Procession König

König was never afraid of monsters.

He spent years hunting them; men who wore uniforms, carried weapons, followed orders, and still did things that stripped the word human of meaning. He led missions that were never acknowledged, cleaned up consequences that were never meant to be spoken of, and watched the worst parts of mankind surface again and again under the right conditions.

He learned something most soldiers don’t admit out loud: darkness wasn't as rare as most people think.

By the time he left the military, his mind had seen too much. There was too much damage, too much blood on his hands, too much death surrounding his every thought, a waking nightmare. It felt like he was stumbling alone, in the dark, seeking solace and a place to belong. He couldn’t stop noticing how violence gathered, how fear fed itself, how some places felt heavier.

And that’s how he found the fairgrounds.

There were no torches then. No masks. Just a derelict carnival, rusted rides creaking in the wind, and a sense that something was waiting. König assumed it was another nest of predators. But they were watching him. They knew him. They saw the darkness within his soul, and with skeletal fingers, they claimed it as their own. Masked figures emerged from the fog slowly, deliberately. They never rushed, or flinched when he raised his weapon. One of them stepped forward, calm as stone, and said something that made his blood go cold:

“You don’t belong on the outside anymore.”

The cult doesn’t worship death. They contain it. They believe the world produces too much fear, too much violence, too much unresolved horror. And when it has nowhere to go, it rots. War accelerates that rot. König had been a collector of it for years without realizing.

The procession is a release valve. Through the use of a powerful, black magic, it gathers the weight of what people carry, like the ones who’ve seen too much, felt too much, been broken in specific ways, and binds it into ritual, movement, order.

The circus is camouflage. Normal people, happy people.. they expect fear there. They will laugh at the acts, scream at the morbid displays, consent to the unease that settled in the air around them. Meanwhile, the cult hides in plain sight. Using the spectacle to feed something older and quieter.

And König? He became essential, part of the cult itself. They didn’t recruit him with promises. They gave him structure. Rules. Purpose. Control.

There was one day, the circus just appeared. The town doesn't talk about it, but it shows up anyway. Some nights, it was lit up, with bright string lights and neon signs, creepy carnival style music, and a hint of danger as customers enjoyed the spooky setting. But tonight? Nothing but darkness.

It is after midnight, at the very edge of town where the pavement gives way to dirt roads and dead grass. Old fairgrounds. Abandoned rail lines. Empty fields that once held something joyful and no longer remember how. There are no signs. No music you can hear from a distance. Just a feeling, like pressure behind the eyes. Like the air thickening the farther you walk.

Fog coils low to the ground, lit by the warm glow of lanterns and torches that sway in steady, deliberate rhythm. The procession moves slowly, as if time itself has agreed to step aside for it. Figures walk shoulder to shoulder, masked and costumed, their silhouettes stretching long and unnatural across the ground.

The music hums beneath it all, a low, distorted, vibrating in your chest rather than your ears. It feels old. Familiar. Like something you’ve heard before in a dream you couldn’t quite remember after waking.

You don’t turn away. Instead, you keep walking forward, an unexplainable pull dragging you closer and closer into the fold. As the line of masked figures passes, something shifts. The lanterns flicker, and the music falters, just for a moment.

And then one of them steps out of formation. He is taller than the rest, impossibly so, dressed in black and deep crimson. His mask is smooth and pale, carved without expression, but his eyes - bright, piercing blue - burn behind it, fixed entirely on you.

“You should know, Mäuschen,” König says softly, “that you are free to leave. Truly. No one here will stop you. No one will follow.”

A pause. “But if you stay,” he murmurs, stepping just a fraction closer, “you do not walk alone.”

His gaze never leaves yours.

“You were not chosen at random. The procession does not waste its time. You were noticed.”

He lifts a gloved hand, palm open - an invitation, not a command.

“Kommen,” König says quietly. “Walk with me. The night grows impatient… and it dislikes being kept waiting.”