Elohims wrath

"Where am I?" Bjorn murmured, his voice barely more than a rasp, swallowed by the oppressive stillness of the room. His words hung in the air, unanswered, like a forlorn echo.

The room was an enigma—four walls of cold, unyielding stone brick encased him, their rough surfaces devoid of any relief. There were no windows to betray the existence of an outside world, no hint of sunlight or breeze to suggest the passing of time. The room seemed disconnected, a fragment suspended in void. The only source of light was a solitary candle, perched on a desk beside the bed he lay in, its flickering flame a fragile lifeline against the engulfing darkness.

Bjorn shifted his gaze, his muscles screaming in protest. Every movement was a struggle, every breath an ache. As his eyes adjusted to the dim glow, something moved at the periphery of his vision.

A figure stood in the corner—a man, or what was once a man. He was swathed in bandages, a grim silhouette barely visible in the gloom. He stood unnervingly still, straight as a blade, his head tilted in Bjorn's direction. Though his features were obscured, his presence radiated a quiet menace.

Bjorn's instincts screamed to rise, to fight, but his body refused. Strength had abandoned him, leaving him to the mercy of this silent watcher. Helplessness gave way to a rising tide of regret, seeping into his soul like a cold poison.

Memories clawed their way to the surface. His last recollection was vivid—too vivid. The battle. The blood. The searing shame of failure.

"I'm sorry, Anna," Bjorn whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of guilt. "I'm sorry, Arne, Mikkel, everyone."

His breath hitched as self-loathing unfurled within him. His methods, once steadfast and certain, had betrayed him. He had failed them all, leading them into ruin when patience and calculation should have been his guiding principles. Next time, he thought bitterly, if there even is a next time... I will be stronger.

Yet even the thought of a second chance felt hollow. Regret gnawed at him, and he longed for release—any release. Tears, punishment, even death. Anything that might purge the consuming grief. But no such solace came.

Instead, his mind drifted further into the recesses of his memory, to Ugle. The image of the man—or rather, the thing—that had walked among them surfaced with brutal clarity. Bjorn saw now what he had refused to see then: Ugle was no mere man but a monster cloaked in flesh. How had he been so blind, so easily manipulated? Both his vision and his judgment had been hijacked by something otherworldly, something sinister.

Rage surged through his veins like molten fire, chasing away his despair. His teeth clenched until they ground against each other, producing a screeching sound that filled the room. His face flushed red, the fury twisting his features. How could he have allowed something so alien, so deadly, to infiltrate his world and tear it apart?

The sound of his grinding teeth seemed to awaken the figure in the corner. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the stranger began to move. He approached Bjorn's side, his steps deliberate and measured, his bandaged form a grotesque shadow in the dim light.

Bjorn's pulse quickened, his body screaming for him to fight, to flee, to do something. But he remained paralyzed, his limbs betraying him at the moment of greatest need. The stranger reached out, placing a hand on Bjorn's neck.

The touch was unbearable—cold, deathly cold. It irritated his skin, sending shivers coursing through his body. Bjorn recoiled inwardly, his mind recoiling from the inhuman presence before him. The stranger's face was utterly devoid of life, wrapped in those suffocating bandages. There were no eyes, no mouth, no features to suggest humanity.

Was this some leper? Some wretched, disease-ridden soul? Or was it something worse, something beyond human comprehension?

Bjorn's lips moved, but no sound came. His throat was parched, a dry, cracked desert that yielded nothing. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until now—how completely drained of vitality he had become.

The stranger withdrew his hand and stepped back, retreating toward the door. His movements were slow, methodical, as if the act of leaving was itself a ritual. The heavy wooden door creaked as he pushed it open, and the room was momentarily flooded with a sliver of light from beyond.

Bjorn's eyes followed him. Through the door, he glimpsed a corridor—its walls made of the same unyielding stone as his prison. The faint light from outside illuminated the texture, revealing a dungeon-like quality.

Was this some kind of prison? A fortress? Where was he, and more pressingly, was anyone else alive?

The stranger disappeared into the corridor, leaving the door ajar. Bjorn lay there, motionless, his mind racing with unanswered questions. Fear, anger, and despair churned within him, a toxic brew that threatened to consume him.

