Deus Necros

At the Sacrosanctum, deep within its labyrinthine underbelly, where the air was thick with the mingled scents of mildew, incense, and old blood, Van Dijk sat in silence. The chambers stretched endlessly downward here, the walls carved with both scripture and scars, a place where faith and torment had been made inseparable. Catacombs wound into prisons, and prisons into flagellation halls, the spaces overlapping in grim harmony as though designed to confuse and break both body and spirit. Iron chains rattled faintly with each draft of air. Distant screams carried like whispers through stone. Yet Van Dijk seemed unbothered by it all, resting with a posture too casual for a prisoner, an expression of thinly veiled annoyance fixed on his face. Despite the useless chains around his body.

Once again, Clementine stood before him. The Cardinal’s robes swayed faintly with his every breath, the faint gleam of holy symbols across his chest seeming dulled by the shadows of the chamber. His face, calm as it tried to appear, betrayed the persistence of frustration; he had been at this for too long, and Van Dijk had given him nothing but contempt.

“You really need to follow us,” Clementine said at last, his voice softened into persuasion, though there was an edge of steel beneath it. “It’s the only way for you to get out of here.”

Van Dijk raised his eyes slowly, as if Clementine’s words were little more than gnats buzzing around his ears. Then he smirked faintly, not a pleasant smile, but one sharpened with derision. “I’ve already said it,” he replied, his tone rolling smooth, mocking, “many times before, and in more languages than you can probably stomach. I am not your toy, Clementine. Nor will I ever be. Besides”, he let his words linger, tasting the disdain in them, “you wouldn’t be able to handle me even if I allowed it.”

The Cardinal exhaled heavily through his nose, the sound more weary than angry. His patience, though formidable, was being worn thin. “You don’t seem to grasp the severity of the situation,” he said, voice low, almost as if speaking to himself. “The capital of Tulmud is in crisis. It cannot be helped with just those few men and women we’ve sent.”

But Van Dijk only leaned back, tilting his head with something close to amusement. “You’ve already mentioned Titania. And your lad… that young saint.” His tone shifted slightly, a faint ripple of something deeper in his voice. “Do you truly expect me to believe there exists an opponent in this land who can manage the two of them together? Hardly. Monsters of the Order, both of them. You’d be better off worrying that they break your city themselves.”

Clementine’s tongue clicked against his teeth. Irritation showed in the smallest of gestures: the twitch of a brow, the tension at his jaw.

“And yet,” Van Dijk went on, almost lazily, his smile never faltering, “you left the region just before the attack on the city began. A curious coincidence, don’t you think? An interesting change of events, as far as timing is concerned.”

The Cardinal’s shoulders stiffened, his hands tightening into his sleeves. “It isn’t like that. You know well enough I was summoned by the Pope. I told you this before.” His voice firmed now, defensive. “Regardless, Sutros is there. He is more than capable.”

Van Dijk let the words hang, then gave a low hum of mock approval. “I see. So your only opposition is in the city where an Apostle has just attacked. How… terribly unfortunate.” His smile widened, fangs flashing in the dim candlelight.

Before Clementine could snap back, the ironbound door creaked open. A guard stumbled in, breathless, his voice breaking as he called, “Your holiness!”

Clementine’s head whipped toward him. “What are you doing here? Didn’t I mention that I should not be disturbed!”

The man shook, his face pale as he forced the words out. “Cardinal Sutros has returned we received full reports of what’s going on in Tulmud. They’re asking for you!”

For a heartbeat, silence blanketed the chamber. Clementine’s eyes widened, surprise cracking through his veneer of composure.

Van Dijk chuckled, the sound low and velvety, utterly amused. “Didn’t expect that one, did you?”

Another sharp click of Clementine’s tongue. He turned briskly, his robes flaring, and strode toward the door. “Close it. I’ll come back later,” he muttered, voice clipped. Then he hurried out, the echo of his steps fading into the stone.

Left alone with only the quivering guard, Van Dijk let his smile linger, though his eyes grew colder. “Well, well. How interesting, seeing him so panicked. Personally, I haven’t had a proper ’tea’ far too long. Speaking of which,” he tilted his head slightly, gaze piercing the door itself, “you there. I know you’re still standing behind it.”

A voice came back, rigid, almost defensive. “I cannot speak to criminals. Keep quiet.”

Van Dijk sighed as if disappointed by a child. “Don’t be like that.” Rising smoothly to his feet, he let the chains at his wrists fall with a metallic clatter. His body passed through the steel as though they were smoke. The sight alone was enough to curdle the blood, cuffs that no longer bound anything, hanging loose as their prisoner simply abandoned them.

He walked forward, stepping through the heavy door as though it were nothing but mist.

The guard stumbled back, sword raised with trembling hands. The point wavered inches from Van Dijk’s chest. “Please, please return to your seat!”

Van Dijk regarded the blade calmly, the smile never leaving his lips. “Now, you know very well I could be fatal. If I wanted you dead, no one in this place could stop me. But I’ve no intention of harming you.” His words dripped with truth and threat alike, a predator’s honesty.

The guard’s hand shook violently, then faltered, the tip of the sword lowering a fraction.

“There,” Van Dijk said softly, almost kindly. “That’s better. Now, humor me. Tell me, what has happened out there? I grow dreadfully bored in these halls.”

The guard hesitated, lips pressed tight, torn between fear and duty. Finally, after a long breath, he spoke.