Blood apostle

Nightfell slept uneasily.

The wind had died, but the trees still trembled—quivering as if dreaming of old horrors. Beneath the shrine, torches bled black smoke, and the great gate at the back of the chamber loomed like a sealed wound.

But Kiro's eyes weren't on it.

Not yet.

He sat cross-legged in a circle of scorched ash, arms resting on his knees, blood threading slowly across his skin in long, lazy spirals.

Across from him stood the last Naught—unmoving, his skeletal fingers woven together in front of his chest.

They had been silent for nearly an hour.

Kiro's breathing slowed.

Not because he was calm.