The firelight in the stone circle guttered low—barely more than a flickering ember inside an oil tin. Around it, the last of the expedition survivors stood like shadows pinned to the monoliths.
Twelve stones. Twelve lines on the altar. Twelve people left alive.
They didn't speak much anymore. Not with their voices. Their glances were enough.
At the center of the altar, Cain had carved his command into stone:
> "KILL EACH OTHER."
"ONE LIVES."
"ONLY BLOOD WILL OPEN THE WAY."
Mallory stood rigid, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched.
> "We're not doing this."
Penfold crouched by the altar, one hand resting on the edge of the stone, knuckles white.
> "What if he's telling the truth?"
Tremayne knelt in the moss, whispering again. Muttering prayers. Or curses. Or both.
Harrow simply sat, eyes distant, mumbling about signs. About light. About destiny.
Owen Carrow said nothing.
He'd returned from the woods quiet and calm, the white-hot memory of Cain's voice still burning in his skull.
He looked at the others. Looked at the stone.
Then turned—and walked away.
> "Where are you going?" Penfold asked, her voice rising slightly.
Owen paused at the edge of the circle.
> "To fetch the others."
> "The wounded?"
He nodded.
> "They're part of this too."
Then at the shore Camp.
The beach was quiet. The waves didn't crash—they whispered.
The shipwreck still smoldered in its hull.
Marine #3 lay half-awake beneath a tarp, his leg bound, fever rising. Marine #4 lay still beside him, unconscious but alive.
Owen crouched beside them.
> "Time to move," he said gently.
Marine #3 stirred.
> "What for?"
> "We've got a way out," Owen said. "But you have to come. The circle. You don't want to be left behind."
The wounded man nodded slowly, trusting him—not because of rank, but because he sounded like someone who believed what he was saying.
Owen wrapped them both in blankets, tied a sled-line to his belt, and began pulling them inland.
Back at the Circle.
Penfold had begun to cry quietly.
Mallory stood over her, arms still crossed.
Tremayne stared into the fire.
And then—a stone hit the ground near their feet with a heavy, deliberate thunk.
They turned.
Another.
And another.
A small stack now—six stones in total—laid out in a line before the altar.
Each one carved with a single word:
> DAY 1
DAY 2
DAY 3
DAY 4
DAY 5
DAY 6—LAST
A final message, scratched deeper than the rest:
> "KILL BEFORE THE SUN RISES."
"OR ALL DIE."
From the woods, unseen, Cain crouched on a low branch, mask tilted, watching.
He had given them the shape.
Now he was giving them the time.
And time was the final cruelty.
By now the sky was silver-gray, heavy with mist and light that couldn't decide if it was day or night.
Twelve monoliths loomed.
The moss beneath them pulsed—soft, warm, alive.
The circle was full now.
Owen Carrow emerged from the trees, dragging a crude sled behind him. The two wounded marines lay bundled in blankets—barely conscious, but breathing.
He pulled them into the center and left them there.
No one moved to help him.
Not Penfold, not Tremayne, not Mallory, not Harrow.
They just watched.
Like they knew something was coming.
And they were right.
Owen stood in the middle of the circle.
He looked at each of them.
His coat fluttered in the rising breeze. His eyes glinted with something unnatural.
Then—he reached for the rifle strapped across his back.
And drew it.
A long, cold bayonet gleamed beneath the barrel.
> "Okay," he said, voice low, trembling.
"Let's start."
He turned. Raised the rifle.
And fired.
The shot echoed like a cannon in the stillness.
Marine #3—the one with the leg wound—jerked as the bullet tore through his throat. Blood sprayed across the moss.
He died without sound, hands twitching once.
The others screamed.
Penfold dove for the altar. Tremayne ran.
Mallory shouted—"DOWN!"
But Owen kept moving.
> "I'm sorry!" he screamed. "But I'm not dying here!"
> "I've got a little girl! I'm not dying for this stone! For him!"
He turned, fired again—this time into the trees.
