Cinder, The Funeral Weaver

  The air here always smells of old cobwebs and rotten moisture. My legs cling to the throne of bones, feeling how each one creaks under my weight. It is not comfortable, nothing is, from that day on.

  Shadows agonize in corners. My stalking devotees wait in silence, their multiple eyes shining like a candlelight infected tumor. They don't need to speak, fear cut off their tongues.

  — Another day, another night, how many more until the Nest claims what I owe it? Ancient forces rise in the depths, something older than everything I know. —

  A little spider crawls towards me, its small claws tearing the ground with its passage. He offers me a silk roll dyed with dried blood: reports from the eastern tunnels. My fingers take the report, unrolling it with a sudden movement.

  — Rebellion, always rebellion. —

  It is not surprise. The weak always cling to hope like insects to a broken web. But I... I do not believe in hope, only in controlled chaos, a stigma so strong that it is inevitable, how do you stop something unknown? How do you prevent unpredictable movements? How do you conquer death itself?

  As I leaned over, the fangs of the ancient devote reflected my deformed face on its polished surface.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  — That the Blind Slides weave their destiny in the Masks Market. —

  I order, my voice sounds like ash blown by the wind.

  — Let everyone see what happens when the hand that feeds is bitten. —

  The little spider nods and fades into the gloom.

  I am alone again.

  OR... Almost alone.

  In the cocoon around me, something moves, something that is not mine.

  My threads tighten.

  — A spy? A murderer? Or just another lost soul? —

  Never mind. The shadows of Deep Nest are mine, and tonight they seem hungry.

  ***

  THE JOKER

  The lack of oxygen in the environment is due to the methane released by the immense number of beasts. Contained between these dark and cold tunnels, the opportunity to see is not the only thing that is lost, being able to breathe oxygen freely is now something that only the privileged ones of this nest of monsters enjoy. What an irony that I notice, because my body does not require breathing.

  In that torture I find some pleasure, the beasts without a reason for being, rather than hunting and devouring for survival. Memories of a Requiem come back to me and make me fall to the ground laughing as I hold my abdomen.

  — Hahaha ... Hahahahah! AAAAAH. —

  I gave an intense scream at the end. I would know that one of those things would come for me. Face to face against a devotee of this new arachnid kingdom, I waited for his deadly onslaught with cuts that he released from his open mask against me. When he pounced on me and ripped my body, my threads climbed to his face and back like silk snakes, with elegance and terror.

  [From my abdomen attached to his true face, threads were born that penetrated his eyes to kill the beast. As the seconds progressed, it didn't take long for my body to unite with the corpse and penetrate its hollow basins until I managed to be inside the beast, without replacing its vital organs, merely pulling my strings in its brain, such as like a cordyceps with ants.]

  [I knew that my purest imitation of a stalking devotee would be just that, an imitation. I couldn't get to give the characteristic smell what the creature has by its own nature, so instead of wanting to imitate its shape, I focused on killing the creature inside and controlling its movement by housing my spun body between its brain and spine.]

  [Totally unnoticed, I headed to the Cinderella Village, where outside that silk cocoon I would stop to spy on the situation.]

  [My arrival brought the interest of the respective weaver to whom the mount of this devotee belonged. The weaver walked around that cocoon, unaware that a second weaver was inside, the most important in this kingdom.]