They found the church first.
The rope holding the bell snapped.
“Puck,” he said.
“Check,” whispered the Falcon of Light.
The wind picked up again, colder now. In the distance, a hawk-shaped shadow passed over the clouds—too large, too wrong, too familiar .
She smiled. “The Hundred-Man Slayer. I was told you’d pass this way.”
From the shadows behind the altar, children emerged. Dozens of them. Their eyes were hollow, their mouths sewn shut with black thread, and each one held a rusted knife. They moved in a shuffling wave toward Guts, silent as snowfall.
He’d dreamed of it the night before—not the Eclipse, not the brand’s searing chorus of damned souls, but something quieter. A memory wrapped in thorns: Griffith’s voice, soft and certain, saying “You are the only one who made me forget my dream.” And then the snow, the blood on white feathers, and the scream that wasn’t a scream.
