Willow stepped onto the stage, his heartbeat echoing softly in his ears as the crowd's murmurs faded into quiet reverence. The air smelled faintly of incense and polished wood, heavy with morning light that streamed through the stained glass. Father John stood at the center, his face calm and kind, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he smiled.
"Ho ho, you have grown again, child," Father John said, his voice carrying warmth. "It feels like only yesterday when your little hands were tugging on my sleeves."
Willow laughed quietly. "Please, you're not so old as to be reminiscing about the past, Uncle John."
Father John let out a mock huff, touching his chin. "Then perhaps time has been kinder to my memory than to yours. I see you have taken after your mother, feisty and strong."
"And my sister?" Willow asked, his voice soft but filled with something heavier. The old priest studied him, and a knowing sadness passed through his eyes.
"She is, and will be, in good hands," Father John said. "Her path is already written, though I cannot speak of it. You should be proud of her, my child. One day, you will understand why."
Willow nodded. "If the old man says so."
The priest laughed but his laugh didn't meet his eyes. "Old, am I? Need I remind you that the back of my teaching stick still works fine, child."
Willow sweat-dropped. "Did I say old? I meant, young and beautiful uncle!"
"You little rascal."
Their shared laughter lightened the air for a moment, but then Father John gestured for him to kneel. Willow obeyed, resting on the soft carpet, his hands folded as the priest raised one palm above his head.
"Relax," Father John said. "Breathe, and feel."
His voice turned low and melodic, speaking words in a language that seemed to vibrate through the walls. A deep warmth filled Willow's chest, and the sound of the church faded away until there was nothing.
Zoom. . .
It was dark, but not empty. The air felt alive, warm, and strangely gentle. The darkness rippled like a sea, and something in that rhythm called to him. He moved without moving, guided by instinct, his thoughts dissolving into pure sensation.
Then came the color.
It bloomed around him, bright and alive, a pink touched by soft red, glowing like the first blush of sunrise. It was warm and fragrant, filled with the scent of flowers and the taste of rain. The color was him, everything he was and everything he would become. It spoke of youth, of love, of beauty, of tragedy. It was him at his most human and his most divine.
The color drew him in, pulling him to the deepest part of his soul. When he opened his eyes again, he stood upon a field of flowers that floated in a vast darkness. The petals glimmered faintly beneath a golden light. In the center of the field grew a great tree, its bark shining like gold, its branches heavy with scarlet apples.
Two women danced before it, their laughter soft as bells. One was fair as dawn, her hair like sunlight and her eyes like the sky. The other was dark as twilight, her eyes the color of wine and her hair bright as silver. They moved together in harmony, holding hands, their joy radiant and untouchable.
Then something changed.
He blinked, and a third woman appeared beside them. He blinked again, and a fourth joined. They multiplied, one after another, until nine women stood among the flowers, each one as breathtaking as the last.
They stopped dancing. And all nine turned to him, smiling as if they had been waiting for this very moment.
Willow froze when he noticed their eyes—nine pairs of them, each brimming with curiosity and something unreadable. They studied him with a strange intensity, as though he were a painting hung in their private garden, something both sacred and out of place. Their gazes glimmered with confusion and wonder, perhaps even suspicion. After all, what was a man, as soft and delicate as he might appear, doing here in a world so clearly made for women?
His pulse quickened. A part of him wondered if they meant to harm him. He tensed, ready to defend himself, but the strike never came. Instead, one of the women stepped forward, her movements slow and fluid. Her expression softened as she reached out her hands toward him, breaking the ring she and the others had formed.
Willow hesitated. He should have refused. Everything logical in him screamed to stay still, to stay cautious, but his body betrayed him. Something in her presence felt warm, achingly familiar. He felt it deep within him, a wordless recognition that made his chest tighten. It felt like coming home. It felt safe. He did not understand why, only that her touch felt closer than even his mother's embrace.
He reached for her hand. The instant their palms met, the woman's lips curved into a smile so radiant that the world around them seemed to pulse with light. She guided him forward, leading him into their dance. And then the others joined, one after another, weaving around him in a spiral of motion and color.
For a brief moment, he felt pure joy—weightless, unburdened, free.
Then everything shattered.
Something yanked him backward, unseen and merciless, pulling him from their grasp. The world twisted into blinding motion. The garden of light and color vanished, the scent of flowers replaced by the taste of ash. The warmth that had embraced him disappeared, leaving only cold.
He fell.
It was dark again, but not the peaceful dark from before. This was suffocating. His lungs screamed for air, his body felt heavy, and his throat burned as though something unseen was crushing it. He tried to move, but the darkness pressed against him like an ocean made of stone. Every heartbeat was pain. Every second felt endless.
Then, suddenly, he broke through.
"Hhnff!" Willow gasped, lungs convulsing as air rushed back into him. He coughed violently, chest heaving. The air stung, thick with dust and smoke. His eyes burned as if someone had thrown salt into them, his ears ringing so loudly that the world around him was only muffled noise.
"Are you—are you alright?" a voice said above him, words trembling through static. The sound was barely human through the haze clogging his mind.
He tried to speak but only managed a broken croak. "Wha—what—"
The voice spoke again, gentler this time. "Forgive me."
A sudden splash hit his face. Willow gasped, jerking up in surprise as cold water streamed down his skin and neck. It burned and soothed all at once, washing away the grime and blood that had clung to his lashes. He blinked rapidly, his vision clearing just enough to make out a figure in front of him.
A man knelt there—no, a soldier. The polished plate of his armor gleamed faintly in the dim, smoke-stained light. The insignia of Maplewood's guard was still visible on his shoulder, though the edges were cracked and blackened. His face showed both exhaustion and relief, the look of someone who had been searching too long for someone still alive.
Then the world around Willow came into focus.
His heart dropped.
The church was gone. What had once been the sacred marble hall of the Humlic faith was now nothing more than ruin and rubble. The roof had caved in, the pews lay splintered and charred, and the golden crucifix that once towered above the altar was shattered across the floor. Smoke drifted lazily through the open sky where the ceiling used to be.
And everywhere he looked, there was fire. There was ash. There was silence where there should have been song.
It was worse than anything the game had ever shown him.