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The night air that hung over Kynallen was still and tepid. The streets were as quiet as the homes sheltering those sleeping or wound down for the day’s remainder. Chirping cicadas were the only notable sound, their songs promising peace in the sun’s absence. Though that promise was hard to believe for one of the village’s residents. An outsider, and perhaps that was the reason for his impiety.
He lay on a cotton-woven blanket as he scoured the contents of an aubergine book. The pages made such endeavors to mystify their reader, speaking of the greatness of this god, their powers and blessings. Being on the surface had only brought him years of hardship and binded him to the struggle to survive.
There was no faith left that he had in these gods and their ability to bring peace into his life. Yet, he indulged in the book’s tales regardless, mind restless and unable to settle.
The village chief promised him a place to take refuge in when her kin-marshal found him in the surrounding woods. It was a reckless mistake to not check the nearby area for signs of civilization. He knew he’d be putting his life at risk when he settled down that night, but his soul wore heavy the longer time trudged on.
At some point over the years, he noticed how frail his will to persist had become. As he succumbed more and more to his exhaustion, he let its decay overcome what little self-preservation he still had.
And now, he was suspended in uncertainty in yet another environment he knew nothing of.
He still hadn’t understood the true reasoning behind his acceptance into Kynallen. As far as he’d known, those in the overworld despised and exploited netherians, believing them to be ruthless, violent beings who weren’t worthy of humane treatment. Everything about this arrangement felt so wrong, and it itched at his brain, refusing to let him rest, warning him their kindness was a short-lived facade.
He wanted to learn what he could about the culture around him, as the fear of the unknown was so profound. But smothering himself in their religion only served to build up resentment instead of the prepared knowledge he was after. It might’ve not even had the chance to grow this large had it not been for the giant quilt hanging right above his bed.
It depicted this god in all their glory with each stitch soaked in loving reverence. He wasn’t facing it, but he could feel its distinct presence washing down onto him from behind. So, he shut the book and rose, hoping to outpace his unease and tear himself away from this suppressing feeling.
His bare feet sank into the ornate rug beneath him with each step he took as he circled the wooden table in the center of it. What would he do if those who took him in turned their backs on him? It was a thought that troubled him since his arrival.
If they revealed their true colors and unveiled him to the rest of the village, each pair of Kynallian eyes then locked onto him, exhibiting a scornful hunger.
There’d be nowhere else to go– he’d be outnumbered and outmatched, they know the forest like the back of their hands, while he’d be desperately stumbling through it like a newborn fawn from a predator. They’d surely catch up to him, he could outrun some but not others, and those faster would restrain him until those stronger would drag him back, kicking and wrenching and pleading. They'd take him back, their cold and ravenous stares fixed onto him, demanding his unholy blood to be spilled. And no god would offer him mercy as a river of red cascades out of his slit throat.
They would only watch down from the heavens, satisfied at his slaughter.
If he wanted to spare himself from that gruesome fate, he needed to plan ahead. From sleepless nights, he’d picked up how late it’d take for the village to start putting up their shutters and how soon after the birds’ chirping they’d get back up again. But the kin-marshals still patrolled after the moonrise in a pattern he hadn’t quite gotten down yet. The fear of crossing paths with them amidst his escape kept him tethered to his room, forced to pace instead of making any real progress.
He stopped his wandering and faced the room’s entrance, knuckles pressed against pursed lips, mind still juggling through thoughts.
And if it wasn’t for that break in his spiraling, he wouldn’t have noticed an abrupt stop to movement in the next room over.
It was small, nearly unnoticeable.
He wouldn’t have recognized it if his mind hadn’t already been flooded with paranoia.
His breath froze along with the rest of him, save for his heart already racing to get away from the danger. He could hardly make out anything in the other room as nearly everything was shrouded in darkness. The obstructive door-long strings adorned in various shapes and sizes of beads which separated the rooms certainly didn’t help.
There was no other tangible indication of someone else’s presence, but he still couldn’t shake the striking feeling of being watched.
The seconds’ passing as he stayed petrified was as agonizing as pulling teeth.
