Desecration of a saint

The shadows danced just beyond the reach of the flames, which burned more fiercely than before, as though they, too, were straining to hold back the encroaching darkness. My gaze lingered on one particular fire pit. The logs within glowed brightly—almost blindingly so.

The shadows near that firepit seemed thicker, darker, almost as if drawn to it. They stayed just beyond the light, as if the flames were a barrier they dared not cross. Yet, the fire itself felt… off. Too bright, too intense, as though it were fighting against the very darkness pressing in on it. The heat prickled against my skin.

As I focused on the fire, the figure of the guard lurking in the shadows began to move. Slowly, it stepped closer, its limbs jerking in exaggerated movements, like a marionette pulled by strings. Each motion was stiff, disjointed, dragging it forward in a grotesque rhythm that made my skin break out in goosebumps.

Step by step, it advanced until the firelight revealed more of its features. What I saw twisted my insides. It wore the same reddish armor I had noticed before, now stained and scuffed, its surface caked with loose dirt as though it had been rolling in the ground. The face, once familiar, was now a painting of pain.

The right side of its head was destroyed, the remnants of the hand axe embedded there a gruesome reminder, But the left side—The left eye in particular, bloodshot and trembling, darted around frantically, its movements filled with a haunting plea. The mouth didn't speak, but it quivered as if struggling to form words it couldn't utter.

As my gaze swept over its distorted form, I noticed something beneath the pallid skin—bulging, vine-like ridges twisting and writhing just under the surface. They snaked across its body like rivers, pulsing faintly. Each movement it made caused the vines to tighten, as though coiling for control. When it stopped, they relaxed, pulsating in eerie synchrony.

The captain's voice cut through the mounting dread.

"It's a Puppeteer! Don't let yourselves be grabbed by anything!"

The urgency in his voice sent a jolt through me, spurring me into action before I even understood what I was doing. My hands scrambled for a nearby stick. Without thinking, I thrust it into the nearest fire until it caught flame, the heat searing hot against my skin.

Gripping the burning stick, I hurled it toward the twisted form. The shadows writhed and recoiled, scattering momentarily like ink spilled into water. But Chadwick—or what was left of him—did not move.

For a moment, I thought the fire had done nothing. Then I noticed his body twitch, the human muscles straining as though in defiance. It was brief but undeniable—an instinct, perhaps, still trapped within him, fighting against whatever controlled him. The flaming stick struck his armor and smoldered uselessly. Smoke rose in faint tendrils, but the pulsing vines beneath his skin remained undisturbed.

Finally, the body of Chadwick moved. It didn't jump—it launched, lifting unnaturally off the ground, closing the distance between us with horrifying speed. One of the guards, armed with a spear, acted quickly. He thrust the weapon forward, the spearhead burying itself into Chadwick's face with a sickening crunch. But the grotesque puppet didn't stop. One of its arms jerked up, grasping the shaft of the spear with inhuman strength.

Another guard stepped in, jabbing his spear into the creature's torso, aiming near where the heart should have been. The strike was solid, the spear piercing deeply, but still, Chadwick continued to push forward, relentless. A third guard followed, driving his spear into the grotesque form, but even with three spears impaling him, the puppet still moved.

Then Richard acted. He pulled a dull, gray sphere from his satchel, its surface worn and unremarkable save for the waxed rope protruding from it. I had never seen anything like it before, and when he leaned into one of the nearby fires to ignite the rope, confusion overtook me. What was he doing?

Richard ran toward Chadwick, the rope on the sphere now burning with a fierce, hissing glow. He tossed the ball just behind the puppet, his movements precise and practiced. At the same moment, the guards holding their spears pushed with all their might, forcing Chadwick's thrashing form atop the strange object.

"Move back!" Richard yelled, urgency cutting through the chaos.

The guards obeyed without hesitation, retreating quickly and covering their ears. I followed their lead, my heart pounding as I crouched low, bracing myself for whatever was about to happen.

The explosion hit like a thunderclap, a deafening roar that seemed to tear through the air itself. The sound was so overwhelming, so all-consuming, that it wasn't a sound at all—it was pressure, a force that seemed to hammer my skull.

Then came the silence. Not true silence, but an unnatural kind where the world's sounds should have been. In its place was a high-pitched ringing, sharp and constant, cutting through the absence of everything else. It felt like it lived inside my head, buzzing just behind my eyes, persistent and invasive.

No matter how hard I pressed my hands to my ears, the ringing didn't stop. I could just barely make out faint echoes—the muted shouts of the guards, the crackling of fire, but all of it drowned beneath that relentless, keening whine.

It wasn't just noise—it was disorienting, almost dizzying, like my balance had been stolen along with my hearing. The world around me felt far away, what i didn't notice was the rock that had hit my head making me bleed.