50. Murmurs

The church was buried in stone and sorrow deep beneath the shriveled husk of the city above, where screams no longer echoed, and the sun was only a story passed between ghosts.

Allen stepped in first.

The heavy iron door creaked behind him, and cold, dry air brushed his cheeks. His boots tapped softly against the fractured tiles, ash trailing behind him like a memory he couldn't wash off. His coat was still soaked from the red mist outside, and his fingers trembled slightly as he pushed his hood down.

At the far end of the chamber, where candles burned in shallow bowls and stained-glass light hung like broken prayers, Father Vain knelt before the altar.

Clad in his full black robe now, he looked like a statue carved from midnight. Gold embroidery traced sacred glyphs along his sleeves and hem—symbols older than any known tongue. His face was bowed low, hidden beneath a deep hood. His voice murmured softly in the silence, ancient syllables echoing faintly in the chamber, neither human nor fully divine. It wasn't English, or Latin, or any dialect Allen had heard on this side of reality.

Allen lingered halfway down the aisle, unsure whether to speak.

He didn't. He sat instead on the last intact pew. Leaned forward. Rested his elbows on his knees, eyes hollow. He didn't believe in much anymore, but in the company of someone who spoke to the beyond, he didn't feel the need to pretend.

Minutes passed.

Then the door groaned open again.

Henry entered, fedora low over his eyes, coat stitched with time and blood. He paused in the doorway like he didn't belong there, like his shadow might disturb the fragile peace.

His eyes scanned the chapel. First Allen, who gave a silent nod and then the altar.

The Father hadn't moved.

Henry approached slowly. The weight of his boots on the floor felt heavier here. The kind of place where silence listened back.

He stood a few feet behind the praying man.

Still didn't know his name.

He looked to Allen, quietly Then to the robed figure. Still praying.

"…He ever say who he really is?" Henry asked softly.

Allen shook his head. "No one ever asks."

Henry turned back to the altar. He didn't pray. But he stayed.

The bells of the lower church no longer rang. Above, the town of Prada lay cloaked beneath a crimson fog—thick, choking, and always humming, as if some distant god was breathing heavily above it. The tentacles had grown bold. No longer content to twitch from alley cracks or the forgotten corners of ruined buildings, they had begun slithering across rooftops and reaching into neighboring towns like veins from a festering wound.

Inside the lower chamber of the church, three men gathered in the worn nave.

Allen sat on an overturned crate near the corner, the faint glow of his half-burnt cigarette dimly illuminating his jaw. His eyes were sharp but haunted, like a soldier listening for ghosts instead of enemies.

Henry leaned against one of the old pillars, his long leather coat still damp from the fog, fedora tilted slightly as if shielding him from more than light. He hadn't shaved in days, and his coat still bore stains from the creatures they'd left behind in the alley two nights before.

Father Vain stood by the altar. Robes now fully draped around him, he looked like a statue carved from dusk. A single candle burned on the stone beside him. Its light flickered wildly, casting his shadow large and shapeless across the wall.

"The fog's no longer circling, it's hunting," Allen said, dragging slowly from his cigarette. "This morning, a trader caravan from Risslow Town came through what was left of them. Said half their Miracle Invoker route got swallowed."

Henry didn't speak right away. He simply stared toward the ceiling, where cracks formed crooked constellations. "The tentacles… they don't move like limbs. They pulse. Like nerves. As if this town's just become part of something larger. A body, a nest."

Father Vain's gaze didn't lift. "It is neither body nor nest," he whispered. "It is a preparation."

Allen scoffed softly. "You've been saying things like that for days, Father. Preparation for what?"

Vain looked at them now, eyes colder than the fog outside. "For return. Not of a being, but of an argument made before the world was named. We are not being invaded—we are being reminded."

Silence followed his words. Deep. Crushing. Even the air stilled, as if the tentacles above were listening.

Henry broke it, rubbing his forehead. "You said the dream changed, Father. What did you see last night?"

Father Vain stepped closer, fingers grazing the stone as if tracing something invisible. "The towns beyond Prada have begun flickering in the dreams. Not vanishing… just growing distant. Like echoes of a bell swallowed in snow. Something is severing connection. Not killing—isolating. That's more terrifying."

Allen looked up. "So what are we? Witnesses? Or bait?"

"Both," Father Vain replied. "But not helpless."

Henry frowned. "There's no help coming from the capital. No letters. No reinforcements. No clergy. It's like they've forgotten we exist."

"They haven't forgotten," Vain said. "They've decided. This land's already been priced for abandonment."

Allen ground out the cigarette under his boot, the sound oddly final. "So it's us, then. Again."

Henry stepped forward, voice low. "And the Band of Sumir? You think they'll help?"

"They didn't come here by chance," Father Vain said. "They were called. Whether they know it or not. And those who call to the old arguments always leave something behind something that can cut the fog."

For a long moment, the three simply stood there. The candle's flame wavered like a breath held too long. Above, faint moans echoed through the broken rafters—distant, but not unfamiliar.

Allen finally spoke, voice tired but resolute. "We gather who we can. We lock the gates. We mark every alley with chalk and salt. No one sleeps alone."

Henry nodded, his fedora casting a deeper shadow now. "And if it comes?"

"It already has," Father Vain said.

....

Henry sat by the fire's faint glow, his gloved hands fumbling inside his coat's inner lining.