A warning shot. Or maybe he missed.
It didn't matter.
The spell was broken.
All hell broke loose.
Mallory tackled Tremayne, pulling him down just before another shot cracked overhead.
Marine Coster raised his rifle and fired at Owen, missing by inches.
Penfold crawled for the altar, blood on her hands, screaming for them to stop.
And then—
Marine #2—the quiet one—grabbed Penfold's ankle.
She turned, expecting help.
Instead, he pulled her down.
And whispered:
> "I don't want to die either."
Then he raised his sidearm.
And shot Coster in the back.
Coster fell, coughing, blood bubbling from his mouth.
Mallory turned.
> "You bastard—!"
Another shot.
Another scream.
The circle was no longer sacred.
It was a kill box.
From the treetops, Cain watched it unfold.
Eyes glowing.
Mask still.
The moss pulsed red now.
The altar almost seemed like it was throbbing with blood now, or maybe that was just Cains imagination.
The Light Stone deep in the cave behind him was silent.
The gate was listening, or not, Cain couldn't tell.
But he hoped that these heretics would soon open it. But for now he waited, watched and listened to the gunfire, the creaming, the blood being spilled.
The calm had shattered like glass underfoot.
No one remembered who fired the second shot.
Just that Owen had pulled the trigger first—
And all hell followed.
Coster went down early—a slug to the chest, fired blindly by Marine #2, who screamed apologies as he pulled the trigger again, missing Tremayne by inches.
Harrow lunged at Owen with a field knife, gibbering about "holy math" and "the hour of fire."
Owen shot him in the face.
Tremayne tackled Penfold as she tried to run—crying, clawing, begging her not to leave him.
A gun cracked.
Penfold's blood sprayed across the altar.
Tremayne looked confused.
Then a second bullet hit him in the throat.
He collapsed beside her, gurgling.
Mallory was a storm in the center.
He swung Cain's glaive with one hand, fired his pistol with the other—hitting Marine #2 in the hip, then slashing across Owen's ribs, knocking him into the altar stone.
> "STOP!" he bellowed. "This isn't—!"
A bullet tore through his shoulder.
He fell.
Owen limped forward, gasping, raising his rifle with shaking hands.
> "I have to live… I have to—"
Click.
Empty.
Silence.
Just for a moment.
Only Cain moved now.
He stepped into the circle like a shadow turning solid.
No one saw where he'd come from.
He crossed the blood-soaked moss slowly, the white sun gleaming off his bone mask.
The dead lay around him in a broken spiral—nine corpses, one man breathing.
Mallory tried to rise.
Cain stepped past him.
He walked to Owen—the last man standing.
Owen didn't beg.
He just knelt beside the altar, palms up, chest heaving.
> "I did it," he whispered. "They're all dead. I did what you said. Now bring it—open it—open the gate…"
Cain stood over him.
The altar pulsed faintly with the warmth of the buried Light Stone. The blood ran across it, steaming in the morning air.
Cain waited.
A minute.
Then two.
He looked at the sky.
At the stones.
Nothing.
Not a hum. Not a shimmer. Not a voice from the stars.
> "Why…" Owen asked, voice cracked and bleeding. "Why isn't it working?"
Cain said nothing.
Then, slowly, he raised the glaive.
Owen's eyes widened.
> "Wait—!"
The blade fell.
Straight through the heart.
Owen shuddered. Fell backward. Twitched once.
Then stopped.
The altar soaked it in.
Twelve stones.
Twelve lines.
Twelve corpses.
Cain stood at the center of it all, breath shallow, heart pounding.
He waited.
Still nothing.
No light.
No fire.
No gate.
Only the sound of water dripping from the rocks. And the wind blowing through the trees like a breath that had already exhaled.
He lowered the glaive.
Stared at his hands.
> No… this was it. This had to be it.
He stepped back, looked around.
> Maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe they weren't the right ones.
He looked at the moss.
At the blood.
At the horizon.
And then—
He smiled.
Just faintly.
> Maybe I just need… more.
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