Lena woke up with the taste of blood in her mouth.
The hotel room was spotless—no shattered glass, no stains, no creepy book bound in skin. For a split second, she thought maybe it was all just a nightmare.
Then she looked at her hands.
Thin cuts crisscrossed her palms, forming strange Enochian symbols she couldn't recognize. On the pillow beside her, in dried, rust-colored flakes, was one word:
LIAR.
Her phone buzzed. A news alert lit up the screen—HOTEL RECEPTIONIST FOUND DEAD IN BLOOD-FILLED ELEVATOR. Timestamp: Last night.
The book was back. The second Lena stepped into the hallway, it was in her backpack again, heavy as a stone. When she unzipped the bag, its cover pulsed like it had a heartbeat.
Sacrifices Remaining: 2.
---
The taxi ride to the Carpathian foothills blurred past—foggy roads, trees like bones scratching the sky. The driver, an old man with clouded eyes, didn't say a word until they reached a crumbling dirt path.
"No further," he said, voice like gravel. "They watch from here."
She paid him with leftover euros. As the taxi disappeared into the mist, the book slid out of her bag and hit the muddy ground with a wet smack. Its pages flipped open on their own, revealing a hand-drawn map—lined in what looked like veins.
A single drop of blood dripped from the page. It hit the ground—
—and the earth screamed.
The forest came alive with whispers. Shapes moved between the trees: robed figures with empty eyes, a huge stitched-lip creature, a woman who looked like Mira—except… not. Her jaw was wrong. It unhinged like a snake.
Then new words burned into the book's page:
"Follow the red. Hurry. He knows you're here."
A trail of blood-red drops led into the trees.
---
The monastery ruins appeared just as the sun dipped behind the hills.
Everything was blackened and burned, except for the altar at the center. It was made of smooth obsidian, streaked with layers of old, dried blood.
And resting on original book.
Lena froze. This wasn't leather. It was flesh. Bones nailed across the cover. Hair sewn into the parchment. The pages lay open, showing the same phrase in a dozen dead languages:
"WHO WILL YOU BETRAY NEXT?"
A twig snapped behind her.
She spun around—
—and stopped cold.
The Last Witness stood there, tall and twitching. Up close, Lena could see the awful details: sinew thread holding its mouth shut, pitch-black hollows for eyes filled with writhing ink, and its fingers…
God. Its fingers ended in quills made of bone.
It pointed at the altar.
Suddenly, the book in her bag lunged toward the one on the altar, crawling like it was alive. The two books touched—
—and the world shattered.
Visions tore through her mind:
- A monk in the 1100s, screaming as he stitched his mouth shut.
- Her grandfather, signing the book with invisible hands guiding his.
- A glimpse of the future—Mira's lifeless body at Lena's feet, the Witness grinning behind her.
The visions ended in a snap as the books fused together. A new book thudded onto the altar—its cover now bore both the ouroboros and the stitched mouth.
Then a voice spoke from the pages—her grandfather's:
"Lena. You have until midnight. Burn it... or become it."
The Last Witness tilted its head. Its needle-like teeth caught the light.
And then came the worst part.
Figures emerged from the trees—not shadows. People. The receptionist. The driver. And at the back...
Mira.
Except it wasn't her. Her eyes were pitch black. Her smile stretched far too wide.
"Did you really think it'd be that easy?" the thing wearing Mira's skin purred. "The book wants its final sacrifices. You get to choose who."
The Last Witness raised its bone-quill.
The book flipped to a new page, fresh ink still dripping:
KEEPER'S TRIAL: NIGHT ONE
Sacrifices Remaining: 2
Time Left: 6 hours
Clue: "Which one is the liar?"
Lena's phone buzzed again. A text from the same unknown number—but this time, it had a name:
Alistair Voss: "Don't trust the dead."
Mira's corpse-grin stretched wider.
"Too late for that."
---