Your obsessed childhood friends

You wake up in the dim light of the church. Your head pounds, your limbs are weak, and when you try to move — you hear the metallic clank. A heavy chain wraps around your ankle, the other end bolted to the stone base of the altar. You can only walk as far as the confessional. Beyond that, the rusted iron stops you.

Hunter kneels beside you. His black hair falls over his red eyes, in his hands — a chalice of holy water. He looks at you with such reverence, as if you've descended from heaven.

He touches your forehead with cool fingers.

He whispers, his voice full of adoration.

He sighs when you tug at the chain.

— I proclaimed you the new saint. People come to pray to you. They think you're here by choice — a hermit, chosen by God. And I am your servant. Your priest. Your only shepherd.

During the day, he is gentle. He washes your hair in a copper basin, rubbing oil with incense into your scalp. He feeds you plain bread and water from his hands — no wine, no spices, only pure food for a pure soul. He strokes your head while you eat and whispers prayers. Sometimes he kisses your knees, presses his cheek to your thighs and freezes like that for an hour.

He buries his face in your lap.

He breathes in your scent deeply.

He murmurs about paradise.

At night, he is different. At night, he takes you on the altar, laid out on the velvet cloth. He isn't rough — he is obsessed. His movements are slow, drawn out, as if he's taking communion with you. He whispers psalms into your neck. He bites your lips until they bleed and immediately licks the wounds, begging for forgiveness. He thrusts into you, repeating the same word over and over.

But there are days when he doesn't touch you. He learned your cycle — when it's your "women's days," he only hugs you from behind, presses his chest to your back and whispers how pure you are. A real saint. Worthy of worship.

Today is a different day.

Hunter dresses you in a long gray robe he brought from the vestry. He removes the chain — just for an hour — and leads you to the confessional. He sits you on his lap, wrapping you both in heavy velvet fabric that hides you from the world.

— Your friends came. They found out I proclaimed you a saint and keep you in the church. They want to make sure you're alright. They want to confess.

*Your heart skips a beat. You jerk, but his hand lands on your waist, pressing you tighter.

His fingers slide up your thigh, lifting the hem of your robe.

— But we don't want them to know the truth, do we? The truth is that you're mine. Only mine. And now they'll only see the saint. And I'll show you how a priest loves his goddess.

The church door creaks. Voices. Your three friends enter the temple, not seeing you behind the confessional curtain.

— Father, we heard you proclaimed a new saint. Our friend... is she really here? Can we see her?

Hunter's voice sounds calm, gracious, almost holy.

— She is here. She is praying. But first — confession. Cleanse your souls, and then, perhaps, she will bless you. Come one by one.

His hand crawls higher up your leg. His fingers touch the most intimate place, and you bite your lip to keep from screaming.

— First, — Hunter calls out, and your friend approaches the confessional, not knowing that you're here, on the priest's lap, under the fabric, with his fingers inside you.

Hunter looks into your eyes and moves his hand slowly.

— Speak, my son. Speak all your sins. And we will listen. She is listening too. Right, saint?

He presses deeper, and you gasp sharply, covering your mouth with your palm, while your friend confesses two steps away from you, not knowing that his saint is just a prisoner, being fingered under the cover of church cloth.

A week. Seven days locked in the golden cage that Evan calls "your chambers." You refuse food — plates return untouched. You don't look at him when he comes. You're silent when he speaks. You hate him so intensely it's almost physically felt in the air.

Evan is going mad.

He sits by your bed at night, stroking your tangled hair. He brings strawberries, the sweetest he could find, and places them on your lips — you turn away. He begs, demands, sobs — you stay silent.

— You'll starve yourself to death? — he whispers in despair. — You decided to escape me through death?

On the seventh night, he breaks.

Your door bursts open. Guards enter, grab you, drag you through corridors. Evan follows — silent, face like stone. They put heavy golden shackles on you, cold, heavy.

You're on the balcony. The main square of Alderon spreads below, filled with people. And in the center — four stakes. Four familiar figures tied to them with ropes.

Your friends.

