The tremor had subsided, but the aftershocks continued to ripple through Osric’s bones. Malachi’s chilling revelation about the Bone-Worm clawed at the fragile edges of his reason, leaving him breathless. He pushed past the heavy oak door of the archives, the scent of ancient parchment and dust replaced by the cool, damp air of the corridor. His boots scraped against the flagstones, a jarring staccato in the silent night. Every muscle in his body tightened, propelling him forward. His right palm throbbed.
He needed to reach Lucia. The words from her sickbed echoed in his mind: "The hunger in the bones." "A shadow calls from the dark." He had dismissed them as delirium, the ramblings of a fading saint. Now, they were a prophecy, a warning he had failed to heed. Guilt, cold and sharp, pierced him. He had left her alone, vulnerable, while he pursued dusty texts.
Benet’s words, "It comes for more," had been for him. Osric couldn’t shake the image of Lucia’s wide, terrified eyes. He had to know if she was truly gone, or if there was still time to protect her from the insidious hunger.
The moon, a sliver of white bone, cast long, distorted shadows through the arched windows. They stretched and writhed like the worm Malachi had described, reaching for him, attempting to snare his feet. He picked up his pace, a desperate, gasping run that felt clumsy in his heavy robes. The corridor seemed to stretch, endless and indifferent, the same grey stone repeating itself, turn after turn.
The invisible residue, slick and cold, pulsed with a rhythm that was not his own heart. It was a faint thrum, a silent whisper against his skin, a constant, horrifying reminder of the tether. Was it pulling him towards her, or was it a deeper, more insidious connection to the thing that had consumed her fibula? He didn't know, and the uncertainty was a fresh agony.
He passed the quiet dormitories, rows of dark, closed doors concealing brothers lost in untroubled sleep. He envied them their ignorance, their peace. His own mind was a frantic kaleidoscope of bone-worms and black-crimson vortices. The Abbacy, supposedly a bastion of faith, was a charnel house, a feeding ground. He had been complicit, a willing instrument in the harvesting of lives, believing he brought mercy when all he offered was another cut.
The infirmary was at the far end of the western wing, a long, winding journey through the heart of the Grey Abbacy. Each step was a silent prayer, a plea for Lucia to still be there, still breathing, still able to speak. He imagined her frail form, her eyes wide with fear, waiting. Waiting for him.
He pictured the flickering candle, the profound chill, the spectral hand he had felt beside her bed. Had it been the shadow she spoke of, already claiming her? He felt the cold touch of dread.
A low, mournful bell began to toll, a deep, resonating sound that vibrated through the stone, through his very bones. One stroke. Then another, after a long, aching pause. It was the passing bell. Someone had died. No. It couldn’t be. Not Lucia. His breath hitched in his throat. He forced himself faster, the dread a physical weight dragging at his limbs, but he couldn't stop. The bells continued their solemn count, each peal a hammer blow to his chest. He pushed through the last archway, the infirmary door looming ahead, an unyielding slab of dark wood. The pulsing on his hand intensified, a frantic, desperate beat against his skin.
---
Osric lunged at the infirmary door, his hand slamming against the cold metal pull-ring. He didn't bother to knock. He simply twisted and pushed, the heavy wood groaning in protest as it swung inward on rusty hinges. The room beyond was awash in the pale, blue-white glow of the moon, filtering through the high, narrow windows. It laid a cold, sterile blanket over everything.
His eyes swept across the neat rows of beds, each one meticulously made, sheets tucked tight, blankets folded precisely. Most were empty, awaiting the next wave of the Order's faithful who would offer themselves. His gaze snapped to the corner bed, the one he knew belonged to Saint Lucia. His heart, already a bruised thing, twisted painfully in his chest.
It was empty.
The bed was stripped bare, the thin mattress uncovered, a stark rectangle of pale straw. No rumpled sheets. No faded, worn blanket. No trace of the small, stoic woman who had occupied it only hours before. Not even the small, chipped ceramic cup she always kept by her bedside table. The silence of the infirmary, broken only by the distant, mournful clang of the passing bells, screamed her absence louder than any cry.
Osric stumbled into the room, his legs suddenly weak beneath him. The pulsing on his right palm still throbbed, but now it felt like a mocking echo, a cruel jape. He moved to the empty bed, his hand reaching out, hovering over the bare mattress. The straw rustled faintly, a dry, lifeless whisper. He ran his fingers along the cool, smooth metal frame, searching for some lingering warmth, some residual imprint of her presence. There was nothing. The bed was meticulously clean, as if she had never been there at all.
The air, usually heavy with the scent of antiseptic and sickness, was unnervingly fresh, as though the windows had been open for hours. A faint draft stirred the dust motes dancing in the moonlight. He stood there, a hollow ache spreading through his stomach, growing into a burning knot of despair. He had failed. Utterly, irrevocably failed. He had known, or at least suspected, the horror lurking beneath the Order's pious façade, and he had done nothing. He hadn't protected her. He hadn't even tried.
The bells outside continued their slow, deliberate tolling. One after another, each sound a confirmation, a final, crushing pronouncement. He counted them in his head, the numbers blurring, becoming meaningless. It was done. Lucia was gone. And her final, desperate warning, the knowledge of the 'hunger' and the 'shadow', now rested solely with him. A heavy weight settled on his shoulders, pressing him down, as if the very air had solidified into lead. He closed his eyes, a silent cry caught in his throat.
