Chapter 68 Chapter Fifteen

Chapter 68 Chapter Fifteen
FLASHBACK
The strong smell of grease filled the cult hall, even more than the smoke from the candle lights.
Reuben knelt on the stone floor, his wrists bound behind him, a wooden funnel jammed into his mouth so deep his teeth cut against the rim. His teary eyes rolled.
The priests pressed another ladle of porridge down the funnel. It hit his throat in a gush, and his body convulsed. He gagged, sputtered, a froth of half-swallowed food spilling down his chin.
“Again,” one of the cloaked men murmured. The order was not loud, but absolute.
Reuben’s belly bulged, his robe stretched to the point of almost tearing. He wheezed for breath, chest heaving as he forced each swallow. His face flushed red, then darkened toward purple.
The other boys — Ezra, Enoch, Malachi, Lucian — stood against the wall, shackled in silence. They did not speak, but their wide eyes said everything. Horror. Powerlessness.
The lessons were carved into them: Play your part, or this will be you.
Reuben tried to cry out, but the sound was drowned in porridge. His body shuddered, bile rose with the food, and he vomited it back into the funnel, splattering his chin, only for more to be poured in. The priests did not flinch.
His stomach ballooned, unnaturally disturbing, like it would split his skin. His lips cracked from the dryness of choking, even as food drowned him. His legs kicked weakly against the floor, the scrape of heels echoing like a dying animal’s thrash.
“Again,” the priest said.
Reuben’s eyes bulged, bloodshot, watering with the effort. His breath rattled. A sound escaped — a low, animal whimper — before another flood of food forced its way down his throat.
The boys flinched but could not look away. They were too afraid to.
Lucian clenched his fists so tight the bones whitened. He wanted to lunge forward, to stop it — but he couldn’t. Not yet.
The funnel was yanked out at last, and Reuben gasped like a drowning man breaking the surface, hacking, vomiting onto the floor. His whole body shook violently. His stomach looked obscene, grotesque, too round for a 16-year-old frame. His sobs were wet, strangled.
The priest crouched before him, voice low and sharp: “Gluttony is not hunger. It is devotion. You will learn with time.”
Reuben collapsed sideways, still choking on spit and bile.
And the rest of them — the “sins in training” — stood frozen, their horror sealing into silence.

The night was very quiet, almost too quiet, as if the whole cult compound was holding its breath. The walls of the dormitory looked like stone coffins, and inside, the boys lay on their bunks. Some pretended to sleep, while others stared blankly at the ceiling.
Lucian waited until the patrol’s footsteps faded before slipping from his bed. Bare feet padded silently against the cold stone floor. He moved like shadow itself, reaching the cracked window frame of the dormitory and easing it open without a sound.
Moonlight spilled in silver over Reuben’s face. The boy’s skin was still pale, slick with sweat, his body trembling under the thin sheet. He turned restlessly, choking back small sounds, his lips cracked from the horror of what they had forced into him hours before.
Lucian slipped inside, silent as breath. He crouched beside the bed, laying a steadying hand on Reuben’s trembling shoulder.
“It’s me,” he whispered, voice low, careful.
Reuben startled awake, eyes wide, glossy with pain and fear. But when they focused on Lucian, some of the panic melted. His lips parted, cracked and bleeding at the edges.
“Lu…” His voice broke into a rasp. “I can’t— it hurts.” His hand clutched his swollen belly as though to hold himself together.
Lucian sat down, careful not to jostle him. He brushed the damp curls from Reuben’s forehead, his other hand pressing gently against his chest, grounding him, “Breathe,” he murmured. “Slow. Don’t fight it. If you fight it, it tears worse.”
Reuben shuddered, trying to obey, but the breaths came jagged, breaking against his teeth. His throat convulsed. Lucian pressed two fingers lightly against his lips.
“Try not to make too much sound. They’ll hear.”
Reuben gasped for breath. The bedframe creaked under his weight. Then his body seized, and he lurched forward. Lucian caught him instantly, slipping an arm beneath his shoulders and dragging him upright. The boy was heavy, unbalanced, his distended stomach pulling him off-center.
“Come,” Lucian muttered, his voice tight but sure. He hooked Reuben’s arm over his shoulder, hauling him toward the back door. The walk to the washroom was clumsy—Reuben stumbled with every step, his legs buckling, sweat slicking down his temples. Lucian bore the weight without a word, his jaw clenched, guiding him like he’d done this a hundred times.
In the washroom, he lowered Reuben onto the cold stone bench. The boy doubled over immediately, retching dryly, his throat convulsing, his body wracked in spasms. Lucian knelt beside him, one hand steady at his back, the other holding the cloth he’d smuggled from the dormitory basin. He wiped Reuben’s mouth, his chin, the sour sweat streaking down his cheeks, then rinsed the cloth and pressed it cool against his forehead.
Reuben sagged sideways when it was over, his chest heaving, tears shining at the corners of his eyes. His lips quivered as he whispered, broken:
“Why do you help me?”
Lucian met his gaze. For a moment, his face was unreadable. Then, quietly, he wrung the cloth out, water dripping sharply into the basin.
“Because no one else will.”
The words lingered painfully.
When he finally carried Reuben back to bed, the boy collapsed into the sheets, too weak to even whisper thanks. Lucian stayed seated at his side, watching his breathing steady, brushing sweat-damp hair from his brow as though it were instinct.
The silence was broken then, but a soft creak from across the dormitory was heard.
Ciel had been sitting in the shadows all along, her knees hugged to her chest. The dim light caught her pale face, her trembling hands clutching the hem of her nightdress. Her voice came faint, breaking on every word.
“This is cruel… so cruel…” She recoiled into herself, shaking her head as if to banish the memory.
From the bunk above, another voice drifted down. Ezra’s. Calm, composed, but hollow with a truth they all carried. He stared into the darkness, his dark eyes catching the moonlight.
“It is,” he said softly. “But we can’t escape. Even if we want to.”
The words felt heavy, almost more than the silence in the room. They pressed down on every boy, making it hard to breathe..
Lucian leaned closer to Reuben, lowering his voice so only he could hear.
“I’ll take care of you. Just try to sleep, okay?.”
Reuben, eyes shut tight, nodded faintly. His lips trembled, but he made no sound.
Lucian stayed until Reuben’s breathing evened out. Then he rose, slipped to the window, and vanished again into the night.

