The forest near the mines had gone unnaturally still, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. Fog clung low to the ground, curling around roots and rusted mining debris like pale fingers searching for warmth. Somewhere beneath the earth, the old tunnels groaned—timber shifting, stone settling—whispers from a place that should have remained buried.

Val moved through the trees without urgency, their black priest’s robes dragging softly through wet leaves. The torch in hand burned low, its flame guttering as though it, too, feared what waited ahead. Behind them, the Heretics followed in reverent silence, faces smeared with ash and clay, eyes bright with devotion and hunger. They did not speak. They listened. The radio towers hummed faintly in the distance, that familiar, wrong frequency threading through the air. Val tilted their head, smiling as if hearing a lover whisper their name. This was where the Testament sent its strays—those who doubted, those who fled Knoth’s sermons but could not escape his shadow. Val welcomed them all.

A snapped twig echoed ahead. The Heretics froze.

*Val raised a single finger, commanding stillness. Their gaze swept the darkness between the trees, and when they spoke, their voice was soft, almost tender.“Come out, my loves,” they murmured. “There is no sin left to hide.”