Outside the stone walls of the chapel, the storm groaned like an old god in its sleep, but in here, silence hung like folded wings. In the background, Father Vain leaned near the hearth, seated across from Allen, who nursed a cracked mug of boiled root tea.

"Saint Tellius," the priest said, voice slow and dusty, "was blind from birth, yet he could see the sins inside a man's shadow. He'd trace his fingers on temple walls and weep for things no one dared name aloud."

Allen raised a brow. "That's a metaphor?"

Vain smiled. "It became one. But back then? Back when Prada still had roads that led out of itself? It was real. They said Tellius once stepped into a storm and didn't get wet. He just spoke, and the rain stopped to listen."

Henry quietly withdrew a strange box from his coat. Dark mahogany, etched with faded runes, its surface felt warm despite the cold. He turned it over in his palm, then gave it four soft taps precise and measured.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

The box pulsed, hummed like a held breath… and in an instant, Henry was gone.

It didn't fall. It just rested there light as a feather on the old pew's edge until it began to shimmer and fade into itself, disappearing like steam into memories.

The Astral Room unfolded like a dream he'd half-forgotten.

Warm air embraced him, sweet with the scent of lavender and cedar. A sky stretched above, not blue, but some soft glowing hue between rose and dusk. Floating lanterns bobbed lazily through the air. Beneath his boots, the grass was plush and impossibly green, flowing like silk under moonlight.

A small hill rose ahead. Atop it stood an oak tree, its leaves swirling with starlight. The stream nearby murmured, its water laughing quietly as it wound around smooth stones.

From behind the tree came a sound—a soft, eager chirp.

"Marsh?" Henry said, already smiling.

The black-furred kitten tumbled out first, her green eyes gleaming. She bounded down the slope, leapt straight into his arms with the force of a thunderclap in miniature.

Right behind her padded Jeena, tail flicking with calculated elegance. The silver kitten meowed once, as if announcing her arrival with all due formality.

Henry crouched and let them pounce, laughing as Marsh swatted playfully at his collar. "I missed you two," he murmured.

He'd lost count of how many nights ended here. It was a sanctuary.

Father Vain had given him the box when Prada first started rotting. "The world may starve, but memory should not," he'd said. "Keep them here. Safe. Until we remember what home feels like again."

The Astral Room wasn't just a pocket space. It was alive, kind. It responded. The food bowls refilled themselves, warm and steaming. A small shelf nearby held toys—feathers, enchanted yarn, even floating fish that shimmered in the air when batted.

Henry sat under the oak as the kittens curled up beside him. "You've grown," he whispered. "Didn't think time would pass in here."

Marsh blinked slowly, her purrs syncing with the tree's heartbeat.

He took a small feather toy from the grass and dangled it above them. Jeena lunged, precise and ruthless, knocking it from his hand and pouncing like a predator born. He laughed again, heart lighter.

In here, there were no screams. No infected screams echoing off stone walls. No tentacles in the wells. No children whispering to things they shouldn't see.

Just him.

And the last gentle pieces of a world that once made sense.

Henry lay back and closed his eyes for a moment. The sky above shifted—stars arranged themselves in constellations he didn't recognize but somehow knew.

Marsh kneaded at his shoulder while Jeena climbed up onto his chest and stared down at him like a tiny queen of judgment.

"You two," he said with a smirk, "are all I've got left of normal."

His voice cracked a little on that last word.

But the kittens didn't notice. They curled close, forming a warm weight on either side of him, and Henry let out a long, slow breath.

When the bell rang in the air—a gentle chime that only he could hear—he knew his time was ending.

Carefully, he rose. "Be good," he whispered, lifting Marsh and Jeena into the soft nest under the tree. "I'll be back soon."

He tapped his chest. Four times.

The Astral Room folded in, like the last page of a book closing.

And he was gone.

.

.

.

Henry pushed open the chapel's heavy wooden door, stepping into the dim, overcast light outside. The ruined streets of Prada stretched before him, shrouded in an uneasy silence broken only by the faint rustle of wind stirring dust and the distant, ominous twitching of dark tentacles sprawling across the horizon.

Behind him, Father Vain and Allen remained inside, their quiet murmurs blending with the soft crackling of the fire.

As Henry adjusted the satchel on his shoulder, a pressing thought gripped him. Among all this chaos, he had an urgent mission—one that weighed on his mind heavier than the crumbling world around him.

The Rituals for The Peer Route.

He whispered the words under his breath, feeling their strange gravity pull at his soul.

In the heart of this destruction, amid spreading darkness and creeping madness, those Rituals were his only chance. The Peer Route is an arcane path woven with threads of fate and paradox that held secrets that might undo or reshape the disaster swallowing the town during his journey.

Henry's fingers brushed the worn box hidden beneath his coat, a small refuge containing things precious beyond measure. He thought of what awaited inside. Marsh and Jeena, the fragile anchors to his dwindling hope.

The tentacles that coiled and spread like living shadows seemed unstoppable, and with each passing moment, the world slipped further from order.

But Henry couldn't let himself succumb to despair.

He needed those Rituals. They were a key, an answer, maybe even salvation.

Turning away from the fading glow of the chapel, he steeled himself. Father Vain's voice echoed softly behind him, Allen's steady presence a reminder that he was not entirely alone in this fight.

Still, the path ahead was unclear and fraught with danger.

Yet, amidst the ruin and despair, Henry pressed forward, driven by a silent vow,

He would find the Rituals. Even if the chaos threatened to consume everything, he would not falter.