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The stone chapel stood deep within the French countryside, hidden from the world by dense forests and forgotten roads. The night was cool, the air thick with the scent of earth and decay, and the only sound was the distant whisper of wind through the trees. Inside, the chapel was dimly lit by flickering candles, their flames casting long shadows that danced along the crumbling walls.
Rody Lamoree stood at the altar, a figure of commanding presence, his green eyes gleaming with an intensity that held the room in thrall. He wore simple yet striking robes of deep crimson, a stark contrast against his tan skin and auburn hair. His followers, a dozen or more, knelt before him in silent reverence, their heads bowed, eyes closed, as if in prayer. The only one who dared to look up was Vincent Charbonneau.
Vincent knelt at the front, his gaze locked on Rody, every word from his lips a lifeline. His usual chef's attire had been replaced by a simple white shirt and black slacks, plain and unadorned, as if he had shed all vestiges of his former life to take on the role of a devoted acolyte. But it was his eyes that told the true story-eyes that were filled with a madness born of obsession, of a love so consuming it had burned away all reason.
"Tonight," Rody began, his voice resonating through the stone chamber, "we gather to remember the path we have chosen, the sacrifices we must make to achieve our true purpose. We are more than mere mortals-we are the chosen, called to something greater."
His words washed over the congregation, each syllable like a balm to their souls. For them, Rody was more than a leader; he was a savior, a prophet who had shown them a path out of the bleakness of their lives. And none felt this more deeply than Vincent.
Rody's eyes swept over his followers, his gaze lingering on Vincent for a fraction longer than the others. A slow smile curled at the corners of his mouth, a smile that sent a thrill down Vincent's spine. It was a smile that promised something more, something that Vincent had craved since the day he had first laid eyes on the charismatic leader.
"Vincent," Rody called out, his voice softer now, yet still carrying the weight of authority. The sound of his name from Rody's lips was like a prayer answered, and Vincent's breath caught in his throat. "Come forward."
Vincent rose slowly, almost hesitantly, his legs shaky beneath him as he approached the altar. The other followers shifted slightly, their heads still bowed, aware of the presence of their comrade but making no move to acknowledge him. Vincent could feel their eyes on him, the weight of their envy, but he paid them no mind. His focus was entirely on Rody, on the man who had become his world.
As Vincent reached the altar, he dropped to his knees before Rody, his eyes wide and filled with a mixture of awe and fear. Rody's hand reached out, his fingers brushing against Vincent's cheek with a gentleness that was almost cruel in its tenderness. Vincent leaned into the touch, his heart pounding in his chest, each beat echoing with the desperate need for Rody's approval.
"You have been faithful, Vincent," Rody murmured, his voice low, intimate, meant only for Vincent. "You have given up everything for me, for our cause. Do you know why I called you tonight?"
Vincent shook his head, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his mind racing. He could barely think, barely breathe, with Rody so close, with his touch sending jolts of electricity through his body.
"I called you," Rody continued, his hand sliding down to rest against Vincent's chest, right over his heart, "because you are ready. Ready to ascend to the next level of devotion. To prove, once and for all, that you are truly mine."
Vincent's eyes widened, his breath hitching as the weight of Rody's words settled over him. Prove himself? How could he do that? He had already given Rody everything-his time, his loyalty, his very soul. What more could there be?
