Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

They lit the pyres at dusk, twelve flames dancing along the edges of the stone circle deep within the Griefmoor Marsh. Each fire was a soul, bound by oath and seared by sacrifice.

And in the center stood Elias Varn, once a scholar, now a vessel.

His skin was marked with runes that pulsed like embers under the surface. Chains of brass hung from his limbs, anchored to twelve obsidian pillars. He did not resist. Resistance had long since burned away.

The Masked Circle surrounded him—reduced now to ten since the death of their Prophet. But the ritual would not wait. The Hollow One demanded penance. And Elias Varn had volunteered.

No—he had been chosen.

A bell rang once.

The fires flared.

A voice, not quite human, emerged from the mouths of the ten masked cultists. One voice, one will:

"In ash, we bind. In flame, we forget. In the dance, we offer all that remains."

Elias's body arched. The chains pulled taut, not to restrain him—but to conduct him.

The Dance of the Bound Flame had begun.

His movements were unnatural, dictated by the will of something deeper than marrow. Each step cracked the stone beneath him. Each twirl sent heat spiraling through the air. The fire responded, rising and falling in rhythm with his tortured ballet.

The dance was not beauty—it was exorcism.

Within the flames, faces appeared—those the Hollow One had devoured over the centuries. A child with burning eyes. A priest with half a mouth. A mother holding her stillborn son. All flickered within the fire, crying out in silence.

Elias danced faster.

His lips moved without sound, but his body screamed with every twist, every shudder. The runes began to flake from his skin like burning parchment.

And then—the flame screamed back.

It roared into one great inferno, whirling around him in a cyclone of agony. The pillars cracked. The ground shook. One of the masked cultists burst into flame and vanished in smoke, their mask hitting the stone with a hiss.

From the center of the circle, Elias's body lifted.

Levitated.

Arms outstretched, skin gone black, the fire coiling into a serpent around him.

And then it stopped.

Just… stopped.

The chains fell. The flames vanished. The marsh was silent.

Elias dropped to his knees. His skin was untouched.

But his eyes were flame.

And when he rose, the remaining members of the Circle knelt without hesitation.

"The Hollow One has no voice," Elias said, in a voice that was not his own. "But now, I shall speak for Him."

The ritual had failed to devour him.

Instead, it had transformed him.

The Dance of the Bound Flame had not been a sacrifice—it had been a coronation.

And now the fire had a mouth.