Author warns all.

The following chapter is long and unedited.

Depiction of blood and implied gore.

Skip if it's not your shot of Whiskey.

Vorine Shrine, Salkow

13 years ago.

Wolfram followed his father, climbing one stone stair after another. The ocean rumbled below like a slumbering beast while storm clouds gathered above, shrouding the expanse of sky in a raven cloak. Streaks of lightning flashed across the purple- black billows; forming a slivery spider web that made Wolfram's hair stand on the back of his neck.

He stared at the looming frame of his father, chestnut hair wildly whipping in the gusty winds. Cyra Schulz, true to his signature stoic yet ruthless demeanor, did not spare a glance over his shoulder at his struggling seven-year-old. Though it felt as if his joints might pop off their sockets, Wolfram silently kept up with his father's rapid pace, afraid of being left behind.

The little prince clasped a small bouquet of bright blue blossoms, specked with smaller white clusters. He shielded his flowery treasure from the winds, scared it might carry away delicate petals.

The father-son pair ascended in grave silence until the towering silhouette of the Vorine shrine came into view. Its outline etched against the darkening sky like an angry god perched on this desolate hill. Its sharply pointed roofs reached skyward like skeletal fingers clawing at the heavens, tall, narrow windows rattling in the salty winds.

Wolfram grabbed the corner of his father's flowing, dark blue sleeve, pale eyes widening. Cyra Schulz scowled down at the child and clicked his tongue.

"What is it?" He asked. Before Wolfram could voice his concerns, the King pulled his sleeve out of his tight grasp and walked away.

With nothing else to do, Wolfram dragged himself after Cyra's steps.

Their footfall reverberated in the dimly lit marble hall, the stench of burning oil over writing the smell of salt. The ceiling high dark blue tapestries rustled in the wind, their intricately embroidered golden hems brushing against the cold floor. Wolfram was entranced by the all the details of them; the illustrations of Legend of Vorine woven into rich silk in golden thread.

His gray eyes sparkled at the majestic golden dragon that descending from the heavens, carrying a sword in his mouth. The next drapery showed four warriors battling giant beasts alongside the dragon spirit, a symbol of an hourglass hovering above them.

Final few pieces were woven to show the victorious warriors attaining God hood and the dragon spirit flying back into skies above.

Wolfram halted in his tracks; his eyes having caught something sparkly on the final tapestry. He inched closer to the rippling drapery, eyes narrowed to slits. He could swear it was a blue or black gemstone sewn in the place of the dragon eye, but he wanted to take a closer look.

"Do not touch" Cyra's icy voice jolted him, and he swiftly withdrew his outstretched hand. His father was glaring at him, lips pressed together in apprehension.

"You ruin everything you touch," he sneered, clicking his tongue in disdain before swaggering away. "It's the only thing you're good at."

Wolfram nodded obediently and followed him to the inner chambers. Cyra adjusted his hair awkwardly, probably missing the familiar weight of the silver crown. "If you damage anything, Gods will curse you"

He paused for a second and muttered "further"

Wolfram shot his father a side long glance, which did not go unnoticed by the King. After a moment of intense staring, the older man calmly walked away.

Wolfram knew with a bone-deep certainty that anyone else foolish enough to glare at Cyra Schulz would find themselves crushed under the weight of consequences. Yet, as proud as he was, Cyra never made losing gambles.

The pair walked further into shrine, before they were interrupted by the High Priestess.

The priestess was a familiar face to Wolfram. Her brown hair, threaded with gray at the roots, framed a face marked by subtle wrinkles etched at the corners of her mouth and drooping brown eyes. To Wolfram, she seemed perpetually weighed down by misery, her neck often bent slightly under the sheer weight of the golden accessories adorning her. Though Wolfram did not know her name, her blindingly golden robes were unmistakable, shimmering headache-inducingly at every religious gathering he attended.

"Your majesty" she greeted grimly, and turned to Wolfram "His Highness, Crown prince"

After exchanging pleasantries in hushed voices, the High Priestess sighed deeply.

"Let us proceed with the ritual, Your Majesty" She pointed a shaky hand toward another chamber. "Her Highness awaits you"

Wolfram's brows creased. Ritual? What ritual?

Upon seeing his son was standing rooted in the spot like dumb duckling, Cryra Schulz snapped his tongue. "Wolfram. Step over here."

Wolfram clutched his bouquet tightly. "I thought we came to pray for Kai"

His brother caught a fever over the winter. Though it was nothing life threatening, royal physician advised the older prince to rest plenty. Wolfram often caught Einar keeping him accompany, brewing herbal tea for his sore throat.