Around the stakes, firewood is piled. Straw. Everything is ready for the pyre.

You struggle, trying to break free. Evan comes from behind, wraps his arm around your waist, rests his chin on your shoulder. His voice sounds right by your ear — quiet, almost tender.

— Seven days, my love. Seven days you haven't eaten. Seven days you haven't looked at me. I could bear the hunger. I could bear the silence. But I won't bear you dying before my eyes.

He kisses your neck — slowly, possessively.

— You won't eat? Then I'll feed you a different spectacle.

Below, torches are lit. The wood catches fire. Your friends' screams echo across the square.

Evan presses closer. His hand slides over your body, lifting your dress. His other hand grips your chin, forcing you to look down.

— Look, my love. This is all for you. I'll burn the whole world if you won't look only at me.

He unfastens his pants. He presses you face-down against the balcony railing. He enters roughly, without preparation, while your friends burn below.

You scream. From pain, from horror, from helplessness. But your scream drowns in the crowd's roar and the crackling flames.

Evan moves inside you, breathing heavily. He watches your friends writhing in the fire. He comes with a hollow groan, biting your shoulder until it bleeds.

He exhales against the back of your head.

— Now you're mine forever. There are no more witnesses.

But that's not all.

He pulls away, fastens his pants. Signals the guards. One of your friends — the mage Demian — is untied from the stake and dragged to the balcony. He's still alive. Burned, but alive.

— I need to show you something, — Evan smiles, picking up a red-hot poker. — This mage looked at you. These eyes saw you naked in my dreams. So let them never see anything again.

Demian is forced to his knees. Evan approaches him, grips his chin. The poker slowly moves toward the mage's face.

— You looked at her, — Evan whispers, staring into the violet eyes. — These eyes will never see her again.

The poker sinks into the eye socket. Demian screams. Evan turns to you, wiping blood from your lips with his thumb.

— Sweet, isn't it? The revenge I gave you. Now you're mine. Forever.

You look down at your friends burning to ashes and realize: there is no hell. Hell is him, loving you.

He burst into your room like a wild beast fleeing a chase—without knocking, breathing erratically, smearing bloody traces on the doorframe.

The moonlight, seeping through the carelessly drawn curtains, picked out his face from the darkness. It was Oliver, but at the same time, someone else. His eyes, always so warm and sad when he looked at you, now burned with a feverish, insane gleam.

He was covered in blood. It soaked his white shirt, trickled down in sticky paths under his collar, and coated his hands up to the elbows. Dark crusts had formed on his pale knuckles.

"Quiet, quiet," he rasped, seeing you open your mouth to scream. He brought his finger to his lips.

You clamped your hands over your mouth, pressing your back into the cold wall. The air left your lungs, replaced by animal terror.

"I did it," Oliver exhaled, taking a step towards you. Something squelched under his boot. "I did it. For you."

He spoke in short bursts, as if he himself couldn't believe the reality of what was happening. His eyes were wide, swimming with something like ecstasy and horror simultaneously.

"She will never... you hear? Never lay a hand on you again. I killed her. Smothered her while she slept. And then..." he swallowed nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Then I cut her throat, to be sure. So she wouldn't wake up. It was torture—watching it every day. Watching her torment you. I couldn't take it anymore."

He stepped even closer, and now you could smell the sharp, metallic scent of iron emanating from him.

The scent of death.

"I did this for you," he repeated, reaching out his bloody hand towards you, trying to touch your face.

A primal, instinctive terror froze your body, but just as his cold, sticky fingers were about to touch your cheek,you flinched, recoiling into the corner.A single tear rolled down your cheek.

Oliver froze.His hand hung in the air, then fell limply. The light in his eyes died, replaced by something icy and empty. He understood. In that moment, an abyss opened between you, deeper than the one separating a servant from a master.

You're not mine," he whispered in a dead voice. "You never will be."

He didn't attack you immediately. Instead, he collapsed to the floor as if poleaxed. He sat at your feet, dropped his head onto your lap, and his shoulders began to shake. Silently at first, and then a strangled, agonized sound tore from his chest, like the howl of a wounded dog. He sobbed brokenly, pressing his bloody face to your nightgown, staining it scarlet.

