The Latin chanting only grew louder until it grew overwhelming and incomprehensible. Belov’s hands pressed over her ears, trying desperately to drown it out. However, that rumbling presence gnawed at every nerve and bone in her body. Around her, the cultists fell to their knees, arms stretched out in front of them as their palms rested on the ground—worshipping.
Tomoe pulled Pomona’s hands away from her ears, bringing them together tightly. “Do you feel it?” she whispered, eyes wide in awe. “He’s inside you, Mona!”
The heiress froze, her singular eye wide but with shock rather than amazement. A cold chill washed over her entire body. “What… did you just say–?”
“I knew it the moment I met you. You have the qualities of a vessel! Well, that’s what mother said, at least…” she beamed, her gaze burning into Pomona. “But I knew something about you was special!”
The third leader’s gaze fell on her, lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Yes… Her soul is bare. That is why she found her way to us, and why He is drawn to her.”
Around her, the cultists finally lifted themselves from the ground, their gaze burning into Belov. The chanting resumed, but this time, they weaved her name into it—worshipping. It was no more bearable than static in a deadly silent room.
Her throat tightened, threatening to close entirely. She tore her hands from Tomoe’s grasp, expression contorted by pain and… horror. She felt sick.
You need to run.
Yet she was not raised to run from a problem.
You need to hide.
Yet she would not complete her mission by ‘hiding.’
You must resist.
Yet her defiance wasn’t perceived as such, but rather, as ‘proof’ that she was the one.
The preordained vessel.
The daughter clung to the heiress, arms coiling around her like a snake. “You’re chosen, Mona! You’ll be the one to bring Him here… to us!” the child exclaimed through joyous tears.
No… that wasn’t what she wanted—not now, not ever.
“You can fight Him all you want, but it is fruitless. The vessel cannot deny its purpose,” the first leader, the mother of Tomoe, firmly proclaimed. It only made Pomona’s nausea worsen tenfold.
Because in that moment, she realized the most dangerous part of the infiltration wasn’t going to be killing the leaders. No, no… it was their belief, for in their eyes, she was no longer an outsider nor a mere ‘member.’
She’d become something far worse.
Following that night, a noticeable shift occurred within the cult. To ███ ████████’s ███████, Pomona was no longer a guest, but something sacred: no longer a child, but a vessel—an object. She took priority in their daily routines and rituals; dressed in the finest silk, she was prayed over and cradled reverently, as though her skin held the residue of God’s presence. Yet all she could do was swallow the nausea down and tolerate it.
Tomoe trailed the young heiress like a lost puppy, her warmth more unsettling than ever. She did not speak to her as a friend, but as a sentinel of sorts. “You have to be ready,” she’d say. “When He comes fully, it’ll hurt! But it’s a holy pain, so it’ll be worth it.”
Oh, how Pomona wanted nothing more than to end her mission early. Alas, she couldn’t.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Not yet.
“Pain is proof you are still the master of your body. Use it,” her father’s words echoed once more.
You must endure.
Every night was rinse and repeat for her. The image of the cultists forming that circle while chanting their Latin acclamations was still burned into her mind even now. Their expectations of what she was meant to be—what they wanted her to be—pressed into her bones, painfully molding them.
With each night and each ritual, she felt like her body was on fire.
If someone asked Pomona to describe that sensation, she would liken it to the treacherous training her father put her through. The only difference was that it felt like the inside of her body was being forged through raging heat rather than the outside.
“The leaders called it communion, but I called it drowning,” the heiress would state.
Yet throughout the mental and internal pain, she kept that duty-bound mask on. She had to remind herself that it was still an infiltration… still a mission. The line would only blur with each passing day, though. If she wasn’t careful, she feared—yes, feared—she would forget which side she belonged to:
The living,
or the in-between.
or the in-between.
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