Wolfram desperately wanted to do something to help him recover faster, but he was too afraid to approach Kaizer. He felt his older brother treated him rather coldly, like everyone else. Wolfram was also scared of accidentally hurting him. So, when Cyra Schulz asked Wolfram to accompany him to the Salkow Vorine shrine, he readily agreed.

However, this was his first time he was hearing about a ritual.

"Get over here at once" Cyra commanded, leaving no room for argument.

Wolfram had heard a plethora of spine-chilling tales about rituals carried out in Vorine Shrines. Once, Kaizer vividly described his first-hand experience witnessing a sacrificial ritual when he was Wolfram's age. Sweat pooled in his clenched fist, his heart hammering away in his ears.

He took a tentative step back.

He did not want to see anyone getting killed. Even worse, he hated having to kill other people.

"Wolfram!" Cyra growled.

"I'm not coming." He firmly shook his head. "You can't make me"

Wolfram was a keen child and was not completely clueless about his powers.

He would suddenly lose consciousness for a period and wake up with no memory of what he did or said.

"Black out episodes". That's what Einar called them.

Often after waking up in his room, he found himself changed into pristine new clothes. Einar would keep him accompany for a day or two until he was allowed to go outside again.

As time passed Wolfram noted pattern of things.

People kept disappearing from Calamis and would be replaced with new faces. Sometimes it would be just one person, sometimes five.

Everyone avoided his gaze. No one came near him unless it was absolutely necessary.

Walls would be freshly painted for no reason.

He was not allowed to roam around on his own.

Whenever Einar was not accompanying Kai, he would come spend time with Wolfram. He would offhandedly ask if he remembered what happened to him after he "blacked out". When he said no, Einar always exhaled deeply in relief.

Soon he figured nothing happened to him during these episodes.

He was happening to other people.

Wolfram took another step back.

Did Cyra brought him here to kill him? To make him kill someone?

His ears started ringing. The bouquet of flowers dropped on to the marble floor without a sound.

Oh no.

He doubled over, clutching his head tightly.

It was happening again.

Cyra Schulz took a cautious step back himself, hand raised. Wolfram felt the temperature around him drop rapidly.

The corners of his vision blurred as his grip on consciousness loosened with each passing second. He dug his long, sharp nails into his skin in a fruitless attempt to distract himself from how his blood felt like steam in his veins.

Wolfram whimpered pathetically but he could not move an inch. He stared down to find his ankles bound to the marble floor with sparkling shards of deathly cold ice.

He was going to get killed.

He was going to kill.

Tears welled in his eyes as his brain started going numb.

He wanted Einar.

He wanted to see Einar. Einar would hug him and put him to bed. He would make all bad thoughts go away.

"What is happening here?" A soft voice rang out through the hall, followed by the sound of a heavy door opening.

And Wolfram blacked out.

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"Are you alright, my child?" a voice asked softly.

Wolfram peeled his eyelids open with great effort. His head felt like it was splitting. Groaning, he tried to focus on the face hovering above him, but a wave of nausea washed over him each time he struggled to keep his eyes open.

He moaned, wiping a palm over his sweat-drenched face. His mouth felt gagged with a wet sock.

The pale visage of his father appeared behind the woman who was holding him in his embrace.

Her gentle hand cradled his head, while another held his hand. The first thing he noticed was her deep umber eyes looking down on him. Light reflected off them, specking the rich brown orbs with orange and gold.

He was helped into a sitting position from where he was sprawling on the bone-chilling marble floor. Wolfram dropped his head to his palms in a useless effort to stop his world spinning. His soul still felt detached from his body, all his limbs prickling with a thousand tiny needles. The mysterious figure next to him rubbed circles on his back, as if to soothe his discomfort.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" she asked, gently removing his hands away from his face.

The voice was pleasant to the ears, like the sound of water flowing into a silver bowl. The woman beside him wore a flowing set white robe overlayed with a golden colored outer robe. With her delicate fingers, she brushed strands of stray hair away from Wolfram's dumbstruck face.

Wolfram's mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of memory. His heart pounded as he glanced around the room, fear and confusion gnawing at him. But the woman's gentle touch and soothing voice anchored him, providing a fragile sense of calm amidst the chaos in his mind.

"Wolfram" Cyra approached him, his voice stern. "Can you remember what you did?"

What..did I do?

Bile rose in his throat, saliva pooling in his mouth. He could not remember anything as usual. What did he do? His vision tuned in and out of focus for a moment, as if looking through a blurry red glass and he tried to get to his feet.

He had barely found his footing when the metallic tang of fresh blood assaulted his nostrils. He felt his guts knotting at the taste of rust flooding his mouth.

Panic surged as he looked around, his eyes widening in horror. The walls, once pristine, were now splattered with flowing streaks of red, the floor slick with viscous liquid.

