Mark wakes up in his bed, groggy and disoriented. The silence around him is unsettling, making him question if everything that happened before his collapse was just a nightmare. He blinks at the ceiling, trying to piece together his thoughts. The air is still, almost too calm.

  A glass of water sits on the nightstand beside him, untouched. The smell of fresh-cooked bread, bacon, and eggs drifts through the air, rich and inviting. He shifts, pushing himself upright, and immediately notices that he is naked. The thought barely fazes him; it's not the first time he’s woken up in odd places without his clothes after a bender. He shakes it off and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

  Something is different. His gaze moves toward where the archway leading to the balcony should be, but instead, there’s an arched window in its place. The breeze that drifts in carries an acidic tinge, sharp against the comforting aroma of food. Through the window, only the vast expanse of stars and unfamiliar constellations greet him. His room, if it is still his room, floats, seemingly suspended on one of the islands in the void. A strange sense of displacement settles in his bones, but the gnawing hunger overpowers any urge to question it further.

  Following the scent, he moves toward a small table set in the corner. The feast before him is overwhelming bacon, eggs, sausage, hashbrowns, biscuits with jam and butter, orange juice, water, and coffee, each with its own glass or cup. It is the kind of spread meant for kings. His stomach clenches with hunger, as if he hasn’t eaten in days. He doesn’t hesitate. He digs in, shoveling food into his mouth, savoring each bite as the past blurs into an indistinct haze.

  Once finished, he leans back, sated and sluggish, before stumbling into the shower. The water washes over him, but he can’t shake the odd sensation of already being clean, as if someone had wiped him down while he was unconscious. It reminds him of the sterile efficiency of hospitals. The shower still revitalizes him, steam curling around his skin as tension melts away.

  When he steps out, the table and the remnants of his feast are gone. In their place, a fresh cup of coffee sits on the stand beside his chair. Standing next to it is Ashburn, poised and composed as ever.

  "Sir, might I suggest that you take today off and fill your mind with comfort?" Ashburn’s voice is calm, almost coaxing. He gestures toward the guitar resting nearby, its strings gleaming under the soft ambient light.

  Mark hesitates, then nods. Whatever this is, wherever he is, there is no urgency pressing him forward. The weight of responsibility, of past choices, seems muted here. He picks up the guitar and strums absently, falling into the rhythm of the strings. It’s been a long time since he has played without a reason beyond enjoyment.

  The day passes in indulgent ease. As Mark strums idly on his guitar, a movement catches his eye. From the shadows woven into the carved trees on the far wall, Ashburn steps forward, his presence smooth and unhurried. He carries a plate, its contents arranged with meticulous care, grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, the bread perfectly toasted with garlic butter. The ham is thick, the cheeses layered in a blend of sharp and smooth, a hint of habanero lingering yet tempered by a creamy counterpart. Beside it, a side of homemade chips, crisp and golden, just as Mark likes them. Without a word, Ashburn sets the plate before him and steps back, awaiting any further request. Two bottles of Mark’s favorite beer rest beside the meal, condensation trailing down their glass surfaces.

  Time slips away as he alternates between playing his guitar and eating, his world reduced to simple pleasures. The weight of hunger, exhaustion, and confusion seem distant, irrelevant. By the time supper arrives, consisting of a large rare steak, a fully loaded baked potato, steamed vegetables, and rolls, he barely questions the oddity of it all. The accompanying tankard of beer is a fitting end to a day unlike any he has had before.

  As the stars glimmer outside his window, Mark settles into the quiet, letting the music carry him through the strange serenity of his existence.

  Mark drifts into sleep, the tension of the day melting away. His dreams are warm, comforting, and filled with the caress of soft hands. The scent of flowers lingers in the air, mingling with the delicate fragrance of body oils, lotions, and shampoo; feminine, inviting, familiar yet beyond his grasp. The hands massage his weary body, caring, soothing, easing away burdens he hadn't even known he was carrying. His vision in the dream remains blurred, the details slipping away even as he revels in the sensations. He does not know who they belong to, but he knows they mean him no harm. He surrenders to the comfort, sinking deeper into the best rest he has ever had.

  When he wakes, the warmth lingers in his body, leaving him more relaxed than he can remember being in a long time. For a moment, he basks in the afterglow of the dream, his mind sluggish and content. But then, before he even opens his eyes, he hears it; the sound he has come to recognize all too well. The rats.

  Not the frantic, mindless screeching of the tormented souls from before. This is different. Softer. A series of chirps, clicks, and rustling, as if they are speaking to one another, a community carrying on unseen. He frowns slightly, turning his head before finally opening his eyes.

  Ashburn stands there, as composed as ever, his gaze steady. "Sir, it is time to take care of the rats. There are fifty remaining. You will spend today caring for them. And tomorrow, you will continue their reaping."

  Mark sits up, rubbing the back of his neck, the heaviness of sleep still clinging to him. He looks at Ashburn with uncertainty. "Why? This feels wrong."

