Nightmare of the Abyss

The Rift had swallowed them whole, but instead of an endless void or an eldritch nightmare, they emerged somewhere else entirely.

Bruno felt solid ground beneath his boots. A crisp, earthy breeze brushed against his face, carrying the scent of grass damp with morning dew.

He blinked. His surroundings were… normal. Almost too normal.

The sky stretched overhead in a dull gray-blue, lacking a clear sun or moon. The lighting was caught in a strange in-between state, as though the world itself was unsure if it was morning or evening.

They stood on the edge of a dirt road leading to a village in the distance. Fields stretched on either side, their golden-brown crops swaying slightly in the wind. The village itself looked untouched by time—wooden houses with slanted roofs, plumes of chimney smoke curling into the air, and people moving through narrow streets.

For a moment, Bruno could almost believe they had stepped back onto Earth.

But the Abyss wasn't done with them. He could feel it.

Varen exhaled beside him, breaking the silence. "So this is the dimension."

His voice was calm, unreadable. Like he had seen something like this before.

Bruno's fingers instinctively curled. "It's too quiet."

"It's watching," Silas muttered. His usual smirk was absent, his posture tense.

Raine's gaze darted over the village. "It feels… wrong."

Bruno agreed. There was something unnatural in the stillness, the way the sky refused to shift, the way the village seemed expecting them.

They had spent too long in the Abyss to believe in a safe haven.

"We move," Varen decided, already stepping forward. "Standing still won't get us anywhere."

Bruno followed, though unease prickled at his skin. This place wasn't real—not in the way it pretended to be.

---

As they entered the village, the first thing Bruno noticed was the silence.

Not complete silence—people spoke, footsteps echoed against the dirt paths—but everything felt muted, as though the world had been wrapped in cotton.

The villagers went about their routines—carrying baskets of produce, tending to livestock, chatting in small groups. Some glanced at them, their eyes lingering just a second too long before they smiled and resumed their tasks.

Bruno felt Raine move closer to him.

"They're watching," she murmured.

"I know."

A sudden shout broke through the air.

"Hey! You made it just in time!"

Bruno turned just as a young boy came sprinting toward them, his dark hair messy, his face bright with excitement.

He skidded to a stop in front of them, grinning. "You're mercenaries, right?"

Bruno hesitated. "Mercenaries?"

The boy nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! You always come around the festival. To get your sins washed up."

A chill ran down Bruno's spine.

Silas's posture shifted, but he kept his expression neutral. "What festival?"

The boy looked at them like they had asked what color the sky was. "The Festival of the Forgotten One, of course."

Raine inhaled sharply beside Bruno.

Before anyone could question further, a deep voice interrupted.

"Welcome, travelers."

An older man approached them, his movements slow but sure. His layered robes marked him as someone of importance, his beard neatly trimmed. The village chief.

"You must be weary from your travels," the chief said warmly. "Come. We offer food and shelter to all who arrive before the festival."

Bruno studied him carefully. His tone was gentle, his eyes kind—too kind. Like someone playing a role they had perfected.

Varen met the chief's gaze, then gave a single nod. "We'll accept."

Bruno almost questioned the decision, but he bit his tongue. Varen knew something.

They had nowhere else to go.

As the chief led them through the village, the boy eagerly followed.

"You're lucky, y'know!" the boy chattered. "Some mercenaries show up too late, and then the festival starts without them."

Bruno didn't like the way he said that.

Silas finally spoke. "And what happens at the festival?"

The boy blinked. "Oh. You don't know?" He tilted his head. "The Forgotten One blesses us. He takes what we don't need anymore—our sins, our burdens. And then we're free."

Raine tensed beside Bruno.

Bruno kept his voice even. "And if someone refuses?"

The boy hesitated. Then he grinned. "No one refuses."

A cold weight settled in Bruno's chest.

Varen's expression darkened, but he didn't speak.

They were walking straight into something dangerous.

The chief's house stood at the village center—a large wooden home, warm candlelight flickering through the windows. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of herbs and burning wood.

"Rest here," the chief said, gesturing to cushions near a long wooden table. "Tonight, we feast. Tomorrow, the festival preparations begin."

Bruno exchanged a look with Raine and Silas. They were trapped in this now.

No weapons. No plan. Just a festival they didn't understand, a god they had never heard of, and a village that smiled too easily.

And for now, they had to play along.