---
A soft shuffle of footsteps broke through Osric’s numb despair. He opened his eyes, blinking against the moonlight. A young novice, Brother Benet, emerged from the washing room at the far end of the infirmary. Benet was barely more than a boy, his face still round and unlined, his eyes wide with a permanent expression of earnest diligence. He carried a stack of freshly laundered linens, their clean scent cutting through the stale air.
"Brother Osric," Benet said, his voice a quiet murmur, tinged with a solemn reverence. He paused, seeing Osric standing by the empty bed. A flicker of sympathy crossed the novice’s face. "You heard the bells, then?"
Osric could only nod, his throat tight, unwilling to trust his voice. The word 'bells' felt like a barb.
"Saint Lucia passed peacefully just after Matins," Benet continued, his gaze drifting towards the stripped bed. "They took her to the crypt an hour ago. Brother Elias and Brother Thomas saw to the rites."
*Peacefully.* The word twisted in Osric's gut like a knife. Peaceful. How could anything be peaceful when a Bone-Worm had been gorging itself on her essence? How could she find peace, knowing she had been hollowed out, her sacrifice twisted into sustenance for a monstrous parasite? He remembered her trembling hands, her wide, terrified eyes, her whisper of the 'shadow'. There was no peace in that. There was only terror, and then, presumably, a final, exhausted emptiness.
"Peaceful," Osric managed to rasp, the single word grating and hollow. He didn't recognize his own voice.
Benet nodded, oblivious. "Yes, Brother. A blessing, really. She suffered so long after the harvesting. Elder Brother Titus said her faith never wavered, even to the very end. A true testament to her devotion."
The novice's innocent praise felt like another blow. Devotion? Or was it pure, unadulterated exploitation? The Order, Titus, Elias, Thomas—they were all blind, or worse, complicit. Osric felt a sudden, surge of protectiveness for the simple novice, a desire to shield him from the horrifying truth. But how? How could he explain the Bone-Worm, the parasitic hunger, the true nature of their sacred relics, without shattering Benet's world, without destroying his own? He couldn't. Not yet.
He simply stared at the empty bed, the pristine mattress mocking him. The pulsing on his hand had subsided to a dull ache, a constant, sickening throb. It felt less like a connection to Lucia and more like a permanent brand, the mark of his failure.
"Did she... did she say anything?" Osric asked, his voice barely audible. "Anything at all, before... before?"
Benet frowned, thinking. "Only a murmur, Brother. I was tending the lamps, but Brother Elias was with her. He said she whispered, 'It comes for more.' He thought she was speaking of the Lord, calling her home." The novice offered a small, sad smile. "A beautiful sentiment, don't you think?"
Osric felt a cold dread crawl up his spine, eclipsing even his guilt. "It comes for more." Not the Lord. Not release. The Bone-Worm. It always wanted more. Lucia had been trying to warn them, trying to warn *him*, until the very last breath. And still, he had been too slow. He had misunderstood. And now, she was gone, leaving him alone with the burden of her terrifying final words.
---
Brother Benet, sensing Osric’s quiet distress, murmured an apology about needing to restock the linen closet and hurried away, leaving Osric once more alone in the moonlit infirmary. The bells had finally ceased their mournful tolling. The silence that followed was oppressive, heavier than the sound had been. Osric stood by the empty bed, the last vestiges of hope and denial dissolving into a profound, aching despair.
He had promised himself he would find a way, that he would protect her. He had searched for answers, for alternatives, for anything to stop the slow vivisection of living saints. But he had been too late for Lucia. She was just another casualty, another hollowed-out vessel for an insidious hunger. The truth of the Bone-Worm, the Order's unwitting complicity, pressed down on him with crushing force. He felt small, insignificant, and utterly alone in a world suddenly revealed as a vast, predatory lie.
His gaze fell to the small, unadorned bedside table beside the empty mattress. It was bare, save for a faint, circular watermark where Lucia’s chipped cup usually sat. Brother Elias and Brother Thomas would have cleared everything, packed away her few worldly possessions for the crypt or for donation. A sudden, desperate urge to find something, anything, of hers, seized him. A final connection. A tangible piece of the woman whose warning now felt like a curse.
He knelt, running his hand along the cold flagstones beneath the bed. His fingers brushed against something small, smooth, and oddly shaped. It was tucked away, almost hidden, pressed against the skirting board. He pulled it out.
It was a small, intricately carved wooden bird. The wood was dark, worn smooth by countless touches, and no bigger than his thumb. Its wings were tucked close to its body, its head tilted slightly, as if listening. It was clearly a child's toy, or perhaps a small comfort object. He turned it over in his palm, the familiar pulsing of the residue on his right hand now feeling almost insignificant compared to the raw grief welling within him.
His thumb brushed across the bird's face. Two tiny eyes, painstakingly painted with dark, rich pigment, stared back at him. They were not soft or gentle. They were sharp, intense, almost unnervingly alive. In the cold moonlight, those tiny painted eyes held a depth, a chilling accusation. They were the same eyes he had seen on Lucia's face, staring at him, just before her voice had dropped to that desperate whisper. The same eyes that had held a terror he had failed to comprehend. The same eyes that had pleaded with him to understand 'the hunger' and 'the shadow'. The same eyes that now seemed to hold him personally responsible for her demise.