Only Skeletons Remain

Chapter 8: Transfer

Miguel awoke in a cold, dimly lit cell, the acrid smell of damp stone filling his lungs. His head pounded, and his side throbbed where the spear had struck. Chains bound his wrists, and as he shifted, he realized he wasn't alone.

"Back in DEMA again..." he muttered bitterly, wincing as he tried to sit up.

A figure loomed in the doorway, shrouded in shadow, but Miguel recognized the unmistakable presence of a bishop—one of the Niners. Keons, the tiger-like bishop, stepped into the light, his piercing eyes glinting with an almost smug satisfaction.

"Welcome back, Clancy," Keons said, his voice a low growl. "You thought you could escape us forever?"

Miguel glared up at him, the weight of his chains grounding him in place. "You're wasting your time. My family's long gone from this place."

Keons let out a soft, mocking laugh. "We'll see about that." He turned, motioning to Sacarver outside. "Take him to the Council chambers. They'll want to see our guest."

Sacarver stepped forward, hauling Miguel to his feet. His body screamed in protest, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to show weakness. As they dragged him away, the cold corridors of DEMA pressed in on him, the neon lights flickering ominously above.

Miguel was thrown into a dark chamber, the air thick with the smell of incense and something far more sinister. Keons stood at the far end, alongside two other bishops—Lisden and Reisdro. Their eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, and Miguel knew he was in the heart of DEMA's power now.

"You won't break me," Miguel spat, meeting their gaze with defiance, even as the weight of his chains dragged him down.

Reisdro stepped forward, his lion-like form towering over him. "We don't need to break you, Clancy," he said, his voice cold as ice. "We just need to make sure you never leave again." His tail lashed back and forth, his ears pinning to his head.

Miguel's heart raced. "What are you going to do with me?" He asked.

Lisden's beak clicked in what seemed to be excitement. "You know what happens to traitors."

"You won't hurt me. I'm a Lorekeeper!" He spat.

"Not anymore." Lisden flicked his wings.

Miguel's eyes widened, and a black cloth sack was thrown over his head, and everything went dark again. He struggled when he was dragged away into the chamber he knew all too well.

The cold, metallic smell of blood filled the air as Miguel's breaths came in ragged gasps. His wrists were bound to the arms of a stone chair in a dimly lit chamber deep within the heart of DEMA. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by the dull neon glow that seeped through cracks in the high, cavernous ceiling. His body was battered, bruised, but still defiant. The torture had been relentless, and now, Lisden, the vulture Bishop, stood before him—his towering figure obscured in the shadows, only the gleam of his sharp beak and piercing eyes visible.

Lisden circled slowly, his talons scraping against the stone floor as he reveled in Miguel's pain. His wings shifted, rustling with a sickening sound, as though they were made of brittle bones rather than feathers. He had been silent during most of the torture, letting Miguel's suffering speak for itself.

"You think you can escape the cycle, don't you?" Lisden's voice was like a hiss, cold and dry, as though his words had been dragged through death itself. "There is no escape from decay. No escape from DEMA."

Miguel spat blood onto the floor, his dark eyes blazing with defiance. "I'll die before I give you what you want."

Lisden stopped his pacing, his beak curling into what could only be described as a cruel grin. "Oh, but death is only the beginning. You will break long before that, little fighter."

With a flick of his wings, a wave of cold, necrotic energy surged through the room, making Miguel's muscles tense in pain. His vision blurred, the agony twisting through his body, but still, he held on. He wouldn't let them win. He couldn't.

The vulture leaned in, his putrid breath on Miguel's face. "Your soul will rot away here. No one escapes the decay of DEMA. Not even you, Clancy."

Suddenly, the chamber door creaked open, and in the eerie glow of the room, a new figure stepped in, shrouded in darkness. Lisden straightened, a look of mild annoyance crossing his features as his piercing eyes regarded the newcomer.

It was a hulking, bat-like creature. Its leathery wings extended from his sides, the tips of them brushing the floor. His massive form moved with an unsettling grace as he approached the center of the room. His eyes were pools of deep, malevolent green, and his large, pointed ears twitched slightly as he took in the scene.

"Loki," Lisden muttered, stepping back from Miguel. "What brings you here? This is my work."

Loki's low, guttural voice echoed through the chamber. "Your work, Lisden, is done. The High Council has ordered a transfer. This one... he belongs to me now."

Miguel, barely conscious, felt a glimmer of confusion through the haze of pain. Transfer? He could hardly comprehend what was happening as the looming figure of Loki moved closer to him. The air grew colder, more oppressive. He was going to become a host. It was what his father had always warned him of.

Lisden scowled, displeasure flashing in his vulture-like eyes. "I'm not finished with him. He has more suffering left to endure before he breaks."

Loki's wings stretched out wide, casting a shadow that enveloped the room. "And I'll be the one to ensure he does. Fenrir's plans align with mine, and you... are no longer needed."

Miguel's tired eyes found Loki. Fenrir? What was happening? Had Fenrir lied to them all? He was in the heart of the Bandito Camp!

The two Bishops stared at each other, the tension thick enough to slice through. But Lisden, though loath to admit defeat, knew better than to challenge Loki's authority. He sneered and flicked his wings dismissively before turning away. "Very well. But mark my words—he will rot, no matter whose hands he falls into."

As Lisden disappeared into the shadows, Loki approached Miguel, his massive form looming over the bound prisoner. He crouched down to Miguel's level, his glowing green eyes narrowing as he examined the beaten man. He tilted his head, his large ears twitching at every sound that echoed through the halls.

"You've caused quite a bit of trouble, haven't you?" Loki's voice was almost a whisper, a rasping sound that sent chills down Miguel's spine. Loki's hand came up, and his claw grazed over Miguel's cheek, a low laugh rumbling out of his throat when Miguel flinched away. "But you're not done yet. You're far from done."

With a single flick of his claw, Loki sliced through the bindings holding Miguel down. The cold stone chair clattered as Miguel fell forward, barely able to stand. Loki caught him by the collar of his shirt, hoisting him up effortlessly. "I hope you have more strength left in you, little warrior. Because where we're going... you'll need it."

Miguel tried to speak, to fight back, but his strength was nearly gone. His body hung limp in Loki's grip as the bat-like Bishop carried him toward the darkened exit. The corridors of DEMA awaited him—more pain, more suffering. But in the back of his mind, through the fog of torment, one thought remained clear.

He would survive this. For his family. For Lara.