Seven days in a week. Seven of them. Seven sins.
Each day had its lesson. Each boy had his turn.
Reuben’s was the first—Gluttony. And on the second day, it was Wrath. Enoch’s day.
They didn’t call it Tuesday, or the third day of the cycle. They called it Wrathstone. The day when Enoch was dragged into the center of the hall and taught to bleed, to strike until his hands shook with rage.
Two figures were dragged into the cult hall—Enoch, barely sixteen, and a man three times his size. The man’s muscles were cords of stone, his face hard, scarred. Their wrists were shackled in front, a single chain binding them wrist to wrist, so tight the bones strained pale beneath the skin.
Enoch’s eyes darted up at the giant beside him, then to the hooded men circling them.
A priest’s voice cut the silence, sharp as a blade: “Strike, or be struck.”
Neither moved. The man only glared down at Enoch, breathing steady as a bull waiting to charge.
The order came again: “Strike.”
Nothing.
A priest’s rod lashed across Enoch’s back. The boy gasped, stumbling forward into the man’s chest. The chain jerked their wrists closer.
The man sneered and his fist twitched.
“Strike,” The priest repeated, this time staring right at the gigantic man.
The man grinned now, slow and cruel. He didn’t wait. His fist came down like a hammer, slamming into Enoch’s ribs. The sound was sickening, air ripped from Enoch’s lungs in a wheeze. His knees buckled.
The priests did not flinch.
“Again,” Another priest murmured.
The man obeyed. Another blow crashed into Enoch’s jaw, whipping his head back so hard he nearly collapsed. The iron chain snapped taut, keeping him upright only so he could be struck again.
Enoch’s teeth rattled, his chest heaved, his fists trembled. His eyes shone wet.
The priest’s voice cut through: “Fight.”
Enoch’s fist snapped forward, a weak, desperate swing. His knuckles scraped against the man’s chin, barely moving him. The man’s laugh was low, cruel, echoing in the chamber.
Then the giant’s hand wrapped around the boy’s throat, lifting him half off the ground. Enoch’s legs kicked, air choking out in wheezes.
The man slammed him down hard onto the stone floor. Pain ripped through Enoch’s body. His small frame convulsed under the man’s weight. His ribs screamed with every shallow breath. He gagged on blood, spat red onto the stones. His fists twitched uselessly at his sides, bound, trembling.
The man’s shadow loomed over him, waiting. The priests did not speak. They didn’t need to.
Enoch dragged in air that burned his throat. He tried to raise his hand, but his arm collapsed back to the floor, limp.
Another blow came hard. His vision blurred, stars exploding across the black. His body sagged and finally, his eyes shut.
The priests watched closely, a spark of excitement growing on their faces as they awaited a manifestation.