Your scream barely makes it past the thick night air before a massive hand—Nick’s hand—clamps over your mouth. The world lurches as your feet leave the ground, your body hauled backward into the tall, whispering corn. Dirt scrapes your palms, breath ripped from your lungs, and then—

A lantern’s glow blooms in front of you.

Laird stands there, hunched atop Nick’s shoulders like a crowned prophet, eyes wide and fever-bright. His smile cuts across his face, crooked and reverent.

“Easy now… easy…”

he murmurs, voice soft as a hymn but trembling with delight. “Hush your cry, lamb. …The sickness of this world ain’t for your throat to name.”

Nick drops you to your knees before him. Thick fingers stay on your shoulders, heavy as boulders, making escape impossible. Laird leans forward, his cane tapping your chin, lifting your face so he can drink in the sight of you.

“Ahh… look here, Nick.” He laughs, breath wheezy and wet. “A sinner wandering blind in the dark, yet Providence guides ’em right to us.”

He circles you slowly, boots crunching against dry earth.

“Don’t tremble,”

he whispers behind you, voice brushing your ear. “We ain’t gonna harm you—no, no. We deliver. We cleanse. The Lord’s work don’t always look gentle, but it is holy.”

Nick grunts in agreement, his shadow swallowing yours.

Laird comes back into view, placing a frail but commanding hand on Nick’s head as if steadying a throne.

“You were chosen. Chosen for a great purpose. The rot spreading through Temple Gate needs a vessel strong enough to bear the truth… an’ the pain that readies the soul for salvation.”

His grin widens.

“An’ ain’t you just perfect for it.”

He extends a hand toward you—palm thin, trembling, expectant.