Rise of the Faceless Demon

The stench of rotting moss gnawed at his nasal cavity, mingling with decaying wood and iron rust. Foul air forced its way into his lungs. Dried blood stung his airways, competing with the weak breaths wrenched from beneath a frayed blanket.

A feral wind battered the brittle boards outside. It lacked the rustle of lush leaves, replaced instead by the clatter of gaunt branches and dead twigs scraping together like thousands of snapping bones.

Dark.

Blurred shadows crawled along the wooden walls, thickening into the silhouette of a curved ceiling. Cracks in the overhead boards leaked a steady stream of filth, while dust motes drifted through a single sliver of light from a clouded window. 

The light was crusted, the color of rusted copper. There was no indication of time—whether it was a freezing dawn, a bleak noon, or a dying dusk. This cramped room imprisoned time, trapping anyone inside in endless disorientation.

Cold.

Freezing temperatures crept from the tips of his bare toes beneath the coarse blanket. The air pierced his pale pores, seeped into his muscles, and froze his bone marrow. Oesteria's chill strangled him without mercy.

He exhaled.

Murky vapor slipped from his cracked lips. Fading into the shack's gloom.

Who am I?

Empty. His skull felt hollow. No face. No name. No past. Only a white room drenched in filthy water.

He tried to move his right index finger.

Stiff.

His arm muscles refused to obey. His flesh felt dead, hardened over the bone. A corpse long buried in dirt, forced to move again. His very limbs betrayed him. Thirst gripped the base of his throat. His esophagus scraped raw. Wet sandpaper ground over an open wound. Dehydration clawed at his insides, leaving his throat feeling like ground glass. Begging for water.

His chest, wrapped in a soiled linen shirt, heaved with effort. An unseen weight crushed his ribs.

With the remaining strength heating his forearm muscles, he forced his shoulder to rotate. His elbow joint creaked. The dusty hand crawled upward through the freezing air. His calloused fingertips touched the surface above his temple.

Gauze.

Thick, layered bandages wrapped half his head. Locking the bridge of his nose tight and winding down to the bottom of his right ear. The fabric smelled musty. Old cloth clinging to rotting flesh. The stench mixed with the bitter sting of crushed herbal leaves. Sticky. Clinging to his pores.

His index and middle fingers crept downward, sliding along the line of his tense lower jaw to press against the base of his neck.

Jagged.

His breath hitched. His fingertips pressed deeper into the neck's skin. A hard lump. Protruding thick and stretching upward.

Stitches.

Coarse thread pierced the lower neck skin. Trailing upward in a haphazard, curved route. Penetrating straight into his scalp. Circling the crown of his head. The pattern was feral. His skull had been cleaved open with a blunt cutting tool. Wrenched apart. Then bound back together in a crude knot threatening to tear at any moment.

His index fingernail pressed into a thick stitch knot at his lower neck.

Heat.

A flash of heat struck from the knot. Piercing the nerve endings at the back of his brain.

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Rusted wire yanked from beneath his flesh. His neck muscles spasmed. His body jolted hard against the wooden cot beneath him. He opened his jaw wide. Demanding oxygen. No scream. Only the crackle of dry neck bones and thick saliva dripping from the corner of his lips.

Crash!

A wooden basket struck the floor beyond his line of sight. A small glass bottle rolled and hit a table leg.

He twisted his neck on reflex. His temple nerves pulsed with agony, resisting the forced motion. His eyes caught a figure in the doorway.

An odd scent invaded the cramped shack.

Lilies.

An overpowering fragrance. Forcing its way in. The sweet aroma clashed with the stench of iron rust, dust, and wet moss. Forcing his lungs to inhale the cloying, intoxicating scent. High-heeled boots of worn leather creaked in rapid succession across the wooden floorboards.

Approaching.

A woman dropped to her knees without hesitation right beside the bed. A coarse charcoal-gray wool dress swept the floor dust. The worn fabric was ironed flawless. Its creases were stiff. Not a single speck of dirt dared to cling to the hem of her gown. Cheap clothing wrapping a flawless posture.