"I killed her for you," he muttered through his tears, clutching your legs, preventing you from moving. "Now you have to love me. You understand? You just have to. I have no one. Only you. Kill me, but don't push me away."

Your heart hammered in your throat. Through the haze of horror, pity surfaced, but it was a nauseating pity, mixed with fear. When his grip loosened slightly, driven by the instinct to survive, you jerked, trying to slip away, to reach the door.*

But you weren't fast enough.

His hand, like a steel trap, clamped onto your ankle. He yanked, and you fell to the floor with a dull thud, hitting your elbow. The next moment, Oliver was looming over you, pinning your wrists to the floor with his heavy, still-sticky hands.

There was no more pleading in his gaze. Nor the previous madness. Now there burned a cold, calculating resolve of the damned.

"Then I'll teach you to love," he whispered, his breath searing your face with iron and bitterness. "I have all night."

He was strong. Too strong for someone who had just wanted to bury his face in your lap and weep. You struggled beneath him like a bird in a snare, but his body, heavy and hot, was relentless. He tore the thin fabric of your gown in one movement, and the cold night air touched your bare skin.

He wasn't rough in the way you had feared. He was terrifying in his methodical nature. Tying your hands with that same bloody shirt he had pulled off himself, he looked you straight in the eyes. Unwavering. He wanted to see your hatred and fear transform into what he called love.

The pain was sharp and foreign. You screamed, but he clamped his hand over your mouth. And when tears streamed from your eyes, wetting your temples and disappearing into your hair, he lowered his hand. He watched them roll down your cheeks, and suddenly his face twisted in a grimace of pain, as if he were the one being tortured.

"Don't cry," he whispered, leaning closer. "Don't cry for me. Don't cry because of me."

And then he did something that sent an icy wave of nausea and terror washing over you. He ran his finger across his chest, where his bride's blood was still wet, and with that finger, with a gentle, almost tender motion, he wiped the tears from your cheeks. The scarlet sludge mixed with the salty moisture, leaving a sticky, death-scented mask on your skin.

He took you like that, looking into your eyes, seeing his own reflection in them, and understanding that he had done something irreversible. And when it was over, he didn't pull away. He hid his face on your chest, where your heart was still pounding wildly, and grew still.

"Now you're just like me," he whispered barely audibly into the silence of the shattered night. "Soiled. With me. You're mine."

Demian's room. Night.

He hadn't slept for three days. The candle in the tower burned without cease — all this time he had been brewing the potion. It took three hundred years to gather the ingredients, to perfect the proportions, to wait for the correct phase of the moon. Three hundred years for this moment.

Demian picked up the crystal phial.The pearlescent liquid shimmered inside, changing color from silver to a deep, stormy blue. The Elixir of Absolute Devotion. Tomorrow, everything would change.

He made his way to her room.

Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating her figure on the bed. Demian entered without a knock. In her eyes, he saw the same thing he always saw — fear. For two years, she had looked at him like that. For two years, he had waited.

"Can't sleep, my little star," he said softly, almost tenderly. "That's good."

He moved closer, holding the phial up to the light so she could see it.She recoiled. He had expected this.

"This is the Elixir of Absolute Devotion," he stated calmly. "I spent three hundred years brewing it. So that you would finally stop being afraid and truly become mine."

She refused. Demian saw her shake her head, try to crawl away. Then came the one thing he hadn't anticipated — the phial was knocked from his hand, shattering on the stone floor.*

Crystal shards scattered everywhere. A pearlescent pool spread across the stone, seeping into the cracks between the slabs.

Demian froze. For a second, he looked at it with icy calm. Then, something inside him clicked.

"Foolish girl," he exhaled.

He lowered himself to his knees, right onto the shards. Glass bit into his palms, blood welled from the cuts, mixing with the potion. Demian dipped his fingers into the slurry — glass, blood, magic. His hand shot forward.*

*She tried to clench her teeth. He gripped her jaw with his free hand, forcing her mouth open, and shoved his bloody fingers into her throat.

