The sheep were gone.

  No wool. No prints. No soft shuffles of hoofs against the dirt. The wind sang gently against the leaflets of his robes, the mist around him obscuring his eyesight. It was suffocating, slowly grasping all around him. He glanced around himself, nestled on a plain, forgotten section of grass. He rose slowly, using his staff to carry the burden of his tired body. The morning dew had settled around him as his eyes swept the empty ridge where his flock should have been. The town below should have been a warning. It was the kind of place you were taught to avoid, to ignore. As he walked down the hill, more of the deserted village emerged from the fog. It had a name once, and as Caelus struggled to place it, more came into view. Windows and doors nailed shut. The bell hanging from the bell tower hung lonely, years since it had last rung. He passed through hollow, forgotten homes. Kitchenware and furniture were left in dust and cobwebs. Though it was entirely silent, it did not bother Caelus. Shepherds don’t question silence, they live by it. He walked through the town as the sun dipped below the horizon. The moment it did, he heard it.

  The Choir.

  Not music, breath.

  Shallow, deep, and inviting. He felt it, the power subtly inviting him to join them

  Who?

  He couldn't recall

  The song began quiet, though grew to resonate more assertively and gained more power as he acknowledged it.

  It was…below?

  He found the well in the center of the town but never remembered the rotting wood breaking beneath his boot. Nor did he remember the choice he made. The choice to enter.

  What he could recall, however, was the chanting.

  And the dark.

  He wandered, almost mindlessly, as he came to the chamber. Circular and plain. The pale light shone on the robed figures that stood.

  The Silent Choir

  The robed figures stood still as they awaited something unknown to Caelus. Their hoods revealed nothing but half-stitched mouths and cut tongues. All he heard was the faint breathing that resonated within his soul. They emitted noises of distant flutes through hollow reeds. Not a word was spoken, and their gazes stared deeply into nothingness. The humming began as their hands rose.

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  A symphony. A collection of thoughts that drove deeply into him. They burrowed, searching for the deepest aspects of his soul.

  “You carry a dream. We will remove it. You will be the beginning. The host, for something..better,” it whispered into his mind. Not a solid voice, but a murmur of ten- maybe fifteen voices. He couldn’t tell how many. Shit, he couldn’t tell where his thoughts began and those of the choir ended. Then, he felt his limbs go limp. He toppled to the floor as his mind was overwhelmed and taken over. They surrounded him, the sounds of his mother's lullabies. His Father’s laugh. The old fields his sheep would graze.

  They set it ablaze.

  The experiments weren’t cruel. They worked methodically. They broke his dreams, slowly pulling them from his mind as they examined them like an insect beneath a glass slide. He could feel it as they ripped his dreamscape apart. His mind, as fragile as a newborn, was being peeled from his skin. He screamed until his voice collapsed, and he clawed at his surroundings. Then, the injections began. Sigils, crests, brands. They marked him, and he felt them press into his chest and his mind. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore, just the feelings of misery and despair. He clung to the belief it would end soon, that death would soon take him from this nightmare.

  He clawed at his eyes.

  They grew back.

  At some point, he felt them approach with a new object. A spindled black object of some sort. Between the blood spilling from his eyelids and the remains of the torn irises, he couldn’t tell. What he could understand was the unnatural feeling and complete objection his body gave off when faced with this object. He felt it claw through him, threatening through his bones and connecting with every nerve like a wire. The choir sang, the low psalm rattling his bones. His dream faded.

  “You are not a soul,” the voices whispered into his mind. No, from his mind. “You are the wound, the gate.”

  Suddenly, he saw himself from the outside. His soul lifting above to watch the unraveling. His limbs were frayed and tattered like threads, his eyes hollowed into deep pits of shadow. The throne sat within the rift awaiting its sovereign. No. A breath, a flicker of consciousness. Then, a deep memory. A boy stood among a field of tall grass. He held something in his arms, a crooked lamb, struggling and shaking. It was weak, desperate. The boy smiled as he glanced at the lamb. It was a symbol of the flock, one of those who would brave the winter and survive. Its legs were broken, however, and he knew its time was near. He gazed into the eyes of the young boy, remembering the empathy and care he held. Then, he looked at himself and sneered. The abyssal void had collected into two dark orbs replacing his eyes. He rejected it. This..thing? No. His body convulsed as darkness peeled from his left eye like shadows swallowed by the sun. In its place, a pale, radiant glow was emitted. It was soft, caring, and understanding. His other eye, still black, swallowed any excess light emitted. It pulsed in defiance. The nightmare paused, unsure as it struggled to find a place within his body.

  He tumbled off the ritual stand. Falling into a heap on the floor. His nose bled, and his body convulsed, but he lived.

  One abyssal black eye consumed light with an endless hunger,

  The other, one radiant eye that shone with defiant, luminous resolve.