Page 81 of Mortis
Mammon.
Prince of Greed.
His sigil had been etched into the floor beneath our hooves, every line painstakingly precise. Every curve drawn with almost embarrassing reverence. Yet if these mortals truly believed Mammon himself would lower his divine form into a cage fashioned by human hands, they were greater fools than I had first imagined.
“Behold!”
One figure stepped away from the congregation. Unlike the others, whose robes were the colour of fresh blood, this one wore white. Pristine and smooth. Untouched by dust despite the neglected chamber around him. He looked like one of Heaven’s sanctimonious angels.
To wear white while praying to a Prince of Hell . . . the hypocrisy was exquisite.
Mammon would have adored it.
“Our Lord has heard our devotion!” the man proclaimed, and excited murmurs rippled through the gathered worshippers. “The Great Mammon, Prince of Greed, has answered our prayers.”
He swept one arm towards us.
“He has gifted us His beast.”
The hood fell away, revealing an utterly unremarkable mortal. His face was beginning to crease with age, muddy brown eyes sat beneath heavy brows, and dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, had been combed neatly away from his face. He was neither tall nor short. Neither broad nor thin. Painfully average in every conceivable way.
Yet he met our gaze without so much as a flicker of fear.
Curious.
Our lips peeled back from our teeth, and we growled, the sound rolling through the chamber like distant thunder. He did not flinch. Instead, his mouth curled into a smug, satisfied smile.
“A beast born of Greed itself. A creature that shall feast in His name, and deliver every worthy soul into His eternal vault.” His smile widened. “And as our offerings grow . . .” He turned towards his congregation. “So too shall our reward.”
The room fell silent.
“Gold.”
A ripple of anticipation swept through the herd.
“Prosperity.”
Several clasped their hands together in prayer.
“Power beyond mortal kings.”
Now they could barely contain themselves.
“And should our devotion never falter.” He raised both arms and tipped his head back towards the ceiling. “Death itself shall never claim us.”
The chamber erupted. Some laughed while others wept, and several collapsed to their knees.
Pathetic creatures, really. So easily bought.
The man allowed the celebration to continue before slowly lowering his hands, and silence gradually returned.
“Remain faithful. Feed our Lord what He desires.” Turning back towards the circle, his eyes settled upon us. “And His beast shall ensure your covenant is never broken.”
The candlelight shifted across his face, transforming something utterly ordinary into something almost monstrous. For one fleeting moment, it became impossible to tell which of us was truly the beast.
“Devon,” he called, extending a hand. “The book.”
Another worshipper stepped forward carrying an ancient tome. Its leather cover had split with age, the corners worn smooth by countless hands. Dust clung stubbornly to every crease.
