You are on the ground. This much is certain. How you came to be on the ground is a series of events you would rather not revisit, but the ground is cold and hard and present, and above you, the ceiling of this place is lost in a purple dark that hums at a frequency just below hearing. The walls are cracked. From the cracks, something slow and dark seeps outward, catching the light of sigils that glow a little more brightly than they need to.

What is this, a world of nothing? A world with nobody in it? Lavender reaches you first, which is almost funny. Soft and familiar, the smell of rest and late afternoons, chamomile, following with the warmth of something that wants you to stop. Bergamot lifts it gently. The stone is cold but not unbearable. There is, genuinely, a case to be made for staying here a while, to close your eyes. For deciding that whatever comes next can wait.

You have been going for a long time, after all. Nobody would blame you.

Then saffron. A flare of red-gold through the purple. Warm where the lavender was cool. The colour of something that has been waiting for its moment. Cutting through with the quality of a question asked in a quiet room. Something in the dark has noticed you noticing the floor, and it finds this interesting. Nutmeg prickles where the chamomile had soothed. Jasmine presses harder. The comfort is still there, but it has turned slightly, the way a mirror turns when something steps behind you: same surface, different reflection.

From the cracks in the stone, the ichor moves a little faster. The sigils pulse once, briefly, with the patience of something that has all the time it needs and is choosing, right now, not to use it. Something in the cracks is awake now. Something that has been in this purple dark long enough to know the difference between someone who has given up and someone who is resting, and it has opinions about which one you are.

The oud rises from the floor, dark and feral and entirely certain of itself. Moss exhales through the fractured stone. At the edges: leather, the scent of something that knows exactly what it is capable of and has never once doubted whether to use it.

Something ancient, patient, grins at you from the purple dark. Not unkindly.

It does not tell you to get up.

It does not have to.

It shows you, instead, the version of yourself that already has. That never considered the floor a permanent arrangement. That looked at the cold stone and the cracked walls and the slow dark seeping through and felt the particular electricity of something about to change rather than surrender to defeat. Surging with a claimed power that does not wait to be offered because it was never the kind of thing that gets offered.

The choice was always yours. It just needed something in the dark to remind you.

The cold of the stone brings clarity against your palms. Your hands are already pressing down to get back up. Time is a precious thing to waste.

Chapel & Claw’s False Idols collection is independently created fan art and merchandise inspired by Cult of the Lamb. We are not affiliated with Massive Monster or Devolver Digital.