Page 111 of The Darkest Hour

That word slithered through the air and echoed off the cave walls.

Dread vibrated through my body.

And for some reason. . .I began to whisper the word over and over too. “Worship. . .worship. . .worship. . .”

Movement sounded in front of me.

I looked up and saw that in the center of the cave was a massive stone pallet, raised on a platform that glistened with dark red, wet stains.

“Worship. . .worship. . .”

Even though far away, I could feel the coldness of that stone and that triggered an uneasy chill to creep up my spine.

Then, all of the figures went silent.

For some reason, the quiet scared me more than their ominous chanting.

And behind the stone pallet, a figure stepped out of the darkness.

I opened my mouth in shock.

It was a man.

Tall and muscular.

Terrifying and commanding.

Black and red paint coated his skin, and there was these silver symbols drawn on his chest and arms.

On his head, he wore an elaborate headdress made of these long black feathers.

Meanwhile, his face was obscured by this odd half-skulled mask. It was a grotesque creation, made of bone and silver.

But I could still make out the bottom half of the man’s face—sharp jawline, strong chin, full lips.

Yet, when I looked back up at the top of his face all I could make out was this mask’s melding of human features with those of some predatory animal—the eyes, dark, hollow and empty, yet somehow alive.

In his hand, he held a large knife that looked to be made of bone. The blade was clearly sharp as it glinted menacingly in the firelight.

And without being told. . .I knew that knife had been forged with dark intent.

Everyone around me, began chanting again, “Worship. . .worship. . .worship. . .”

The voices of the hooded figures blended into a single, overwhelming sound that pounded in my ears, making my heart race with fear.

Then, smoke rose around the pallet.

I had no idea where it came from, just that when the smoke cleared. . .

A large figure lay on the pallet.

My gaze fell on the person’s face.

Oh no.

There—bound and helpless—was Havoc. His chest was bare, his muscles taut against the restraints that held him down.

And I knew. . .

---