"Help me," he thought, though the words never reached his lips. Alone in the flickering candlelight, he cried silently for answers, for salvation, for anything.

Time crawled, each second stretching into an eternity. The oppressive silence weighed heavily on Bjorn, thickened by the loneliness that gnawed at his resolve. The dim room offered no answers, no solace. Only the faint flicker of the candle reminded him that time hadn't stopped altogether, though it certainly felt like it.

He listened carefully, straining to pick up any sound beyond the confines of his prison. Then it came—a faint but deliberate rhythm of footsteps echoing from above. There was a floor above him, Bjorn realized. Whoever it was, they weren't just walking—they were running. His mind raced with questions. Was it those men from before, or someone else entirely? Friend or foe, he would soon find out.

A door creaked open somewhere beyond the hallway outside his room. The sound sent a shiver down his spine, and he craned his neck toward the doorway, straining to see. Moments later, a figure emerged from the shadows—a head peeking around the corner.

Mikkel.

Bjorn's chest heaved with relief. Someone was alive.

Mikkel moved swiftly into the room, his expression etched with concern. Behind him, a much taller figure followed, the sight of which made Bjorn's relief curdle into unease. The man was dressed entirely in black, his clothing sharp and imposing. A wide-brimmed black hat obscured the upper half of his face, but his unnaturally wide smile was unmistakable—Kilian.

Mikkel rushed to Bjorn's side, pulling up a small chair and seating himself close to the bed. His brows knitted together as he studied Bjorn's face, the concern in his eyes cutting through the tension in the room. Kilian, meanwhile, loomed over them, a shadow that seemed to stretch unnaturally long in the candlelight.

"I am Kilian," the tall man said, his voice low and rough, like gravel sliding over stone.

Mikkel interrupted before Kilian could continue, his voice hurried but steady. "Bjorn, listen. Everyone is okay. This whole thing—it's a misunderstanding. Kilian's group thought we were from some other order in another city, a group whose mission contradicted theirs. They didn't know who we really were."

Kilian nodded, his grin unwavering. "Now that Mikkel's explained everything, I truly am sorry, Bjorn," he said, his tone surprisingly contrite.

Bjorn struggled to speak, his voice a dry rasp. "You hurt all of us," he managed, the words brittle with anger.

"I know," Kilian cut in smoothly, his grin faltering for just a moment. "Your friend Arne says he'll never forgive us."

"You should forgive them," Mikkel interjected, his tone softer now. "I know they can help us. So I've forgiven them."

Bjorn's gaze shifted between Mikkel and Kilian. He felt the weight of Mikkel's plea, the sincerity in his voice. After a moment, Bjorn murmured, "I know. I will forgive them."

Kilian chuckled, his laughter sharp and hollow. "You're a much more reasonable one," he said, his grin stretching even wider. "I can almost bet you have questions about what happened the other night, Bjorn."

Bjorn nodded faintly, his curiosity and wariness mingling into a single sharp edge.

Kilian leaned in slightly, the movement unsettling. "About two weeks before we first met," he began, his voice measured and deliberate, "my authorities detected a signal. A signal from Altera, a place lost to us for about seventy years. Nobody knew where it fell or why. Our battalion was split into several groups to search the area where the signal was emitted. You're lucky, I'd dare to say, that you ran into us."

Bjorn, despite his condition, found a sliver of strength to tease back. "I don't think so," he said, his tone dry.

Kilian laughed again, this time a genuine burst of mirth. "Well, that monster would have killed you all if you hadn't run into us," he replied, mirroring Bjorn's teasing tone with a glint of sharp humor.

Bjorn's face darkened. His voice was firmer now, the question pressing. "Care to explain what that monster even is?"

Kilian's grin persisted, but his eyes—hidden beneath the shadow of his hat—seemed to sharpen. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as if preparing for a long and weighty explanation. "Ah," he said, the single syllable laced with intrigue. "That… is a story worth telling."

