It started with the smell. Burnt salt. Copper. Sweat clinging to stone. We were close to the forgotten temple, close enough to smell it, to feel the wrongness in the air, but I tasted it in the back of my throat like a warning. The kind I'd learned not to ignore.
Dawn crept over the horizon, casting long shadows across the broken hills ahead. The temple slouched in the distance like a carcass picked clean and reassembled by faith. Elamite stones. Foreign carvings. Wrong geometry. Everything about this place made the back of my neck itch.
"Movement" I whispered. The others halted behind me, no sound, no rustle. Cloaks still. Blades quiet. They knew how to listen. That's why I trusted them to follow me.
I crouched, fingers brushing the damp earth. A track—barefoot. Recent. The dirt was still crumbling along the edge of the print.
Fresh.
I glanced back.
Toras adjusted his grip on the short sword. "Are you sure, Akhem?"
"Yes. Close. Maybe thirty ahead."
Narrowing my eyes at the ridgeline, half-hidden by loose rubble and brush, I noted the drop beyond it—perfect for watching the temple.
I turned to the others. Toras shifted his stance beside me, waiting. Aeli's breathing had grown shallower, her hand resting near the hilt of her blade. Eman just nodded, the way he always did when words weren't necessary.
"Temple's just beneath that ridge. We move now, clean and fast, or we risk being too late—and the others may need us elsewhere."
Aeli clicked her tongue.
"They're not supposed to be doing anything dangerous, right? Just... seeking favor? How bad can it be?"
I looked at her. Not scorn—not yet. Just the weariness of someone who's seen too many well-meaning people burned alive by their own ambition.
"You think the Choosing is some open invitation?" I asked, keeping my voice low. "It's not just a ritual. It's a ritual with rules. Structure. Limits. Once a year. Sixteen-year-olds only. That's not tradition—that's regulation."
I went on.
"In addition, it can't just be done like that. Conditions and requirements must be met. If they are not met, there could be problems."
Toras's brow tightened. "What kind of problems are we talking about?"
I shifted my weight slightly, listening to the silence beyond the ridge.
"If you don't meet the conditions, even if a god does respond… it probably won't be the way you expect."
"What do you mean?"" Aeli asked, quieter now.
"Madness. Curses. Death. Maybe worse. Things that don't leave you the same, if they let you leave at all."
Silence fell. The kind that came just before the last step into a darker room. Then Eman, quiet until now, finally spoke.
"This site isn't the only one. There are more, right? Trying to replicate the Ceremony?"
I nodded.
"This is just one of many" I said. "We finish here, we move fast. Help the others."
I glanced around, then tapped the side of my face, just below my eye.
"And remember... he's always watching."
The temple was worse up close.
Cracked stone veined with moss. Half the pillars leaned, half had collapsed. But the altar—the altar stood. Black and slick. Torches burned around it, steady despite the wind. That alone was enough to make my grip tighten.
There were thirty-two. I counted them twice. Kneeling. No weapons. Not warriors.
"Some of them are women" Aeli whispered. "Some are old. Some look too young to even understand what they're doing. Can't we just stop them? Then move on?"
I hesitated. She was right.
We could. We could pull them back from the edge. Stop the ritual before it led to something we couldn't control.
Then the lead adept lifted his head. His voice carried. Cold. Clear.
"Let the gods look. Let them choose. Let the threads be tied in heaven's loom."
My blood ran cold.
That phrase. No one outside the inner rites should even know it. It wasn't part of any public chant. It belonged to the core of the ritual—to the Choosing itself.
"No time" I muttered. "We go."
We didn't get far.
The moment we stepped forward.
A soundless wave hit the air.
Absolute silence—heavy, unnatural—dropped over the temple like a shroud. It pressed on my ears, turned my breath brittle in my throat.
Then the screaming began.
Not one or two. All at once.
The adepts convulsed. Some clutched their heads. Others collapsed where they knelt, limp, like puppets with their strings cut. I saw one tilt forward and fall straight onto the altar, his skull cracking against the stone with a wet snap.
Then came the laughter. Sharp. Unhinged.
A man tore at his own face, fingers digging under his skin. Blood gushed down his neck.
A woman giggled as she raked her nails along her throat, carving lines like she was drawing something just for herself.
Others slammed their foreheads into the floor or the walls, again and again. The sound was dull—wet. Bone on stone.
One kept going even after their teeth began to splinter from the impact.
They were gone. All of them. Whatever mind they had left had shattered completely.
"Take them down!" I snapped, my voice cutting through the rising madness.
No hesitation.
Toras, Aeli, Eman—swords drawn, eyes sharp.
We rushed them.
I reached the nearest adept—a man still laughing, clawing at his throat with both hands. I didn't wait. My blade went through his chest, clean and hard, and I felt his body seize and drop.
Around me, the others were already finishing their work.
Aeli moved through two kneeling figures like they were made of paper. Toras kept low, methodical. Eman swept from side to side with his curved blade, cutting anyone who flinched.
It didn't take long.
None of the adepts fought back.
When the last one fell, I turned in place, scanning the space.
Blood on the altar. On the stones. In the dirt.
I exhaled slowly.
"Clear" I said. "We were lucky. Could've gone worse."
They nodded. No one spoke.
