, until the Daemon has no choice but to reveal its true form."
As he spoke, a memory surfaced—my father's voice, explaining a similar concept years ago. But he'd used different terms, talked about the prototype. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut.
The Punishers, in their blind devotion to their false All Mother, couldn't banish a Daemon the way a Dark Priest could. No, what they were doing was far worse. Daemons fed off negative energy, and these sadistic trials... they were creating the perfect feeding ground.
I felt the blood drain from my face as the full implications sank in.
All those poor souls losing their lives, children starving in the hollows, people fighting for a redemption that didn't exist; all in the name of their false goddess. The Punishers thought they were cleansing the Hollows, but they were just setting a banquet table for the very creatures they sought to destroy.
The irony was bitter on my tongue. Here I was, trapped in a cell, about to be subjected to torments designed to reveal a Daemon that didn't exist within me. And out there, the real threat walked free, wearing Anyae's face like a mask.
I slumped against the cold stone wall. Sitting here, wallowing in self-pity, wouldn't change a damn thing. Dads voice echoed in my mind, words I'd overheard him speaking to one of his former gang members: "Waiting for fate to deal you a better hand is a fool's game. The real players are the ones who reach across the table and take what they want."
The thought sparked something in me. Maybe I couldn't change my circumstances, but I could damn well try to shift the odds in my favor.
Then it hit me. Daemons had impeccable hearing, didn't they? Could I call her to me? Set her up so they'd see who the real threat was? It was a dangerous gamble, but what did I have to lose at this point?
Before I could act on the idea, footsteps echoed down the long corridor beyond my cell. The warm glow of a lantern preceded Trynton's familiar face as he came into view.
"Just what the hell have you done now?" he asked, shaking his head. He carried a tray of what looked like gray slop, pushing it through the bars just far enough for me to reach without the chains biting into my skin again.
Despite my lack of appetite, I took it. No point in refusing what might be my last meal.
"They think I'm a Daemon," I scoffed, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
"Idiots," Trynton muttered, irritation clear in his tone.
More footsteps echoed from down the hall, and Trynton's eyes widened. "Shh," he hissed, quickly extinguishing the lantern and melting into the shadows.
I guess he wasn't supposed to be here after all.
Heart pounding, I waited as the new arrival drew closer. Then Bryard's face loomed out of the darkness, his eyes filled with malice.
"I thought there was something off about you," he sneered. "Now I have no reason to hold back the power All Mother has given me to punish the blighted that walk the earth."