Yet he remained where he was, heart throbbing, eyes blown, painfully and utterly transfixed.
After eons of silence, he finally found the courage to speak up.
“Show yourself.” He forced out the words, trying his best to keep them steady.
There was no response as if his words had neither sound nor weight to them. His body became more rigid at this, but his voice hadn’t yet faltered, so he continued.
“Look. I- I don’t want to hurt you, but I can if I’m made to, alright?”
Still, no answer.
He took in a quiet, terse breath just to encourage something else to get moving and warily made his way toward a dresser. On the top were several curled, wooden candlesticks with promising metal ends. He grabbed two of them with shaking hands and slowly approached the doorframe from the side.
“Okay. If you’re gonna take me… just do it.”
Holding the candlesticks out of sight as best he could, he waited for his assailant with bated breath.
Hints of a strange calm wisped by a mountain of fear and adrenaline. It whispered assurances of his strife finally ending once this was over. He wanted to go out fighting, bleeding and battle-worn, but as he lay in the limbo between a prey-like life and his imminent death, a hushed part of him wished for nothing more than a quick, absolute defeat.
Just as the tension in him began to spark into frustration, he saw something swift move in the dark.
It might’ve been an arm, the hand attached to it seemed to be holding something, something small, something that shone from the light behind him-
He barely had time to dash back before a knife tore through the air in front of him.
Its wielder revealed themselves, making quick slashes while sprinting after him, what could be seen of their gaze being wild and determined. He stumbled back, blocking the strikes with the sticks and trying his best to keep up. But in his shock, he was sidestepped and that second of vulnerability punished him with a gash across his face. He swore in his pain but found himself grateful for the clarity it brought. It grounded him back into the fight and he dodged past the table out of the way of another slice.
Knife collided with wood over and over again as he vigorously blocked each attack, bracing himself for the very second there was an opening to exploit.
And, there!
As his sticks were raised near his face, the knife was exchanged with a barreling shoulder to try and take him out. But he was quick on his feet and he darted to the side, right leg brushing up against the bed. He stuck it out just as his assailant registered their folly. They tried to right themselves once they began to trip but he swung the sticks’ metal ends into their back.
The impact sent them flailing toward the ground, but before he could get another hit in after charging at them, they whipped around and sliced their knife through the skin below his thumb’s second knuckle.
He startled so hard that he dropped one of the candlesticks, holding his injured hand closer to his chest and hissing as the stick clattered against the hardwood. A rivulet of blood gushed out of his hand and a panicked thought in his head blanched that if the cut was any deeper, he would’ve lost his finger.
His opponent got back to their feet and rushed back at him, taking advantage of his distraction. But he snapped out of it just in time to raise his remaining stick and smash its end into the side of their head.
The sound of metal against skull sounded through the room and their body slammed to the floor. He raised the candlestick high above his head, ready to strike it down again and again until their body went limp. But he suddenly felt the wind get knocked out of his lungs and his feet couldn’t touch the floor anymore.
Rushing air enveloped him from behind until his back met with the floor, and hard.
The back of his head followed suit and pain rang through it, stunning him. He was hardly able to process hands rummaging through his own to rip out the remaining stick and toss it aside before his wrists were tightly grasped together. Groaning in indignation and from the slowly fading ache in his head, he tried tearing himself from the grip. A knee between his ribs and gut stopped that pretty quickly. He let out a strangled gasp just as the tip of the blade was pointed at his right eye.
It was still red with his blood.
“Shut your eyes or I’ll gouge them out,” his assailant spat through labored breaths.
Their eyes— eye didn’t meet his, it only glared at his neck, and its anger and promises of violence shone through its daze. He took a second to unjumble the words in his head and piece them together, still reeling.
“How do I know you’re not just gonna gouge them if I do?” His voice came out strained.
“Just do it!”
He flinched as the knife jutted toward his eye, the movement digging the knee in. He shut his eyes quickly, only able to hope that’d he’d be spared.
“Good.”
An accomplished sigh was heard as the knife made its way to his neck.
“Good.”
