Chapter 3 - Priest

The weeks slipped by, and little by little the strange sounds around Mark became words. Not enough to follow every conversation, but enough to notice when something was wrong.
And something was definitely off today. His parents had been tense since morning, and the other children had been sent outside shortly after breakfast despite several loud protests, leaving the house strangely quiet. Only his eldest sister, Sari, had somehow managed to remain behind, probably because their mother was already too tired to keep arguing with her.
They were waiting for someone.
Mark sat beside her on one of the beds, concentrating almost as much on remaining upright as on their game. Sari had spent the better part of the morning inventing increasingly ridiculous ways to entertain him while completely ignoring their mother’s disapproving looks.
“I won. I won again! Fetoria naeda suk. Oh, you won! Good job!”
Ha! Mark had finally managed to catch her hand before she could poke his exposed belly button again. The score was probably ten to one in her favor, but he was improving.
Honestly, why was he this pleased about winning a stupid children’s game? Oh, Mark. How low you’ve fallen.
“Sari, leave the child naerte!” his mother finally snapped from across the room.
“It’s just a game,” Sari protested. Rebellion flashed across her face in a way Mark was beginning to recognize very well.
“We don’t know—”
A knock interrupted her.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
His mother rose from the chair beside the narrow window. The legs scraped across the packed earth floor. She paused for half a heartbeat before crossing the room. When she opened the door, cold air slipped inside along with the smell of damp earth.
“Welcome, Mari. Mo telles se this house.”
The man’s deep voice carried easily through the room, calm and unhurried.
“Welcome, Father.”
Mari stepped aside and bowed repeatedly as the visitor entered. Terry was on his feet almost immediately, offering the man his hand before giving a smaller bow of his own.
“Welcome, Father Varix.”
“Terry.”
Unlike Mark’s father, the newcomer had no beard. His white hair had been cropped close to his head. He wore a heavy robe of deep red that reached almost to his boots, with a golden cord tied around his waist. Rain darkened the fabric around his shoulders.
Mark barely noticed the robe. His attention had already fixed on the mist surrounding Varix.
The strange haze surrounding his family had always been faint enough that he sometimes needed to concentrate to see it. Around Varix, it was impossible to miss.Dense currents clung to his body and rolled slowly upward, far thicker than anything Mark had seen around his family.
“Is this him? He looks storet miszteti hal.”
Varix’s eyes settled on Mark, and his stomach tightened. Whatever this man was, he had come because of him.
Had his family noticed that he wasn’t a normal child? Was this what the Voice had meant when it warned him about people like you?
Without thinking, Mark shifted behind Sari. It was a pathetic attempt at hiding, but she understood immediately. Her arm wrapped around him, pulling him against her side as she shot the adults a glare fierce enough to compensate for his complete inability to defend himself.
Mark pressed closer.
“He’s fortelo! Not sankraxo-touched.”
“Sari, child,” Varix said, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “No one hatrneo massi. It is only sentene.”
She relaxed slightly, though her arm remained firmly around Mark.

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His attention stayed fixed on Varix as the priest approached. Mark could hear the soft scrape of his boots against the floor and the faint rustle of his robe with every step. Even if he tried to crawl away now, the priest could catch him immediately.
Varix stopped in front of the bed and leaned closer. Mark caught the scent of dried herbs on his breath, mixed with smoke and something bitter he couldn’t identify.
As the priest bent forward, the medallion hanging from his neck swung into view. At its center was a disk divided into seven equal sections, surrounded by stylized flames.
A sun?
“Child, look vi laka.”
Still staring at the medallion, Mark raised his eyes.
He met Varix’s gaze and found himself staring into two hard grey eyes. The room vanished from his senses. He could no longer feel Sari beside him or the bed beneath his hands, and the sounds of the house were gone. Only the two grey points remained in the darkness.
Mark tried to move.
Nothing happened.
Something pressed against him. He could not place it in his body or his mind. It seemed to come from somewhere deeper than either. The pressure felt like a weight bearing down on him, growing heavier by the second.
Show us.
The impression appeared without sound.
Show us the taint of the Abyss.
Mark had no idea what the taint of the Abyss was. First the Voice and the Void, now the Abyss. He understood none of it.
The pressure increased, and memories began surfacing with it.
Two police officers standing at his door, rain dripping from their coats. Hospital lights glaring above him. The taste of metal after chemotherapy. Days when simply getting out of bed had felt like a victory. Years later, evenings spent alone in the same apartment with nowhere he particularly wanted to go.
The memories rose one after another, unwanted and painfully vivid. Mark didn’t know why, or whether any of this was visible to Varix. He didn’t even know if the memories were part of the test or merely his own reaction to whatever the priest was doing.
He only knew that he hated it.
The grey points remained fixed on him while the pressure pushed deeper.
More memories followed, and fear gradually gave way to anger. Whatever Varix was doing, Mark wanted him out of his head.
Those memories were his.
How dare you?
He tensed inwardly, gathering every shred of willpower he had to push against the pressure with no idea whether resistance was even possible.
THUD!
The world returned all at once.
Sound came first: wood striking packed earth, Mari gasping and shouting. Then the room snapped back into place around him: the hearth, his parents, the bed beneath his hands.
And Sari, bent awkwardly over an overturned chair. For a moment, she looked almost as startled as everyone else.
Mark realized he had been seconds from trying to resist Varix.
“Sorry!” Sari blurted.
She grabbed the chair and tried to set it upright, somehow managing to knock it against the bed in the process.
“Sari! Leave, osmsterli! I knew you would harttago qiltora!” Mari shouted, hurrying toward her.
Sari started arguing immediately, but this time their mother gave her no opportunity to win. Within moments, she was being chased toward the door.
“Calm yourself, Mari. I am already finished,” Varix said, straightening as he finally looked away from Mark. “For now, the child is not sankraxo-touched.”
Mari sagged with relief.
“Oh, I’m so happy, Father! Thank you!”
“It is my hakada.”
Varix turned the medallion between his fingers, frowning. Mark couldn’t tell whether the priest was merely thinking or had noticed something during the test. He hoped it was the former.
Eventually, Varix shook himself from his thoughts and looked toward the bed again. Mark immediately tensed as the priest raised both hands toward his face.
Then he covered his eyes.
Mark stared.
“Peekaboo!”
Varix pulled his hands apart with a booming laugh.
Mark stared at him in disbelief. The man who had just trapped him in darkness and dug through his memories was playing peekaboo.
His infant body gave up entirely. His face crumpled, and a moment later he was sobbing loudly enough to drown out the priest’s laughter.
Varix’s amusement disappeared almost immediately.
“Oh.”
Mari hurried over and lifted Mark against her chest, murmuring softly while he continued crying with an intensity he found deeply embarrassing and completely impossible to stop. The priest suddenly looked considerably less imposing.
“I should get going now,” he said.
An excellent idea.
“Don’t forget about the next test before astrianni. May Sul vovkare watch over this house.”
Varix lingered near the door while Mark’s sobbing gradually weakened into uneven hiccups. Then, with one last apologetic glance in his direction, he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
Long after Varix was gone, Mark remained pressed against his mother, thinking about those grey eyes and what might have happened if Sari hadn’t interrupted. More importantly, he had no idea whether a normal child would have reacted the same way.
Perhaps every child responded instinctively to that kind of pressure. Perhaps the priest had noticed nothing unusual.
The memory of those grey points lingered, returning whenever he kept his eyes closed for too long.
Exhaustion eventually pulled him toward sleep. As his eyes began to close, another part of Varix’s farewell came back to him.
The next test.
Apparently, this one had only been the beginning.