"Check the bodies" I ordered. "Search the room. Look for tablets, symbols, artifacts—anything that tells us who gave them the words."
They moved without question.
But my thoughts were already somewhere else.
This was just one site.
I approached the altar, stepping over the broken remains of what had once been people. My boots stuck slightly with each step, blood soaking into the cracks of the stone. It was thick there, fresh and already congealing in the shallow carvings around the base. Some of it wasn't from the cultists.
When I was close enough—just before examining it—I muttered a short prayer. Not to honor the altar, but to avoid offense.
"May the gods forgive me for what I'm about to do."
Set my hand on the altar—cold, gritty, still wet in places. I traced the edge of the slab, then leaned in to examine the surface.
Symbols—Elamite and something older—half-carved, half-scorched. Cracks spidered out from the center, as if something had tried to break through from beneath.
I circled around it, checking the rear face of the altar. More damage. Fragments of bone wedged into the fissures, dried fluids smeared along the sides.
Behind me, footsteps shuffled—measured and calm. I turned slightly and saw Toras and Eman moved between the corpses, inspecting them with gloved hands—searching for marks, or anything left behind.
Aeli stood by the wall, studying the symbols carved deep into the old stone.
I turned back toward the altar and continued examining it—this time more slowly, searching for anything hidden beneath the surface, under the blood, inside the cracks.
Then the air changed.
A bitter, fetid smell seeped into my nose.
Rot.
But the bodies had only been dead for minutes.
I turned halfway, just enough to check the space behind me—
Then the scream.
Dry. Raspy.
"They're moving!"
I spun.
One of the fallen was standing. No—jerking upright, spine first. Another twisted to its feet with a sound like bones grinding glass. One with a crushed face peeled itself off the wall like something unbothered by the damage.
Pieces of skin fell off like dead bark. The muscles hung loose, eaten from the inside. From mouths, I saw movement—flies, insects, larval things spilling free.
One tried to speak.
"N... N... Ner... ggg..."
Its tongue was shredded, barely able to form the syllables.
Toras and Eman, the two closest to the corpses, acted fast. Toras drove his blade straight into one's chest, while Eman struck at another's skull with precision.
Nothing.
The bodies didn't fall. Didn't even flinch.
They came fast and from every side—too many, too sudden.
Crashed into Eman, hands wrapping around his throat, dragging him down with sickening force. His scream ended in a wet crunch.
Toras tried to retreat—but hands were already on him.
Bodies swarmed him, nails and teeth tearing into flesh. He screamed once—then disappeared beneath them.
My vision tunneled.
The stench, the insects, the way the flesh wriggled—
"Nergal" I whispered. "Nergal answered."
I shouted to Aeli—she was the only one still standing, near the wall.
"We have to get out of here!"
But they saw her first.
She was closer.
Many of them moved at once—sudden, fast, overwhelming.
She screamed.
"Akhem! Hel-"
It didn't last. Her voice cut off in an instant.
I took one step forward—then stopped.
The silence hit harder than the scream.
She was gone.
For a moment, I couldn't move. Couldn't think.
Then instinct took over.
I ran.
My boots slammed against temple stone. Dust and blood kicked up with every step.
Behind me, some of them noticed—and moved fast.
One almost caught me. A hand with cracked, yellowed nails lashed out, tearing through my cloak and raking across my arm.
Pain bloomed.
But I didn't stop.
I couldn't.
"The Chosen" I muttered between ragged breaths. "They... they have to deal with this."
I dove between rocks, blood streaking the ground behind me, heart thundering.
They followed—steady, relentless. Their bodies jerked with every stride, but they never slowed.
My legs burned. My lungs scraped with every breath.
But stopping wasn't an option.
I thought of my wife. My son. Their faces sharpened behind my eyes, blurring everything else.
Those things weren't going to catch me.
I wouldn't let them.
The good thing was I didn't need to warn anyone.
They must already know.
He is watching.
I kept running.
My legs trembled. Breathing came sharp now, too shallow. I needed a place—any place—to stop, even just for a moment.
Then I saw it.
A narrow gap in the rocks, part of the hill curling into a mouth of shadow.
I cut toward it, stumbling over loose stone as I reached the entrance and ducked inside.
Darkness wrapped around me, cool and thick. I pressed my back against the wall and held still.
Silence.
Then my eyes adjusted.
It wasn't a cave—it was a tunnel.
I leaned against the wall for a while, catching my breath, listening for footsteps—none came. Then I heard a faint noise, too low to place. Instinct kicked in again. I pushed off the wall and moved deeper inside, following the tunnel until it widened into a chamber.
In the center, was a figure.
Skin like old paper, lips gone, eye sockets hollow.
"You're not going to get up and attack me now, right?"
It didn't move.
Cautiously, I stepped closer.
Its chest had caved in. Mouth hung open. Dried completely.
Nothing alive remained.
Pain came next.
I looked down at my arm.
The wound had opened wider—blood soaked through the fabric, running slow. A drop slid from my elbow.
It fell.
Landed straight into the corpse's open mouth.
I stared for a second.
"Enjoy the meal" I muttered.
Then I exhaled.
Sat down against the far wall.
"You must've had a rough time to end up like this, huh?"
I didn't say anything else. The silence felt like a gift.
I let out a long breath and closed my eyes.
For a second—
I could taste my wife's cooking.
Then sleep took me.