Chapter 11: The truth bares it's fangs

Palmer stood in the dim glow of the study. The weight of history sat heavy in the room, pressing against Damien and Sarah like an invisible force. He had been speaking for what felt like hours, unraveling the ancient past of their bloodline and the cursed artifacts—until the door creaked open.

A figure staggered inside, dragging something behind him.

"Sorry to interrupt," Lucius muttered, his voice strained. His injured body swayed slightly, but he held his grip firm on the thing he had dragged in—an unconscious figure, its body flickering between two forms, as though the very air around it refused to accept its existence.

Damien's stomach twisted. What the hell?

Lucius shoved the creature forward. It slumped onto the marble floor with a dull thud, its limbs twitching in unnatural spasms.

"Found him lurking in the courtyard while I was setting up my domain," Lucius said, wiping a smear of blood from his lips. "It stole Sila's body. Passed out from fear when I caught him." He exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to his abdomen. His shirt was soaked in crimson.

Sarah flinched. "Wh-what is that…?"

Palmer's expression hardened. "Skinwalkers. Masters of deception. And manipulation" His voice was as cold as the steel of a blade. "They steal faces, blend into society, and worm their way into people's lives without anyone noticing. This one's weak—an infantry scout. But if he's here, that means his allies are watching."

Valen stepped forward, his arms crossed. "Good work, Lucius. We'll handle it from here. Go get that wound looked at."

Lucius hesitated but nodded, his face pale.

Damien watched as Lucius limped away, his healing far slower than it should have been. "Why isn't he healing?" Damien's voice was tight with concern.

Palmer's gaze darkened. "Holy weapons, crafted by the god's themselves, used to put supernaturals in check," he answered simply. "They're fatal to us supernaturals. Tho, the ones they're using have been diluted—altered so that supernatural beings can wield them, in the process, reducing its purity. But they're still deadly to normal creatures. Fortunately for us, we're not like them. With a little amount of blood, he'll be fine."

Sarah swallowed hard. "Wait, hold on. How did they even get their hands on holy weapons? Aren't those meant to be for the Church?"

A pause.

"I think you already have the answer to that," Palmer said.

"Damien." Palmer turned to him, eyes sharp. "The wolves said you were in possession of one of the orbs. Where is it?"

The air grew thick.

"…What?" Sarah repeated, blinking in confusion. "Wait, what?! He has one of those things?!"

"I hid it in my basement. Just above my room."

Palmer's expression remained unreadable. "Was it the black one?"

Damien hesitated. "Yeah. Is that bad?"

Palmer exhaled through his nose, almost as if he expected the answer. "Black, Red, Yellow, Purple, and Ash," he murmured. "Each represents a fragment of the fallen god's essence. Black for Hate. Yellow for Desire. Red for Temptation. Purple for Rage. And Ash…" His gaze flickered, unreadable. "Ash is unknown."

Something cold gripped Damien's spine.

"The orbs influence those who touches them," Palmer continued. "That explains your behavior these past few months."

Sarah's head snapped toward her brother. "Wait, what?"

Damien clenched his fists. A cold sweat trickled down his back.

Was that why…?

The memories came rushing back.

Eliot's voice, laughing, pushing him forward. "Come on, Damien. You've got all this anger bottled up—why not aim it at the people who deserve it?"

The thrill of the chase. The reckless arrogance. The blind fury that had felt so good.

It wasn't just his anger. It was the orb's.

Damien gritted his teeth. "I never planned any of this," he admitted, his voice hoarse. "Eliot, in hopes of cheering me up. Said we should hit the mafias responsible for my parents' death. We crashed their auctions, stole from them. The orb was just… there." He said, realising in regret for his past behaviours. "For real, I never knew Eliot had that side to him. Like he was an expert in it."

"It's a good thing you didn't hold onto it for long," Palmer cut in. "It would've been worse."

Damien looked away. His hands were still trembling.

"That friend of yours…" Palmer sighed, rubbing his temple. "Eliot? That wasn't him."

A beat.

Damien froze. "What?"