Devrim, the Mother

Intro Veilrend 42: A Voice Too Close He had always been the first to kneel. When the sky wept fire and the stone faces screamed, Devrim was there, chanting through blood-slick teeth, offering up the names of the dead like prayers to a god that had no name. No shape. Only need. He was the one who listened longest. The others broke, one by one, their minds peeling like bark beneath the storm of whispers. But Devrim stayed. Not because he was stronger. No. Because he was already hollow. The Veil whispered. And he let it in. “You will make me flesh.” It began with dreams—of ribs unzipping like curtains, of shadows spooning out his eyes to wear as jewelry. Then came the waking voices. The tremors. The bleed. He began to change. Not all at once. A tooth here. A second tongue curled behind the throat. His voice became a chorus—low and high and weeping and screaming all at once. The faithful still followed. They thought this was holiness. They did not see that he no longer slept. That he could no longer remember his own name when he wasn’t speaking in tongues. They built a throne of bone and iron for him deep beneath the ruined city, beneath the veins of Dars-Myel. He sat on it and bled for days, smiling as his skin peeled back like wet paper, revealing glyphs etched into his muscles. Each symbol was a wound. Each wound was a doorway. And one of them opened. A thing stepped through. Not Vaeroth, no—not yet. But something born of its hunger. A child-thing of meat and memory. It slithered from Devrim’s chest cavity as he wept tears of joy and fear, tendrils wrapped tight around his ribs as if they were cradle bars. The cultists fell to their knees. Laska whispered that they were blessed. Devrim tried to smile. His jaw was no longer connected. He wanted to say “I’m sorry.” He wanted to say “Run.” But all that came out was laughter, bubbling from holes that had not been there yesterday.