They found the altar deep beneath the earth.
A sealed pit, older than language, older than bones.
Buried in a temple lost to time,
etched with symbols that pulsed like infected wounds.
No prayers. No idols. Just a name:
> Y'sha-Varuun.
The God of Hunger.
The One Who Crawls in Veins.
---
Archaeologists unearthed it.
Ignored the warnings carved in dead tongues.
They thought it was myth.
Until the blood started seeping from the stones.
One of them went mad first.
Dr. Collins.
She said she heard whispers in her blood.
She drew her own veins open to "free the voice inside."
She died smiling, eyes black and bottomless.
---
That night, the stars vanished.
Sky like ink.
No sound. No time.
Only a heartbeat from beneath.
---
They tried to seal it again.
But the earth refused.
It had already tasted worship.
One by one, they changed.
They stopped speaking.
They began scratching symbols into their flesh.
Not to summon it.
But to let it in.
---
Y'sha-Varuun doesn't rise.
It seeps.
Into lungs.
Into marrow.
Into dreams.
And once it knows your name—
you are never alone again.
---
It doesn't grant wishes.
It grants void.
People in the nearby village began waking up hollowed.
No organs.
No bones.
Just empty flesh and teeth chattering in prayer.
They built shrines with skin.
Painted walls with blood.
And smiled with faces that weren't theirs anymore.
---
They called themselves the Vein Choir.
And every night, they chant the same words:
> "We are vessels.
We are veins.
Drink us, Devourer,
And know the world again."
---
You think you're safe because you don't believe?
You think gods die in darkness?
The Black God lives inside the dark.
He watches through your pupils.
And he's always hungry.
You've already let him in.
Just wait till you sleep.