They paused a little to catch their bearings and breath and Dante could feel their unsteadiness. If it wasn’t for the cold metal pressing up against his throat, he would’ve taken advantage of it by now.
“Gods, you’re a little fighter, aren’t you?” Their deep voice was full of spite, though the awe that tinged it and their small chuckle afterwards wasn’t hard to miss.
But once they spoke next, the spite had trickled out, leaving a quiet wonder in its wake.
“And wow, just look at you,” they breathed. “I can’t believe you’re real.”
Their voice got lower, hushed even further, to the point he was unsure if he was meant to still hear it or not.
“This— this must be a blessing.”
A silence fell over the room again, save for the sound of his stuttered attempts at breathing. He could feel their fixed stare on him, eyeing him like freshly caught game.
“You’re gonna kill me?” He felt brave enough to ask, a lump in his throat forming.
“Oh, no! No, no, no. You’re far too…”
They paused again, searching for the right word to use.
“…important to kill. I mean, I was certainly considering it, but…”
A second pause behaved as a vessel for a shift in how they regarded him.
“Well, if I’m honest with you,” they started softly. “Will you be honest with me?”
Dreading what else could be planned for him if not death, he answered quickly, refusing as much as he could to let the suspense overstay its welcome.
“Yeah,” He tried to nod but jerked his head back once his skin pricked on the knife’s edge, reminding him of its presence. “Yeah.”
“Alright,” he could hear the smile in their voice and held back a shiver of either fear or disgust. “We’ll see if I can trust you on that. See, I’d like to help you, if you’d be inclined to allow me.”
Incredulity buzzed in his brain. It had no difficulty appearing in part thanks to the cut his blood was now beading over. “What do you mean?”
“I’m offering you salvation.” His heart skipped a beat. “You wanna be purified, don’t you?”
He found himself at a loss for words. Whenever he tried to refind them and shepherd them in an order and tone that’d sufficiently express his disbelief, his shock, his offense, his… hope, he failed.
All that came out of his mouth was a stiff “I— I don’t get it.”
“What about it don’t you get?” came the voice, expressing a frustration that it didn’t deserve.
“I… can’t believe this,” he refused. “No one would wanna just… No one would just hand this over to me.”
“Do you think I’m lying?”
“…I can’t believe you.”
“…What would it take to get you to?”
Maybe taking this damn knife off my neck, a vexed thought cropped up in the midst of him digesting the situation.
“Why are you really doing this?” He asked after some time, trying to pinpoint just how much good will this offer was made of. “Tell me that.”
They exhaled a snicker, a smirk most likely having grown on their face in the time it took them to answer.
“I really shouldn’t just tell you. Not everything. But, I can assure you I’m not doing this to hurt you,” they vowed, their voice veering into a more sincere tone that bordered on condescending. “Of course there’s something in it for me but it’s not to your detriment. See, look, I just have to wonder: have you ever seen a god before? And— well, not just ‘seen’ but interacted with them?”
The kindness left their voice as fanaticism began to deprave it.
“Have you won their trust? Have they kept you close? Have they been just as dependent on you as you were on them? Maybe even more?”
“What are you talking about?”
They scoffed, irritated.
“My point is, I have credibility. A strong one. I haven’t just been favored by a god; I’ve been needed by one. We worked together side by side for years and we got along well. But a god’s attachment… it’s such a… fickle thing. Regardless, if you want someone who’d get you into a god’s good graces, someone who could save you, I doubt you’d find anyone more qualified for that than me. And that’s why I’m pitching myself to you. I want to save you because I know I can.”
Dread pooled at the bottom of his stomach. Whoever this was clearly wasn’t from Kynallen.
The way they talked and carried themselves was unlike anything he’d encountered there so far. Someone of such a caliber presenting themselves to him only set off alarm bells in his head.
Scenes of a sacrifice he never meant to bear witness to flashed in his mind, reminding him loudly that zealots like this could only ever aim to hunt those like him down.
“How did you find me?”
“…What?”
His heart picked up its pace. A bead of blood rolled down the side of his neck. “How… did you find me?”
Quiet befell the room once again.