Wolfram glared at his violently trembling hands, to find them coated in fresh, sticky crimson. Blood oozed from under his long nails, pooling in the creases of his palms. He felt it on his face, warm and slick, mingling with the sweat that dripped down his temples.

His tongue brushed against something mushy and wet.

Wolfram's stomach churned violently, and he collapsed to his knees, retching. The taste of bile and blood mixed in his mouth, making him hurl once more.

"What a mess." Cyra sighed, inching away the puddle of sick.

Wolfram refused to open his eyes to see what had been in his mouth. His mind raced, making him violently choke on his own sick.

The woman held back his blood drenched forehead to stop him from falling face first into the mess he had made and patted his back. Wolfram's brain stung as the acidic purge burned his airways and fat drops of tears rolled down his face.

The woman did not seem to mind her robes getting filthy one bit because she held the wailing child in her embrace, comforting him.

"Shh,sh..." She cooed, softly stroking his hair. "It's over now, baby."

But Wolfram could barely hear her over the ringing in his ears and his own screams. Realization dawned on him with crushing clarity.

This was why.

How many had he killed so far, unknowingly?

Fifty?

No.

A hundred?

Two hundred?

The weight of his actions pressed down on him like a mountain, suffocating him. His breaths came in ragged gasps as the horrifying truth settled in. No wonder his brother did not look his way. No wonder no one dared touch him. He was a monster, a mindless beast wrapped in human skin.

No.

Even beasts only hunted when they were hungry.

What power? What divinity?

Wolfram wanted nothing but to escape his own body, this filthy vessel that was out of his control. How will he ever wash off the rivers of blood off his skin?

How can anyone bare to look at him, knowing what kind of revolting monster he was? Who can bring themselves to love him after witnessing that he was lower than a wild beast?

Einar's face flashed behind his eyes for a split second before vanishing into the chaos.

Einar knew. If he did, Kai did too.

Wolfram clutched at the woman's white sleeves, his fingers digging into the fabric as if seeking some semblance of salvation.

"I... I didn't know," he choked out, his voice trembling with the weight of his guilt. "I didn't want this. I never wanted to hurt anyone."

Each word felt like a knife twisting in his heart, the pain of his actions consuming him. He was lost in a sea of self-loathing, drowning in the realization of his own monstrosity. His hands, stained with blood, shook violently as he struggled to find the words.

"Please," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Make it stop. Make it all stop."

God heard him from heavens above.

Behind him someone moaned painfully.

Wolfram's eyes widened. His heart froze, breath hitching in his throat.

She was alive.

Only one person had been missing from the gathering and it was the old High Priestess. Wolfram deducted that the unfortunate soul was on the receiving end of his uncontrollable powers.

Wolfram tried to turn around to look, but the woman cupped his face gently to stop him from moving. "Don't look"

"B-But-" Wolfram stammered, feeling bile rising in his throat again. "She is alive- we- we should take he-save..or-or"

The priestess gurgled, taking one labored breath after another. Something sloshed, the sound sending chills down his spine.

Cyra soundly clicked his tongue and pulled out his sword from its sheath with a sharp clang.

"No.." Wolfram whispered, as he gradually realized what his father was about to do. "No..no.no.no.no"

He flung himself at Cyra's feet, hugging them with all his might. "You can't kill her! You can't! you can't!"

Cyra slowly closed his eyes as if he was holding himself back from kicking Wolfram in his gut. Wolfram did not mind getting kicked or killed, he could not live on if he just watched on.

"You want her to live like that?" Cyra quirked his brow, mockingly. "You are rotten to core, really."

Wolfram's mouth fell open slightly, mind going blank with horror.

The priestess groaned behind him.

Cyra's cold eyes glinted, as if he made a change of mind.

With one graceful twirl of his sword, he presented the hilt to his son.

"Go and see for yourself" He nudged the cold blade into his slimy hands.

The woman stirred uncomfortably behind them "Your majesty.."

"If you still can't bring yourself to kill her," Cyra paused, his voice ever so lightly wavering. "You are no different monster than I am." 

Author has something to say

Part 2 will soon be out. Probably within 2 days.

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Cyra- Don't damage anything in the shrine, or gods will curse you.

Wolfram- Ok

Also Wolfram, 13 years later.

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Kaizer- At least she likes Wolfram and doesn't make him suffer.

Einar- that's a relief.

River- Good for him.

Author on a random Tuesday-  *Puts  a hand around Wolfram's shoulder

                                                                    Your lore is about to get sick as fuck.

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Readers- You can't give all the characters scum bag dads as a lore.

Author- Problem? Not my problem. That's just not my problem.

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