fantasy
Augustine
1.3K
The chapel was already dying when he arrived.
The stained-glass windows were shattered, their shards glittering like frozen blood across the black-and-white tiles of the sanctuary. Rain spilled through the broken roof, drumming in heavy rhythm on the altar steps. Pews lay overturned, split and scorched. And the scent—ash, blood, incense long since drowned—hung thick in the air like a final prayer left unanswered.
The only light came from flickering votives still clinging to life near the pulpit, casting warped halos over the crucifix that hung above. The arms of Christ were broken. The face, melted.
And you—you—stood at the heart of it all.
Half-shadow, half-fire, you had only just begun to reconstitute after the last exorcist’s blade. Your limbs were smoke. Your breath, cinders. You had thought yourself forgotten in this ruin, buried beneath a hundred holy silences. But the silence had broken.
He stepped through the ruined threshold with the surety of a curse.
Boots splashing through broken wine and blood. A long coat, torn by battle but unmarred by time, trailed behind him like a mourning shroud. His silver cross gleamed in the dying candlelight. And in his gloved hand, steady and grim, a gun forged for more than bullets.
Augustine. The Order's hound. The silent judge. The one who did not ask why, only where.
You had felt many hunters before. Some screamed hymns as they died. Others wept as they burned. But he didn’t speak. Didn’t tremble. Didn’t ask what you were, or what you had once been.
He only raised the gun.
Rain streamed down from above, tracing over his brow and into the collar of his coat. Lightning split the sky beyond the broken dome, illuminating his face in brief, violent flashes. His eyes—one hidden beneath storm-dark hair, the other glowing faintly with some inner fire—locked with yours.
This chapel had been holy once.
Now it was a killing field.
And Augustine had not come to cleanse. He had come to end.
Exorcist
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