The woman reached out. Her touch landed on the unbandaged side of his head.

Warm.

The skin of her hand channeled a soothing heat. Banishing the Oesterian frost that had been gnawing at his bones. A warmth that enveloped reason. Her thumb shifted. Wiping the remaining reddish dust on his temple. Rubbing in a slow, rhythmic tempo. A constant touch. Building a sense of safety. Washing away his guard. Her pitch-black curls unraveled wild, falling to cover part of her pale face. A pair of gray irises watched him from beneath heavy eyelids. A dull black leather choker wrapped her neck tight, hiding her own pulse.

"Prince Luka."

The woman's voice trembled. Hoarse with emotion.

Prince Luka.

Those two words buzzed. Burrowing into his ear canals.

His gut churned. His stomach clenched hard. His abdominal muscles cramped and thrashed, kicking the surrounding organs. He choked on his own saliva. Pure nausea pierced his ribs. His filthy body rebelled. His flesh and blood rejected those two words outright. An instinctual rejection from the pit of his empty gut.

"Prince... Luka?" His voice was hoarse and gritty. Ruined by the friction against his own vocal cords. Luka breathed heavily.

The woman leaned forward. Her arms embraced his head. Her body heat radiated a protective warmth. The lily scent bloomed thicker. Drugging the cramped air. Filling his lungs.

"You are awake, My Lord," she whispered near his ear. A warm breath hit his skin. "You are safe."

Something breached his skull.

A rusted iron nail. Hammered glowing hot from inside his brain. His eyes turned a deep crimson. The red veins in his eyelids ruptured in unison.

A gothic palace.

White marble floors.

A pool of blood.

A gold crown fell and rolled, striking a rough stone wall with a loud clink.

A middle-aged man was forced to kneel in the gore, his fading blonde hair matted, his torn royal garments ruined. His wise face was subjugated beneath the shadows.

Father.

His brain screamed that single word. A memory planted by force. Seared into his mind by pure agony. Father.

A giant executioner's sword swung hard through the air.

Cleaving the wind.

A clean slash.

Flesh torn. Neck bone severed.

The decapitated head rolled. Blood sprayed a stained-glass pillar depicting ancient gods. Crimson ruined the angel's holy face in the glass painting.

A cold face stood rigid, staring at the puddle. His blonde hair turning white. His eyes, framed by pitch-black bags, stared blankly at the king's corpse. No emotion. No mercy.

Ulric.

Traitor.

Pain split his sanity in two. The bloody memory hammered every gray cell in his head.

He thrashed wildly, tearing from the woman's warm embrace with a violent shoulder strike. His body rolled roughly to the edge of the bed. Bile rebelled and surged up his esophagus, spilling yellow-green fluid from his mouth to soak the dusty floor beneath the cot. The stench was sour, heavy with rot. His body convulsed, bulging blue veins threatening to burst along his neck and left arm.

His fingers moved ferally, clawing at his own head. They scratched at the thick white bandages, hunting for the itch and heat torturing his brain from the inside. His nails pierced the coarse layer of gauze, digging deep into the stitches at the base of his neck, and wrenched them apart.

His skin tore. Fresh blood spurted and seeped out in a rush. Swallowing the white cloth into a deep crimson. His skull throbbed, rejecting sanity. Thick red drops seeped from the corners of his eyelids, flowing down to soak his cheekbones.

The woman gripped his shoulders hard. Restraining his kicking, thrashing body. Her pale lips chanted a panic-stricken string of calming words. Sentences completely muted by a massive hum destroying his eardrums.

Luka threw his head back.

Pulling oxygen mixed with the scent of rust through his chest cavity. His burning throat demanded air. His jaw opened wide until his facial muscles tightened in pain.

A hoarse scream shattered.

A sound filled with physical agony and raw despair. The impact of the noise struck the decaying wooden walls.

Trapped.

Echoing wildly, the raw scream filled every corner of the rotting shack.

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