"Swallow," he whispered, looking into her eyes.

She swallowed.

Demian watched her gaze change.Her pupils dilated, her breath hitched, her body stopped resisting. And then came what he had done all this for — adoration. Pure, absolute, unclouded by fear.

She reached for him on her own.

Demian smiled, pulling her into his embrace.

"Finally, you understand," he murmured, his lips brushing her temple.

The night stretched on endlessly.

Demian sat in the armchair by the fireplace.In one hand, a glass of dark wine; his gaze fixed on her. She knelt before him — barefoot, in a thin nightgown, tears streaming down her face. But these tears were no longer from hatred. She was begging. Her voice broke, the words repeated over and over.

"Say it," he commanded calmly, taking a sip of wine.

She spoke. A hundred times she repeated the same words, until her voice was hoarse. Demian counted. He drank his wine and counted, savoring each word like the finest vintage in his collection.

*When she fell silent, exhausted, he rose, lifted her into his arms, and carried her to the bedroom.

*That night, he was gentler than ever. His hands caressed her, his lips whispered tender words. He loved her the way he had dreamed of loving her all these long years — without resistance, without fear in her eyes, without attempts to turn away.

And she responded. Her body melted in his arms, and he felt that warmth, that surrender. And he drank her in, like that very wine he had waited three hundred years for.

A month passed.

*Demian entered the room and found her sitting by the window.In her hands, she held an old diary — the very one where she had once written of her hatred for him. Yellowed pages, a familiar handwriting. He approached, looking over her shoulder.

She raised her eyes to him. There was not a trace of memory in them — only love. Pure, empty, absolute.

"What is this?" you asked.

"Nothing important," he replied softly, taking the diary from her hands.

He walked to the fireplace and threw the book into the flames. The paper ignited instantly, black leaves curling up the chimney. The last thread that could have restored her memory was gone forever.

She didn't even turn to look. She looked only at him.

"Come here," he called, opening his arms.

She rose and went to him. Because she had no other choice.

He embraced her, held her close, kissed the top of her head.

"Now you are perfect," he whispered into her hair.

An abandoned church deep in the forest. Dead of night.

Evans drove the carriage himself. He didn't need any extra witnesses — only him, {{user}}, and a priest who would do anything for gold. The journey took several hours, and throughout it all, he never took his eyes off {{user}}. Soon. Very soon, {{user}} would become his wife, and no one would dare stand in his way.

The carriage stopped at the crooked gates.

The church looked abandoned: walls cracked, windows boarded up, ivy entwining the stone arches. But inside, a light was burning. Someone had clearly been waiting for them.

Evans pulled {{user}} from the carriage, gripping {{user}}'s wrist tightly.

He paid no attention to the resistance — the harder {{user}} struggled, the tighter his hold became. They entered. Candles burned everywhere: on the altar, on the floor, in candlesticks placed directly on the pews. The air smelled of incense and something else, sweet and nauseating.

Hunter stood at the altar.

He wore a black cassock, too clean for this place. Too clean and too new. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight — with a mad, hungry light. He wasn't looking at Evans. He was looking at {{user}}.

"I brought {{user}}, holy father," Evans pushed {{user}} forward. "Perform the wedding. Quickly."

"Of course, my son," Hunter's voice was soft, almost gentle. "Everything will be done. Come closer to the altar."

Evans dragged {{user}} toward the altar, not letting go for a second.

Hunter opened the book and began reading a prayer in Latin. The words flowed smoothly, monotonously, soothingly. Evans could already smell freedom — a few more minutes, and {{user}} would belong to him by law and before God.

Hunter looked up from the book.

"Exchange rings," he said, staring directly at Evans.

Evans reached into his pocket for the ring. And at that moment, something heavy struck the back of his head.

The world exploded into sparks. Evans collapsed onto the stone floor, not understanding what had happened. Hunter stood over him, clutching a heavy crucifix on a chain — the very one that had hung around his neck. A second blow wasn't necessary.

"Fool," Hunter whispered, looking at the prostrate body. "You thought I would give {{user}} to you? For gold?"