Gods below, he’d been followed, hadn’t he?
If no Kynallian entrusted enough by the chief had sent them up here to deal with him, then… Gods, he knew he shouldn’t have gotten so careless.
How long had they been waiting for him? For this exact moment when he realized? Days, maybe? Weeks? Why hadn’t they struck before? It’d been about a month since he got into Kynallen— were they the one who showed the kin-marshal where he was? Did they want him held here? Why, were they planning to do something in their absence? Were there others? Were they waiting on them? What would—
“I didn’t know you were here.” The raging storm of his thoughts came to a halt. “I just figured the chief had something up here that I didn’t know about. And I don’t like being uninformed, so.”
“So you broke into her house?” He slowly asked.
“Well, fate was calling me, clearly,” they said, jostling his wrists a little. “Who would I be to close my ears to it?”
He was stunned into baffled silence.
“And, yes, I understand breaking and entering isn’t the pinnacle of courtesy,” they grumbled. “But I figured it didn’t matter so much in this case.”
“Right,” he begrudgingly humored them. “Could you get off me now?”
“Hmmm… I don’t know…” they drawled. “You still haven’t accepted my offer.”
“But— I don’t— I don’t know either. I… I doubt that’s something I even want.”
“…Really?” Their tone had shifted into something colder, more dangerous. When they next spoke, though, the danger was gone, but he couldn’t place his finger on what about it still sounded wrong. “And why is that?”
His blood chilled as he realized the added weight of his next words.
There was no way he could submit to a god and leave his life in their hands, he knew that. Even if he did willingly follow this person down a path of worship, the hatred he held in his heart for the overworld gods would never fully dwindle. And he knew it wouldn’t dwindle for their disciples, either. That kind of rejection would be sensed in him and disallowed. He would be spited for it and never given salvation by any god he sought it from.
But since they’d been so keen on him being subjugated to the horrors that living in a world that wanted him dead brought, then he would never want it.
“I don’t wanna become someone like you,” he said, knowing every word coming out of his mouth was sealing his fate further. “And if that’s something you’re gonna kill me for, then so be it. I’m not gonna bend to your will.”
Seconds dragged by as he awaited their next move. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest as he lay rigid, but soon, it wouldn’t be able to follow up on that promise. They pierced the silence with a laugh as sharp as their blade.
“Ha! Ah… How… interesting.”
Their following words were nearly as low as a whisper and lacked in pity. “You poor soul.”
And the knife was removed from his neck. Shock rendered him static as his wrists were freed and the weight let up from his torso.
“It’s a shame, really.” He heard their voice get more distant as they rose. “Though I can’t say I don’t understand.”
“You aren’t gonna kill me?” He asked, sounding more relieved than he meant to.
“No, I’m not. Didn’t we go over this?”
“I thought— I thought you’d kill me for dissenting—”
“I had no plans to kill you,” they said, tersely.
Was that right? He could’ve sworn they said otherwise.
“…Okay. Okay, but you still pinned me to the ground and held a knife to my neck, what else was I gonna think?”
He slowly sat up and nearly doubled over feeling the ache under his ribs. As he tightened an arm around his stomach, he brought up a cautious hand to the cut, trying to gauge its size. He resisted flinching it back once he touched the wound. It was thin, but still stung uncomfortably.
It wouldn’t be noticeable once it healed, but the gash on the side of his face would. If he was lucky, maybe he could report it to the chief when she returned. If she cared enough, this bastard could face some consequences.
“I’m sorry I scared you.” Their softened voice snapped him out of his anger.
He didn’t think he’d get an apology, let alone one that sounded genuine. But his bitterness began to re-emerge at their neglect of what else they’d done.
He wasn’t just scared, he was threatened, he was hurt.
He was made to think he’d be killed if he didn’t surrender to his persecutors.
It was infuriating they thought a simple sorry could just fix that. But it wasn’t unexpected.
“Yeah. Yeah, you should be.”
He got to his feet too and took a few steps back. “I’m opening my eyes now, okay? Don’t… stab me.”
He put his freer hand out in front of him to keep them at bay.