  Ashburn does not hesitate. "Sometimes, the goddess will ask you to do things that feel wrong. She is the Goddess of Death, Rebirth, and Judgment. It is not for us to decide what is right or wrong when acting in her service. These rats were going to die regardless. They were brought here so that their energy could be promptly returned to the universe without further suffering."

  Mark clenches his jaw. "But why me? Why does this feel like some kind of punishment?"

  Ashburn regards him for a moment before answering, his tone measured. "As a Quitus Pactum initiate, you must learn that sometimes, it is more of a mercy to carry out the goddess’s will than to ignore it. These rats were suffering. They were in the hands of cruel beings, subjected to torment beyond comprehension. When they, as a collective, prayed for their suffering to end, the goddess answered. She brought them here, so that their end could be swift and painless."

  Mark stares at the floor, the understanding settling in, slow but undeniable. This isn’t some arbitrary test. It isn’t a means to break him or turn him into something monstrous. It is a duty.

  He exhales, closing his eyes briefly before looking back up at Ashburn. "So… I’m not just killing them. I’m taking care of them. Like patients who know they’re dying. Like… like cancer patients in hospice."

  A small, approving nod from Ashburn. "Exactly, sir. Their last moments are not filled with pain and fear. You grant them mercy. And in doing so, you learn what it truly means to serve the Goddess."

  A weight presses on Mark’s soul, but it no longer feels like a chain dragging him into darkness. It is heavy, yes, but with understanding. With purpose. He nods slowly, accepting the truth of it.

  No longer a butcher. No longer a senseless executioner. A reaper. A guide. A hand offering mercy where there once was only torment.

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  With new resolve, he takes up his task, no longer dreading it but embracing it. The work weighs on him, but he carries it with quiet determination. He understands now.

  And he will see it through.

  Mark finishes feeding the rats, setting aside the empty bowls before walking to the next cage. He pauses, staring at the small creature inside. Instead of just reaching in and grabbing it harshly like he had been doing, he exhales, letting go of the tension in his shoulders.

  Slowly, he opens the cage door and speaks softly, "It's okay. It will be as fast as I can manage."

  Instead of forcing the rat into his grasp, he holds out his hand, palm up. The rat trembles, its small body shivering with fear. Then, to Mark’s surprise, it almost seems to nod, as if accepting what is about to happen. It steps forward, walking onto Mark’s hand of its own accord.

  Mark looks down at it and smiles, the weight of the moment settling in his chest. "It’s fine. You won’t suffer afterward. It will take around six seconds, and then you’ll be free."

  He lifts his head to Ashburn, standing nearby, ever composed. "Is there a way I can do this faster? So they don’t feel pain as long?"

  Ashburn’s expression softens. "Yes, sir. There are two ways. Your Prime Aspect of Termina is Rank 1. If it were Rank 2, you could naturally boost the damage, making it instantaneous. The other method is using spell components. Each rank in the aspect allows you to use one ounce of components linked to its essence."

  He reaches into his sleeve and pulls out a small, dried rat’s tail. "For Touch of Death, you would need one ounce of Termina-related spell components. This is not much, but it would let you reduce the flux cost, allowing you to recover faster. Or, you can enhance the effect. You could add Oblivion to remove their ability to feel or Silence to invoke the stillness of death. I suggest using *Oblivion, *it would be far more merciful. However, you would need a piece of the rat for the next one. Unfortunately, I was only able to retrieve this one tail."

  Mark furrows his brow, frustration flickering through him. "Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?"

  Ashburn tilts his head slightly. "Because, sir, you were not yet in a place to listen."

  Before Mark can respond, movement catches his eye. The rat on his palm turns its head, its small, sharp teeth sinking into its own tail. With a quick snap, it severs it, letting the detached piece fall to the ground.

  Mark stares, stunned, as Ashburn nods approvingly. "It seems your charge understands. Now, you must add the word LihObli to the end of LihWrai LihWrai LihObli, to complete the invocation."

  Swallowing, Mark closes his eyes for a moment, centering himself. Then, gripping the severed tail in one hand, he performs the required gestures and speaks the invocation.

  Ona A Nex LihWrai LihObli San Qus A DraZy Che.

  The rat closes its eyes, body going still. There is no scream, no final struggle. The energy within it simply ceases, dissolving as it moves on.

  Mark finally understands. He had been causing the rats unnecessary pain.

  Instead of powering through, rushing to complete the task in a single stretch, he changes his approach. He slows down. He only kills two rats a day but takes a full day in between to care for them, to talk to them, as he would in a hospice.

  Each time, the rats offer their tails willingly, their own act of acceptance. The days stretch on, longer than before. But the weight in Mark’s chest shifts, no longer just a burden, but a duty understood.

  It takes twenty-five days before he reaps the last rat. When the final one steps into his palm, offering its tail as all the others had, Mark does not hesitate.

  Ona A Nex LihWrai LihObli San Qus A DraZy Che.

  The rat passes without fear, without pain. And for the first time, Mark knows he has done right by them.