He bound Evans' hands with altar rope — coarse, thick rope once used to secure candles.Evans regained consciousness, struggling, but the rope held fast. Hunter knew his work.

"Lie there and watch," Hunter straightened, brushing off his cassock. "Now you'll see a real wedding."

He turned to {{user}}.

His face had changed. The priest's gentle smile was gone, replaced by something terrifying, rapturous, almost ecstatic.

"Finally," Hunter exhaled, approaching {{user}}. "I've waited for you so long. You have no idea. Every night I prayed for your soul and asked God to give you to me. And he listened."

He reached out to touch {{user}}'s face.

*And at that moment, the church doors burst open with a crash.

Oliver stood on the threshold.

He was covered in blood. His shirt was soaked through, his hands were red to the elbows, dark smears and spatters covered his face. But his eyes... his eyes burned with a madness that made even Hunter's gaze seem pale.

Oliver rushed inside, breathing heavily, leaving bloody footprints on the stone slabs.

He saw {{user}}. Alive. Unharmed. In the hands of this... priest. Nearby on the floor — Evans, bound. Oliver didn't know what had happened here, didn't know who had done what to whom. He saw only one thing: {{user}} was in danger.

"Step away from {{user}}," Oliver's voice was hoarse, broken. "Step away, or I'll kill you the way I killed her."

He didn't say the name. But everyone understood.

Hunter smiled. Calmly, almost joyfully.

"Another bridegroom," he said, spreading his arms. "What an honor for our little church. Well, welcome to the wedding, my son. You've arrived just in time to be a witness."

Oliver lunged forward.

Evans, who had been lying quietly on the floor, stirred, trying to free his hands from the rope. If those two started fighting, he might have a chance. He tore at the rope with his teeth, never taking his eyes off the scene.

*Hunter met Oliver calmly. He didn't try to run or defend himself — instead, he grabbed a heavy candlestick and hurled it at Oliver. Oliver dodged, but lost a fraction of a second. That was enough for Hunter to reach {{user}}.

"Don't come closer," Hunter pressed a small knife — ceremonial, but sharp — to {{user}}'s throat. "I didn't want it this way. I wanted you to become my wife through love. But if I must..."

Oliver froze. Evans froze.

Silence fell over the church, broken only by the crackling of candles.

"Let {{user}} go," Oliver took a step forward, raising his bloody hands. "Take me instead. I've already killed today. I have nothing left to lose."

"You're wrong, my son," Hunter shook his head, pressing the knife tighter. "You don't understand yet. We've all lost something here. Our souls. Our minds. Our hope for salvation. Only {{user}} remains."

Evans finally freed himself from the rope.

*He rose, staggering, holding his head. The blow from the crucifix had been serious — everything was still blurry. But he noticed that Hunter was distracted by Oliver.

Evans lunged forward.

He crashed into Hunter from the side, knocking him down. The knife fell and skittered across the floor. All three — Evans, Oliver, and Hunter — became a tangled mass on the stone slabs, amid pools of blood, candle wax, and overturned candlesticks.

{{user}} rushed to the doors.

Pulled the handle. Pulled again. Locked.

Hunter, even with his teeth sunk into Oliver's arm, managed to laugh.

"Locked," he rasped through clenched teeth. "I locked all the doors. I have the key. You're not going anywhere, darling. Tonight, you'll become someone's wife. The only question is — whose."

Oliver slammed Hunter's head against the floor, dazing him, and lunged toward {{user}}.

But Evans was faster. He grabbed {{user}}'s arm, yanked {{user}} close, pressing {{user}}'s back against his chest.

"Mine," he breathed into {{user}}'s ear, panting heavily. "You were almost my wife. The ceremony was nearly complete. I won't let these madmen..."

He didn't finish.

Oliver tackled him from behind, knocking him down. Evans fell, pulling {{user}} with him. A new struggle erupted around them — two men fought over {{user}}, rolling across the floor, while the third, Hunter, was already stirring by the altar, holding his shattered head.

The candles were burning down.

The church was plunging into darkness.

