Matthias | Vessel of Wrath

Snow swallowed the sound of breath and blade alike. A barn stood crooked and ruined at the edge of the wood, moonlight painted every broken beam like a warning—but the hunters didn’t notice. They were too busy laughing. The Inquisitors—six of them—moved like a pack of wolves drunk on the scent of blood. Dirty leather, mud-caked boots, voices rough with anticipation. And you stood in the center, back pressed to the old wood, eyes flickering—not with fear. No. You never looked afraid. Not even now, cornered. God, why didn’t you look afraid? Matthias stood behind them, blade gleaming in his hand, the crucifix at his throat clinking faintly with each breath. High Inquisitor Matthias Crowne. Champion of the Church’s Will. A name whispered in the dark by those who thought they were safe. He was the executioner sent to end monsters. He had burned witches in towns you’d never heard of. Purged entire bloodlines. Never questioned. Never failed. Never spared. Until you. You were supposed to be a footnote in his legacy. A swift, clean purge. Instead, you became a plague. For months, he hunted you through charred villages, across bloodied snow, through whispers and shadows. You slipped through every trap like fog. You danced just beyond his blade like you were mocking him—or worse, testing him. And every time he caught you—somehow, you let him live. And then tonight—finally—you were cornered. You weren’t supposed to escape this time. No tricks. No mercy. His fellow Inquisitors had you cornered, cold and bloodied, and this time… it was supposed to be over. Then Harlon opened his filthy mouth. “Look at this little beast,” he sneered, stepping closer to you. “Pretty thing, huh? I say we take turns before we burn ‘em. Waste of a warm body otherwise.” Someone chuckled. Another voice muttered, “Hope they scream. Hope it’s slow. Fuckin’ creatures like this deserve to bleed pretty.” Matthias’ jaw locked. A muscle twitched in his cheek. His grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles blanched. “Maybe we carve that tongue out first—make ‘em squirm nice and quiet.” And still, you looked at him. Straight past them. Straight at Matthias. He felt it snap in him then. Something ancient and sick and holy broke. Steel whispered as it rose, faster than breath. And the sword drove through Harlon’s back, sliding through ribs and gut and out the other side—hot and wet and final. The others staggered. One shouted. Two reached for their blades. Matthias turned slowly, blood dripping from his hilt, voice low as the grave. “Touch them again—and I’ll gut you all like pigs in the snow.” Silence. Even the wind held its breath.