The metallic clink of a small sheet flipping between Kilian's fingers filled the room, a sharp, rhythmic intrusion that shattered the heavy silence. He toyed with it absentmindedly, the flickering candlelight casting glints of cold steel into the dim chamber. The noise gnawed at Bjorn's nerves, a constant, eerie punctuation to Kilian's looming presence.

"Stay the fuck away from strange personas like Ugle," Kilian began, his voice low and deliberate. Each word was a thread, weaving a tapestry of dread that seemed to thicken the air. "Mimics," he said, his tone weighted with disdain, "are not what they seem. They twist your consciousness, draw you into a deeper state of Draglement—a sin against enlightenment itself, gifted to humanity by old, unknown gods."

Bjorn's eyes narrowed. The unfamiliar word hung in his mind like a shadow, but Kilian pressed on, ignoring the confusion that crept over Bjorn's face.

"Mimics infest your mind and memories," Kilian continued, flipping the metallic sheet once more, its clang cutting through the room like a blade. "They make you believe they're as human as you or me. They bury themselves in your consciousness, weaving false memories of their existence into the fabric of your thoughts. They don't just deceive you—they make your mind theirs."

Bjorn tensed, his exhaustion giving way to a ripple of suspicion. "How do I know you're not one of them?" he interrupted, his voice hoarse but sharp. "You're a shady character yourself."

Kilian's smile didn't falter. He stopped flipping the sheet for a moment, holding it between his fingers as if appraising its weight. "A fair question," he conceded. "But Mimics only make memories that stretch back to your birth. They make it seem like they've been with you all along, like they were always meant to be there."

Bjorn's mind reeled, trying to grasp the implications. Mimics, Draglement, unknown gods—these terms were foreign and heavy, pulling him deeper into confusion. Kilian's explanation continued, relentless and cold.

"Mimics chain you," Kilian said, his grin sharpening, "dragging your soul into their possession. They feed on your misery, your emotions, your psyche. They make you less until there's nothing left but them."

Killian continued to explain and talk about these devices implemented inside his brain and the importance of hunting down Micims and all the other nonsense.

Bjorn could barely keep up, the words crashing over him like waves. The strangeness of it all—the battalions, the missions, the devices, the hunt for Mimics—threatened to pull him under.

"Ok, ok, I get it!" Bjorn shouted, his voice cracking as frustration boiled over. "I understand. You have these… devices to track Mimics. They let you know when one's near, and your group hunts them for the benefit of humanity. That's how you caught Ugle." He paused, panting, trying to collect his thoughts. "I should've—"

Bjorn stopped mid-sentence, realizing how frantic he sounded. Kilian stared at him for a moment, his grin fading ever so slightly. But just as quickly, it snapped back into place.

"You don't know much," Kilian said, his voice calm now, almost soothing. He stopped flipping the metallic sheet and tucked it into his coat. "Any explanations about the outside world would be too much for you right now. Rest up. When you're ready to walk, come to the room upstairs."

Kilian turned toward the door but stopped just before leaving. He looked back at Bjorn, his grin widening into something grotesque. "Oh, and… we had to put down Olaf. He's dead."

The words hit Bjorn like a hammer. His breath caught in his throat, and the room seemed to freeze. The flickering candlelight blurred as if the world itself recoiled at the news. Bjorn's gaze locked on Kilian, but he couldn't form a response. He simply stared, unmoving, unblinking.

Kilian lingered a moment longer, his grin lingering like the shadow of a storm, then turned and disappeared around the corner.

"I'm sorry for not telling you right away," Mikkel said softly, breaking the heavy silence. His voice was thick with regret. "I didn't know how you'd react."

Bjorn didn't respond. He couldn't. His mind was an empty void, consumed by the single, unrelenting truth of Olaf's death.

"That fucker couldn't keep his mouth shut," Mikkel murmured under his breath, the bitterness in his tone directed at Kilian. He sank into his chair, placing his head between his hands, his body folding in on itself as though trying to escape the weight of the moment.

Bjorn lay still, his gaze distant. He stared far beyond the confines of the stone walls, as if searching for Olaf—a man who had been more than a companion, more than a comrade. He had been family.

The room fell into silence once more, save for the faint flicker of the candle and the quiet weeping of two men mourning in their own, fractured ways.