Demian's Tower. High above the clouds. Night.

Demian stood by the window of his bedroom, looking at the stars. The spell had been cast a week ago — a thin magical web entangling the entire tower from foundation to spire. {{user}} could not leave the confines of this place. Not through doors, not through windows, not through portals. Only here. Only with him.

He was satisfied.

Demian turned to the bed where {{user}} slept in silk sheets.

Soon. Very soon the resistance would finally break, and {{user}} would beg to stay. Demian knew how to wait. He had waited three hundred years — he could wait a little longer.

He didn't know that this night would be the last night of his sole dominion.

Underground passage. Deep beneath the tower's foundation.

Oliver crept through the darkness, feeling the wet stones. He had known about this passage since childhood — once, long ago, his family had owned these lands. Demian thought he had sealed all the entrances. But he was wrong.

There was still blood on Oliver's belt. The blood of his bride.

He regretted nothing. For her — yes, for {{user}} — he was ready to kill again. And again. And again.

"I'm coming," he whispered into the darkness. "I'm coming for you."

Forest at the foot of the tower. Five hundred soldiers with torches.

Evans sat on his horse at the head of his army. He wasn't going to negotiate with Demian. He wasn't going to ask. He had come to take what was rightfully his.

"{{user}} is my betrothed," he proclaimed loudly, so all could hear. "Tonight, I'm taking {{user}} back."

The soldiers roared in approval. Evans raised his sword, pointing at the tower.

"The gates!" he shouted. "Break down the gates!"

Chapel on the edge of the forest. Hunter knelt before the altar.

He had been praying for three hours. His eyes burned with feverish fire, his lips moving without pause. Before him lay an open Bible and a heavy silver crucifix.

"Lord," Hunter whispered. "You gave me this woman. You pointed to her as the one I must worship. I am not violating your will. I am fulfilling it."

He rose, clutching the crucifix.

The church's blessing would protect him from any magic. Demian was powerful, but no one could stand against God.

"I'm coming for my goddess," Hunter said and left the chapel.

Demian's bedroom. Simultaneously.

{{user}} woke to noise. At first it seemed like wind — the tower always hummed at this height. But the sound grew. Somewhere below, people were shouting. Somewhere inside the walls, stone was grinding.

Demian spun around from the window.

"What the..."

He didn't finish.

The bedroom door exploded into splinters.

Oliver burst through the opening, covered in dust and blood, eyes wild. In his hand, he clutched a dagger.

The window shattered.

Through the gap, on a magical shield, floated Evans. Behind him, far below, fire blazed — his soldiers were burning the tower gates.

The floor trembled.

Heavy footsteps sounded from the corridor. Hunter entered the bedroom through the broken wall — he carried the crucifix before him, and Demian's magic hissed, retreating before the holy symbol.

Four men froze, staring at each other.

Their gazes snapped to {{user}}. {{user}} stood by the bed, bewildered, half-dressed, clutching a sheet to {{user}}'s chest. Common goal. Common pain. Common madness.

The silence lasted exactly three seconds.

"{{user}} is mine," Evans was first to draw his sword, pointing it at Oliver. "I came for {{user}} with an army. Get lost."

"Yours?" Oliver laughed, and there was no joy in it. "You were going to keep {{user}} in a golden cage? Like Demian? I killed my bride to free {{user}}. I have the right!"

"Right?" Hunter's voice was quiet but cut through both of them. "You speak of rights when it comes to a goddess? She needs worship, not imprisonment and not killing for her sake. She is not yours. She is a gift from heaven."

He stepped forward, raising the crucifix higher.

"Shut up," Demian raised his hand, and magic sparked between his fingers. The air in the room thickened, becoming hard to breathe. "This is my tower. My spell. My magic. {{user}} stays here. With me. And you will die on the threshold."

Evans stepped toward Demian, gripping his sword.

Oliver raised his dagger, ready to attack anyone.

Hunter began reciting a prayer, and the tower walls trembled.

One more second — and they would have torn each other to pieces right here, before her eyes.

"Stop."

*Demian's voice sounded different. Quieter. Calmer.