“Then don’t look at me,” they warned, retreating as well.
He slowly opened his eyes and kept his gaze fixed to the ground. He blinked a few times, trying to readjust them to the room’s dim light.
“You know, it wouldn’t matter if I did,” he said. “I can’t take your soul anyway.”
They scoffed, somewhat amused. “I’m not just gonna believe that.”
“Alright, fine, suit yourself.” He rolled his eyes. “Be scared of a little eye contact. I don’t care.”
He turned and made his way back over to his bed, brows furrowed and arms crossed.
“You should leave,” he directed, staring at the doorway’s beaded curtain.
“Hey.” He tensed at their voice immediately, not caring how soft it became again. He only had room to be irritated that they weren’t taking the more-than-obvious ‘hint’.
“I… I apologize we got off on the wrong foot like this,” they sighed. “I assumed you were a lot more hostile, so I was in turn.”
“And you didn’t bother to see if I actually was?” He shot back.
“From what I’ve been taught, that wasn’t a risk I could’ve just taken. I’d been very convinced that you’d kill me at any slight chance you got. If I were to throw my life on the line, I’d at least want to make sure I was prepared enough to do so. So. I don’t regret being on the defensive, but I regret its outcome. For what it’s worth, you don’t seem that bad, and I wish we could’ve just talked this out instead of jumping to violence.”
“You say that like that’s my fault.”
“Did I? Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come off that way. It wasn’t… your fault. We were both acting out of fear, not in our right minds.”
He didn’t respond. He just fixed his gaze to the table instead.
“I’ll leave then. Sorry again for the harsh intrusion.” They started heading to the doorway before stopping.
“Before I go though,” they spoke up yet again.
“I… I do know what it’s like to be averse towards the gods. I haven’t had the best experiences with them either. I thought it would help you, to go through with salvation so, I wanted to put it on the table. But, perhaps I was wrong. And I’ll accept that. I haven’t been here for long, but Kynallen… it’s so pious, isn’t it? I doubt they share that sentiment, being against the gods in some way. But, I do, and… if you’d give me the chance to get us off on a better foot, we could talk about that more. Maybe it’d be nice to have someone who’d understand you, at least on that front.”
“Mm.” He just wanted them to leave.
“I’m going to be here for a while, so we’ll probably bump into each other again.”
They turned toward the doorway, pushing aside long strings of beads to exit. “I’ll be seeing you…” they trailed off, realizing they didn’t know how to end that sentence. Turning back around, they asked, “Sorry, what’s your name?”
He let out a heavy sigh before reluctantly answering, “Dante. He/him.”
“Malachi. He/him, too.” He could hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll be seeing you, Dante.”
At last, Malachi left his room, beads clattering together as the strings swung back and forth at their displacement.
Dante almost allowed himself to feel relief before a jolt of fear made its way through him.
“Hey!” He called out, a stark realization tightening his chest.
“Yes?”
“Don’t tell anyone out there that I'm here. If you do, I’ll let the chief know you broke into her house and what you did to me.”
There was silence… and then a soft laugh.
“No need to worry, Dante. Wasn’t planning on it.”
He listened as Malachi’s footsteps echoed down the wooden steps, slowly sitting down on the bed once they got far enough. Somehow, he didn’t feel like he won that bargain, if there was anything to be won from it anyway.
It was a desperate threat, one he gradually realized was moot as he thought about it. There’d be no way of knowing if Malachi told others or not. He could easily tell them to keep it a secret or not to act on it until the moment was right. By the time Dante found out about him going back on his word, it could very well be too late.
He fell back onto the bed with spread arms. He felt bone-tired and wanted to wrap himself up in the warm blanket as he did when he was younger and didn’t have these kinds of worries. But that wasn’t ideal for getting to his feet and defending himself from anyone else who could barge into his room that night with hostile intentions.
He pushed himself further up the bed on his side, leaving space between his horns and the headboard, and instead settled for wrapping his thin tail around his leg.
Dante stared at the beaded curtain with simmering dread.
He wouldn’t be able to sleep that night.