The cohort marched through a new dawn under a pale, indifferent sun. It was now day 2 of their three-day march.
The sun hadn't climbed far, but Damien already felt its weight pressing into his skull. His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth like dry cloth, and a sour taste coated the back of his throat. Every breath felt like it scraped through sand. Dehydration wasn't just creeping in anymore—it had its claws in him now, dull but growing sharper by the hour.
They had walked silently yesterday, trudging eastward until darkness swallowed the desert again. Strangely, no monsters had attacked—no howls, no ambushes, just the endless dunes and the cruel, burning sky.
But the absence of beasts offered no comfort.
The heat was relentless, and their thirst gnawed harder than any creature's fangs. Hunger clawed at their guts with a slow, dull persistence that made even the smallest movement feel like a punishment.
Damien glanced down at his hands. He held what remained of their supplies: two warm water bottles and a loaf of bread sealed in stiff, cracking plastic. A quarter of the bread had been torn away and split evenly among the group the night before. One bottle was already more than halfway gone—rationed carefully, but not carefully enough.
Last night, he hadn't slept. Again.
Instead, he kept vigil in the cold, listening. The desert at night was alive with wrongness—whispers that sounded too deliberate to be wind, laughter too twisted to be human. Something had stalked them from beyond the dunes, but nothing ever showed itself. There was just enough noise to keep his nerves taut and his eyes wide open.
To his relief, Jenna had kept her mouth shut this morning.
Whether it was thirst, hunger, or the sting of his words from the day before, Damien didn't know. He didn't care. The quiet was a gift. She only spoke when necessary—asking for a bite of bread or a sip of water—and even then, she kept her voice low and brittle, as if speaking too loudly might shatter her resolve.
And each time she asked, he gave.
Not out of kindness, but control.
Damien always made sure he was the one holding the food and water. Every time Jenna relied on him to eat or drink, it subtly shifted the balance between them.
To her half-starved mind, he became a provider—someone reliable, someone she could trust. She didn't even realize it. But in time, that small dependency would fester into something more powerful. And when the moment came, she'd follow his lead without realizing she'd been led.
He preferred her to be like this: quiet and manageable.
The sun rose higher overhead, casting long, distorted shadows across the sand. They kept walking; there was no other option.
Not in Hell.
As they trudged through the sweltering desert, their footsteps grew heavier, dragged down by fatigue, hunger, and relentless heat. The sun bore down like an executioner's glare, and every breath felt like inhaling dry ash.
'Damn this trial,' Damien thought bitterly, lifting the half-empty bottle to his lips. He allowed himself the tiniest sip—barely enough to wet his tongue—before capping it again like liquid gold.
His eyes drifted to the grey monk ahead, whose pace remained steady and posture straight. Damien followed behind him, with Jenna bringing up the rear. Strangely, of the three, the monk had consumed the least water yet moved as though untouched by thirst or exhaustion.
It irritated Damien.
If anyone looked like the greedy one, it was the monk.
He didn't stumble, sweat, or even look thirsty. Meanwhile, Damien's throat felt like it had been lined with sandpaper, and Jenna's breath came in wheezing gasps. Suspicion curdled in Damien's gut.
Is he hiding supplies?
The idea festered, irrational but stubborn. Damien had watched him all day—never saw the monk do anything to garner suspicion. Jenna had slept in the same tent as him; surely she would've noticed. But dehydration was clouding Damien's thoughts. Logic didn't stand much of a chance when your brain felt like it was being slow-roasted.
He clenched his jaw.
The thought of killing them crept in again—quick, clean, and selfish.
If he eliminated the monk and Jenna, he could take their share of food and water, survive longer, and maybe even make it to the gate. But the idea, tempting as it was, died quickly. He needed them, at least when monsters showed up. And more than that, giving in now would only prove he was hopeless. He hadn't abandoned the idea of earning a virtue—not yet.
His boots dragged through the sand once more.
Then a tap on his shoulder.
He turned, already reaching for the water bottle, expecting another beg from Jenna. She looked worse than ever—ashen-faced, lips cracked, eyes dull like a doll's. But instead of asking for water, her trembling hand pointed past him.
Her voice came low and hoarse, like wind scraping bone.
"Do you see that?"
Damien turned, following her gesture, but something else caught his attention first—her mark. For the first time, he noticed the faint black line just beneath the skin.
'Why hadn't I looked before? It's not like she hid her mark with her black tank top.'
Probably because the trial had been one long distraction, and he hadn't thought to look. On the left of her mark sat an hourglass with sand evenly split between top and bottom; on the right, a serpent devouring its tail. Her corruption ratio hovered at 71%.
'I always just assumed her sin was being overly annoying.'
Then Damien focused on where she was pointing. Heat waves danced across the dunes, warping the horizon in a rippling haze. The monk had stopped, too, scanning the distance in silence.
All Damien could see was more of the same: brutal sunlight, endless sand, and shimmering mirages.
"What are you talking about, stick?" he rasped.
But then, as he narrowed his eyes, something shifted.
It was sudden—not like it appeared, but like it had always been there, waiting to be noticed. A circular patch of green, impossibly lush, had manifested ahead. Trees swayed gently in the nonexistent wind, their branches heavy with ripe, colorful fruit. Soft grass blanketed the ground. Flowers bloomed in every hue. A crystalline stream wound through the oasis, glittering like a spilled jewel under the sun.
The air around it felt cooler, sweeter.
It called to them.
Even from a distance, Damien felt the whisper in his bones.
Water. Shade. Salvation.
Or a trap dressed in paradise.