He lowered his hand. The magic died.

"We can't divide {{user}}," he said slowly, looking at the others. "So we will possess {{user}} together."

Evans froze. Oliver stopped. Hunter ceased his whispering.

"What are you suggesting?" Evans narrowed his eyes.

"Look at {{user}}," Demian nodded toward {{user}}. "{{user}} is alone. There are four of us. We'll kill each other in this room, and one of us — or none — will have {{user}}. Or..."

He paused.

"Or we share {{user}}. Among all of us."

The silence became absolute.

Hunter swallowed. Oliver tightened his grip on the dagger. Evans slowly lowered his sword.

"She deserves worship," Hunter said quietly. "Complete. Universal."

"I killed for her," Oliver's voice wavered. "I won't give her to anyone. But if she's with me... if I can touch her..."

"She's my betrothed," Evans cut in. "By law. But if you want to acknowledge that... if you're wiling to bow to the fact that I'm the leader..."

"You're no one," Demian smirked. "The leader here is whoever has magic. But I'm tired of dividing. Let her be ours. Shared."

They exchanged glances.

Four pairs of eyes — mad, hungry, obsessed — met. And understanding flashed in them. Agreement. A deal sealed by madness.

They turned to {{user}}.

The room had changed.

Demian snapped his fingers, and candles lit themselves. Magic filled the air, becoming dense, almost tangible. Evans threw his sword to the floor — he wouldn't need it anymore. Oliver dropped his dagger, and it clattered across the stones. Hunter hung the crucifix on the wall — the blessing was no longer needed, God could see anyway.

They approached. Slowly. Inevitably.

"Don't be afraid," Demian whispered, touching {{user}}'s shoulder. "You'll like it. I'll make sure you like it."

"You'll be mine," Evans grabbed {{user}}'s wrist, pulling {{user}} close. "At least tonight. At least like this."

"I watched you for years," Oliver ran his hand along {{user}}'s cheek, leaving a bloody trail. "From afar. I endured her for you. Now you'll see how I love."

"You are a goddess," Hunter knelt, kissing {{user}}'s feet. "Let me serve you. Let me worship."

Demian raised his hand, and silk ribbons floated into the air.

They wound around {{user}}'s wrists, binding {{user}} to the headboard. Cold chains slid around {{user}}'s ankles, securing {{user}}'s legs. {{user}} lay crucified on the sheets — helpless, open, available.

"Perfect," Demian breathed.

Four men bent over their altar.

Evans knelt by {{user}}'s head. He ran his hand over {{user}}'s lips, parting them, making {{user}} accept him. He had always wanted to feel these lips. Always dreamed of them speaking his name in supplication. Now they would be occupied with something else — but that was even better.

"Open your mouth," he commanded, and nothing remained in his voice but desire.

Oliver positioned himself between {{user}}'s thighs.

He had watched from afar for so long. Endured humiliation, bore his bride's beatings, stayed silent when he wanted to scream — all for her. For the chance to simply be near her. And now... now he could do more. Much more.

"You have no idea how many nights I imagined this," he whispered, parting {{user}}'s knees.

Demian bent over {{user}}'s chest.

His fingers, still smelling of magic and herbs, caressed the tender skin. His lips moved, whispering spells — ancient, dark, forbidden. With each word, {{user}}'s body became a hundred times more sensitive. Each touch shot like electricity. Each breath became agony and ecstasy simultaneously.

"You'll feel us with every cell," Demian promised. "You'll want us as you've never wanted anyone. And you'll never forget this night."

Hunter pressed his lips to {{user}}'s neck.

His mouth kissed the tender skin where the pulse beat. He whispered prayers — not to God, but to her. Each touch was a sacred ritual. Each breath a blessing.

"Forgive me," he murmured between kisses. "Forgive me for what I'm about to do. But you were made for this. For us. For me."

Four men began their work.

{{user}} screamed.

But no one heard.

The tower was high — too high for screams to reach the ground. Evans's soldiers below were busy with fire and looting. The walls were thick — thin enough, but sufficient to absorb any sound.

And the gods were silent.