  Mark walks back into the room, his steps heavy with exhaustion. He strips down and steps into the shower, letting the water cascade over him, washing away the weight of the day. He understands now. He knows why he did what he did. But the knowledge does not lighten the burden on his soul. The duty still claws at him. Even knowing it was right, it still feels like a sorrow he must carry.

  He stays in the shower longer than usual, the steam curling around him, embracing him in silence. When he finally steps out, he doesn’t bother to eat. His body is weary, but it is his soul that aches. He falls into bed, the mattress swallowing him whole, and as his eyes close, the dream takes him.

  Darkness. A void, stretching forever.

  A low hum builds, deep and resonant, vibrating through the endless black. Then, Ashburn’s voice, calm yet weighty, echoes from the abyss, reverberating in Mark’s bones. "The Mistress gives her blessing."

  The first notes of the song creep into the void, a slow, haunting build, the chords twisting through the silence like mist. Mark floats, weightless, watching as ethereal mist corrodes the void. The black expanse rots away, peeling back to reveal something else. A never-ending graveyard, stretching beyond the horizon.

  A single guitar note lingers, bending in the air like a breath drawn too long.

  "You lay in sorrow, broken, torn,

  Your breath so hollow, your soul worn.

  The weight you bear, too much to hold,

  But we are here—our vow unfolds."

  The sound expands, layering into an eerie, melodic dirge. Below, in the center of the graveyard, a great stone effigy tomb emerges, carved with intricate detail. Mark is there, lying face down upon it, motionless. Surrounding him are thirteen gothic tombstones, each adorned with weeping angel statues, their faces obscured by time and sorrow.

  Drums hit, slow and crushing, like chains dragging through the abyss. The mist seeps outward, and beyond the thirteen graves, thirty-seven more stand in silent vigil. They bear no names, no markings, only the promise of something yet to come.

  Then the hands begin to claw their way from the earth.

  The guitar trembles, the bass deepens, something monstrous stirring beneath the melody.

  "You need not ask, you need not see,

  We are the hands that set you free.

  In unseen chains, our souls entwined,

  We carve devotion into time."

  First fingers, then arms, then the figures themselves, dragging their bodies free in perfect, synchronized motion. Their movements are precise, an eerie ballet of the dead. The figures rise in unison, like a macabre dance unfolding in the depths of night. Each one wears a gothic maid outfit, the fabric pristine and formal. Their faces are hidden behind plain white masks, painted with black lips and hollow, staring eyes. Though the graveyard is in color, as if sculpted from playdough textures, the maids remain black and white, flickering like an old television broadcast.

  A chorus rises, powerful and chanted in unison, as if a cult in the dark:

  "Bound in silence, bound in fate,

  Carved in flesh—consecrate.

  Shadowed hands, eternal breath,

  We are devotion. We are death."

  Beyond the graves, the mists shift again. Shadowy figures rise, forming out of the dark. One by one, they take shape, each holding an instrument sculpted from the mist itself. They do not move with the maids—they are still, patient, waiting.

  The maids begin their dance, twirling between one another, arms outstretched as they weave in and out of formation. Their presence pulses with an unseen force, as if reality bends around them. They are beautiful in their precision, yet terrifying in their silence.

  The song grows heavier, distortion warping the air. The maids converge upon Mark’s body, their movements more ritualistic now, their dance drawing them closer to him.

  "Flesh to shadow, bone to thread,

  We stitch our names where angels fled.

  Your back, our altar, let it be,

  A silent hymn, eternity."

  A tremble of lead guitars, a swirl of whispers, the music warping the air. The maids kneel, hands reaching out, pressing against Mark’s back, between his shoulder blades.

  "You will not see, you will not know,

  But we are here, beneath the woe.

  Our hands will hold, our eyes will weep,

  Your sorrow ours, our vow runs deep."

  The chorus returns, this time heavier, crushing, an unrelenting chant of fate:

  "Bound in silence, bound in fate,

  Carved in flesh—consecrate.

  Shadowed hands, eternal breath,

  We are devotion. We are death."

  A bridge of slow, ritualistic drumming follows. Deep, guttural whispers creep through the soundscape, the Thirteen speaking in a forgotten language. A moment of silence stretches, before the final verse explodes in raw emotion.

  "Sleep, our master, rest in fate,

  We wait beyond the ivory gate.

  When all forsake, when stars collapse,

  We linger still, your silent past."

  Blast beats thunder, a cathartic release, brutal yet melodic.

  "You will forget, but we remain,

  A touch unfelt, a whispered name.

  So close your eyes, surrender breath,

  We are devotion. We are death."

  The maids begin to dissolve, streaming into Mark’s back like a film being rewound. Their bodies shift, stretch, and flow into him, seeping into his very being, binding themselves to him in a silent vow. The last to disappear is the first to have touched him. Her mask lingers for a heartbeat longer than the rest, as if watching him, before vanishing into him as well.

  The outro lingers, whispered voices drifting into silence.

  "We are devotion. We are death."

  Then, nothing. The void returns, consuming everything. The dream fades to black.