They sat in rows amongst the pews of the chapel, cloaked in the breathless silence that had become their faith. Black candles burned low on the altar, casting twitching shadows that mimicked the slow rise and fall of cloaked shoulders.

No one spoke during the nightly prayer. That was the rule.

And yet- Vaeril broke it.

“The silence has become a scream...”

His voice was soft, but it carried. It always did.

The air shifted. Heads turned. Deacon Ash, sitting in front of the altar, did not. Her fingers remained laced in her lap, white with tension.

“I feel him,” Vaeril continued. “Zeolix walks again.”

Ash didn’t blink. “You’ve heard many things.”

“This was different. This was clarity. The signs match- the blood moon, black tides, the-”

“We’ve all seen omens,” Ash interrupted coolly. Her voice croaked like an old hag. “And we’ve all learned not to mistake desperation for prophecy.”

A dry chuckle rippled from Bishop Nym beside her. A few others tilted their heads in quiet amusement.

“But he’s awake,” Vaeril said, firmer this time. “You feel it. The weight in the air. The stirring of the Void. He’s back, and we’re still kneeling here in dust, waiting for permission to act.”

Ash finally turned her head. Her gaze, sharp as a throwing knife, landed on him.

“We do not act because of dreams,” she said. “We act when the Lord calls. And I’ve heard no such whisper.”

Vaeril held her stare.

“There are no more whispers,” he said. “There is only the scream beneath the veil.”

Ash smiled- not kindly.

“You’re a clever one. A little too clever, sometimes. I’ve known boys like you before. Hungry for meaning. Eager to be first.”

She rose slowly, you could hear the dry rot in the crackling of her robe.

“Say your prayers, Vaeril. If Zeolix truly walks, he’ll come through that door himself. Until then...”

She turned her back to him.

“Hush!”

The congregation shifted, adjusting themselves as if nothing had happened. Heads bowed again. Silence returned.

But it wasn’t the same silence.

It was thicker now. Heavier.

Vaeril sat, but he didn’t bow his head.

He watched the candlelight dance in Ash’s silver hair, and thought about the future...

The next day, the air in the chapel felt different. Still silent, still reverent, but strained at the edges. Like a violin string pulled a little too tight.

No one spoke of Vaeril’s outburst during prayer. Not directly. But eyes lingered longer on him now. Whispers- ironic, given their namesake, hung just out of earshot.

Ash did not mention it. Which was worse.

That evening, she called a gathering.

“A sacred renewal,” she said, her voice echoing off the old stone. “The Lord tests us. Our faith must be not only endured, but refreshed. Let us take communion.”

The cultists gathered in slow, practiced movements. The chapel smelled of wax, damp stone, and the bitter voidwort used to brew the communion draught. Earthy, sharp, a taste few ever got used to. Thirty of them gathered, hoods drawn, candles lit, eyes heavy. They didn’t speak unless they had to. They hadn’t in years.

Dust floated through a shaft of light like it was afraid to settle. The pews creaked beneath bones worn down by waiting. So much waiting.

Vaeril moved with the same precision he always did. Measured steps. Measured glances. He said nothing as he prepared the basin for communion.

The ritual was old. One of the few things they still remembered how to do without opening the tomes. A little voidwort, a little chorus, a pinch of ash. The liquid always burned the tongue. That was part of it.

This time, Vaeril added nothing the eye could see. Just a vial. Clear. Odorless. Quiet. The way he liked things.

He stirred the draught gently in the wide, black basin and stepped back.

"You’re learning obedience,” Ash said.

Vaeril smiled back.

“Obedience,” he said, “is the kindling of true faith.”

Deacon Ash began the chant, voice rasping like she was already half dead. Bishop Nym followed. Then the others. Thirty voices, soft and frail, rising as one into something less than a song.

When it was time, they approached the altar in pairs.

Vaeril watched each of them drink.

Some winced. Some swallowed without blinking. Some looked briefly to him as they turned away, searching for something in his face. He gave them nothing.

When the last cup was empty, they resumed their seats.

The room was still.

Minutes passed. One cultist slumped, as if sleep had taken him. Another shivered, then was still. One began coughing softly into her sleeve.

No one said a word.

The chant resumed, but more quietly now. Ragged. Off-rhythm.

A few faces turned pale. Hands trembled. One man stared straight ahead, eyes wide, unmoving.

The ritual ended. The candles burned low.

And no one rose.

Vaeril stood alone at the altar, hands folded behind his back. He listened to the silence with the attention of a surgeon.

The chapel felt clean again.

When he left, he didn’t look back.

And the Church of Whispers had fallen completely, completely still.