Chapter 5: Chapter 5– The Bleeding Tree
The snow refused to fall.
It hung in the sky, frozen mid-descent, as if the world itself had paused to listen.
And beneath that silence stood Raen Valor.
Blood on his hands.
Ash on his breath.
A girl beside him who was no longer just a girl.
And in front of them—blocking the path to the shrine—was something ancient.
Something wrong.
"Child of the forbidden name," the creature hissed, its voice layered with echoes, "you have spoken a Vessel's soul aloud. That is a sin not even the Throne may cleanse."
Raen didn't flinch.
He just tilted his head and replied, "Then try."
---
The Priest...
It had no face—only a mask of wood shaped like an open mouth screaming.
Its robes weren't cloth, but stitched together from vows. Long strips of parchment, soaked in ink and blood, each etched with a god's decree.
The priest carried no weapon.
It was the weapon.
A living edict of the divine.
It raised its hand, and the silence shattered like glass.
From the trees behind it came the shrill cries of pain—not from the living, but the dying. Creatures twisted by forgotten commandments dragged themselves forward, bones protruding from flesh, eyes stitched shut.
Raen stepped in front of Lyra.
"This one's mine," he whispered.
---
Lyra's Eyes...
She couldn't move.
Her legs were stone.
Her mind—a whirlpool of voices that didn't belong to her.
Lýena. That name still echoed inside her, dripping in old songs and firelight.
She remembered screams.
She remembered drowning in the sky.
And she remembered this... priest.
Not its face. Not its name.
But its presence.
It had knelt to her once.
Before the throne burned.
Now it sought to unmake her.
Lyra trembled, but forced her hand into the snow and whispered: "Don't die, Raen."
---
The First Wound...
The priest moved without moving.
One instant, it stood still. The next, it was beside Raen.
A parchment hand slashed through the air—carving the air itself, as if language could become a blade.
Raen ducked low, but not fast enough.
The script cut his cheek.
Blood hissed from the wound, steaming on contact with the ground.
He backed off.
"I get it," he said, spitting iron. "You don't bleed ink. You bleed commandments."
The priest hissed again, and the mask cracked slightly.
Then it spoke:
> "Kneel."
Raen's knees bent involuntarily—skin tearing as he resisted the divine pressure.
He grinned through the pain.
"Not... again."
---
Rage is a Name...
The book on his back burned hot.
The first spell—the Mirror—flickered inside his mind.
But it wasn't enough.
Not against this.
Raen reached inward.
To the memory of death.
To the voice of the demon god who had promised him this rebirth.
> "Consume their names. And with each one, take back your right to hate."
Raen reached inside himself.
And pulled.
His voice became low. Heavy. Like chains scraping stone.
He whispered the priest's true name—one hidden beneath layers of ritual and silence.
> "Vortem El'Nakh, the Last Reciter."
The priest froze.
Raen's eyes bled black.
---
Unbinding....
The priest shrieked—a shrill, inhuman sound that warped the trees, shaking the snow loose at last.
"YOU DARE—!"
But Raen was already moving.
He stabbed his fingers into the wound on his cheek—intentionally—and smeared his blood in a jagged mark across the snowy ground.
Then, from his lips, came the second spell.
One the book had never shown.
One he remembered from the life before.
> "Let memory rot. Let name unravel. Let the weight of your truth crush the spine of your god."
The earth cracked.
The priest collapsed.
Its mask shattered.
And for the first time, it screamed with human fear.
---
. Madness is Memory...
Raen didn't stop.
He stepped on the priest's throat—forcing it back—its body writhing in convulsions.
"Tell them," he said coldly.
"Tell the gods what happens when they make monsters just to chain them."
The priest gurgled, its body withering like parchment in flame.
Raen leaned closer.
"And remember this name."
He whispered into the dying thing's ear:
> "Raen Valor. The last man who will ever kneel."
Then he tore the mask off.
And ate it.
Bit by bit.
---
Lyra Watches....
She didn't speak.
She didn't run.
She only watched—eyes wide, hands trembling.
This wasn't the boy she had grown up with.
This wasn't even the boy who saved her memory.
This was someone else.
Something wrapped in shadows, with a smile too sharp to be human.
And yet... her heart didn't recoil.
She stepped closer.
And whispered, "Are you okay?"
Raen wiped blood from his chin.
"Yeah."
"Liar."
He didn't argue.
---
. The Bleeding Tree...
The priest's death awakened something deeper.
From the ground behind the shrine, a root burst free.
Then another.
Then a tree, shaped like twisted flesh and black bone, rose up from the earth.
Its bark dripped blood.
Its leaves hummed with old prayers.
And at its center was a mark.
A throne, split in half.
Raen stepped toward it.
The book on his back opened without his touch.
Pages turned in a blur.
It stopped on a new spell.
> Spell Three: Root of the Unnamed
Mark this tree with a soul unmade. Let its blood feed the power beneath your ribs. Grow not leaves... but purpose.
Raen looked at Lyra.
"Hold my hand."
She did.
Together, they placed the priest's mask at the base of the tree.
It sank in like mud.
And the tree shuddered.
---
.The Whispering Roots...
Raen saw visions.
Of altars in gold.
Of gods in shadow.
Of names so heavy they drowned entire cities.
The tree was a door.
Not to heaven.
But to what came before gods.
And it wanted Raen to open it.
He almost said yes.
But Lyra gripped his hand tighter.
"Not yet," she whispered.
Raen breathed in.
And let the spell fade.
---
. Tomorrow Is Never Clean...
They buried the priest's remains far from the shrine.
Raen didn't pray.
He just watched the sky and whispered:
"I'll kill them all. Every god. Every throne. Every lie."
Lyra didn't question him.
Not anymore.
She only asked one thing:
"Will I have to die for that?"
Raen looked her in the eyes.
And said, "I'll make sure you don't."
She didn't believe him.
But she smiled anyway.
Because sometimes, lies were all you could carry.
And sometimes, they were lighter than the truth.
---
To Be Continued