The words of nothing, those empty words that said a whole lot and absolutely fuck all at the same time repeated in his mind, over and over again, like the steady rhythm of a Nephilim's heartbeat, or the endless drip of water on stone.

He thought of the Templars he'd seen in the Red House. Commander Strut, with his weathered face and conflicted gaze. Captain Orpheus, golden-haired and cruel. Sergeant Vane, old and hard and weary.

All of them had taken the Seal of Blood. All of them had sacrificed their humanity, piece by piece, for the power to fight the darkness.

And when they died, their souls would be fed into the furnace.

Eternal suffering to keep the gods asleep.

Nero leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees...

His hands hung limp between them, the pale skin of his regrown left arm catching the grey light from the window.

'Is that what I will become too?' he wondered.

'Another candle in the dark?'

The Oracle didn't answer.

He hadn't expected it to. After all, the thoughts in his mind were nothing more than the ramblings of an uneasy soul.

The heavy and oppressive silence of his chamber pressed against him. Outside, the sounds of the Red House continued, even as the night orevailed.

The footsteps in distant corridors and the clang of metal on metal from the training yard, combined with the muffled voices that sounded like whispers in his ears of the patrolmen.

Here, there was still life, movement, and purpose.

He felt separate from it all. Removed, as though he existed in a pocket of stillness while the world moved around him.

He rose to his feet and walked over to the table in the room.

Picking up a thick rag that lay on the table, he dipped it into the bowl of water. Then he threw ofd his clothes, painfully slowly, one at a time, until he was fully naked.

There were dozens of bruises on his body. Most of them burns he had sustained in the steam chamber were already gone thanks to the ointment from Lyon. These bruises were fresh, earned from his training with the Sergeant.

Nero grimaced as he slowly wiped his body down with the soaked rag.

As he did, his mind drifted back into the past.

He thought of Gor. Of his parents. Of the Grey Crows descending from the sky like a plague.

He thought of the refugees.

He thought of Aisha, Lucy, Geor. Their faces were already starting to blur in his memory, softening at the edges like old paintings left too long in the sun.

Were they dead too? What had become of them?

He didn't know.

For the first time in a long while, he felt alone again.

Once he was done, Nero slowly picked his clothes up and began to put them back on.

Once he was done, he walked to the window and gripped the iron bars, staring out at the courtyard below.

His mind drifted again.

The thought of turning into an old, wrinkled man like Sergeant Vane, someone who had given his life up in service of the church.

Thirty years of service. Thirty years of consuming the blood of Abominations, of mutating his body and his soul, of even sacrificing pieces of his humanity for the power to fight.

And at the end of it all, to be reduced to a candle in the dark.

Nero's grip tightened on the bars.

He did not wish such a fate for himself.

He thought of Lyon and of all the procedures he would have to endure for the days to xome. His mind even drifted to the strange lifeform brooding within his abdomen.

Of the genetic modifications pumping through his veins, reshaping him from the inside out.

Of the Seal of Blood he would eventually take, if he survived the conditioning.

Seventy days, Lyon had said. Seventy days to break him down and rebuild him into something capable of bearing the Seal.

He was maybe two weeks in. Maybe less. The days had started to blur together.

How much of him would be left at the end?

How much of Nero, the boy from Gor who'd survived the Grey Crows, who'd tried to save the refugees, who'd watched everyone die, would remain after Lyon finished his work?

He didn't know.

He wasn't sure it mattered.

The twilight from the window faded as night fell. The courtyard below disappeared into shadow, the Templars dispersing to their chambers or to other duties. The sounds of the Red House quieted, replaced by the low murmur of voices and the occasional clank of armor.

Nero released the bars and turned away from the window.

He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The stone above him was rough and uneven, marked with cracks that spiderwebbed outward from the corners.

Sleep didn't come as easily as he had thought.

His body ached, demanding rest, but his mind refused to quiet. Thoughts circled endlessly, colliding and fragmenting and reforming into new colorful imagery and patterns.

Nero closed his eyes.

When sleep finally came, it brought no peace.

He dreamed of flames that would went out. Of death stretching endlessly into the dark. Of bodies that stirred beneath crimson shrouds, writhing and twisting as unseen fires consumed them from within.

He dreamed of his own grave. Of a candle burning above it, held by terrifyingly pale hands.

Of being trapped in a hell with no reprieve.

He woke gasping, sweat soaking through his shirt. The chamber was dark, the window showing only the faintest hint of grey dawn light.

His heart pounded in his chest, with his hands trembling lightly.

He sat up slowly and pressed his palms against his face, breathing deeply until the panic subsided.

The Red House was silent.

Nero stood and walked to the basin on the table. He splashed cold water on his face, scrubbing away the sweat and the lingering fragments of his nightmares.

His reflection stared back at him from the water's surface. It was pale, gaunt and hollow-eyed.

He barely recognized himself.

He chuckled slightly.

"This is going to be a wonderful day, isn't it?"

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