The sun is a pale, indifferent observer when we start moving again.
The night's terror has settled into a grim, exhausted trudge. No one talks. The only sounds are the crunch of our boots on the forest floor, the rustle of our makeshift supplies, and the occasional, ragged sob that someone quickly chokes back.
We are a procession of ghosts, haunting the woods that nearly became our tomb.
I walk near the back, a self-imposed quarantine. Flynn walks ahead of me, a silent, golden-haired buffer between me and the rest of the group. Amelia occasionally glances back, her expression a complex mixture of worry and defiance, but she stays with the others, trying to hold our fragile little world together.
The forest seems to hold its breath around us.
Yet the danger feels less present.
Maybe we killed most of the Gloom Dwellers around here.
Maybe we scared them off.
Maybe they've been pulled back to ambush us at a different point. A more advantageous one. Maybe my own little show has made me a target.
The thought gnaws at me.
I'm no longer just a lazy kid who wants to be left alone. I am now, by virtue of power and circumstance, a weapon.
A monster.
But they've always considered me something like that, being Tainted Blood.
It's the first time I think I really agree with them.
We walk through the morning and into the afternoon. The sun beats down, relentless, and the humidity rises, turning the air into a thick, soupy blanket. Exhaustion is a physical presence, a heavy cloak weighing down on every step. We're running on fumes, on fear, on the sheer stubborn will to live.
I'm not the only one who notices the change in the forest. The trees become thinner, spaced further apart. The ground beneath our feet changes from soft, loamy earth to hard, sun-baked rock. The air grows dryer, carrying a faint, dusty scent.
And ahead, through a break in the trees, I see it.
Not a building. Not a fortress.
A cliff face. A sheer, impossibly high wall of weathered, red-streaked rock that stretches as far as the eye can see in either direction. It's a natural barrier, a scar upon the landscape.
Thomson stops at the edge of the treeline, holding up a hand to signal the halt. He stares at the cliff face, his expression unreadable.
"Where's the sanctuary, sir?" Flynn asks, his voice strained. "I don't see anything."
"Patience, boy," Thomson murmurs, but there's a tension in his shoulders. He begins to walk along the base of the cliff, his eyes scanning the rock face with an intensity that suggests he's looking for more than just a path.
The rest of us follow, a single-file line of weary refugees. The cliff looms over us, a silent, imposing giant. The sun beats down, and the heat radiating from the rock is oppressive. I can feel the sweat trickling down my back, my clothes sticking to my skin. I'm not the only one. Everyone is flushed, panting.
The only good thing is...
The Gloom reduces temperature.
Bright and sunny.
Hot and humid.
It's miserable, but it's the least likely time for a Gloom Dweller attack, so even though we're pinned against a cliff face, exhausted and walking what feels like forever, the danger is lower than it would be at night.
After what feels like an eternity, Thomson stops. He's found a section of the cliff face that looks no different from any other. A sheer, featureless wall of stone.
"Here," he says, his voice low.
He approaches the rock and places his hand flat against its surface. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then, a faint, shimmering light spreads from his palm, tracing intricate, almost invisible patterns across the stone. It's like watching a heat haze dance on asphalt.
With a low, grinding rumble that vibrates through the soles of my boots, a section of the cliff face recedes inward, then slides silently to the side, revealing a dark, narrow opening.
A wave of cool, dry, ancient air washes over us, carrying the scent of dust, forgotten things, and something else... something that tickles the back of my throat. A faint, metallic tang.
The scent of old wards. Lingering magic.
"Inside. Quickly," Thomson commands.
One by one, we file into the opening. It's a short, rough-hewn tunnel, sloping downward. Flynn goes first, his broad shoulders almost scraping the walls. Amelia follows, then the others, their hesitant footsteps echoing in the confined space.
I hang back until last, my gaze sweeping the bright, sunlit forest behind us one more time. I don't like the idea of climbing into a dark cave to hide from Gloom Dwellers.
But the wards and the hidden nature of it will no doubt work to protect us.
Plus...if there's a humanoid one orchestrating their moves, then humanoid thinking might actually work to our advantage.
That is to say, they might not look for us here. At least for a little while.
I take a deep breath and step into the darkness.
The entrance slides shut behind me with a final, definitive boom, plunging us into near-blackness. The sound is followed by a series of heavy, metallic clunks as bolts and seals slide into place. We are sealed in.
A moment later, a soft, blue light blossoms in the center of the tunnel. Thomson holds up an Exorcist Candle, its flame burning with a steady, ethereal glow that pushes back the oppressive dark.
The light seems to catch another light, and a series of soft blue lights flash, illuminating a line. The line continues on and on, lighting the path ahead.
The path leads us down, deep into the earth. The air grows cooler, stiller. The rough-hewn rock walls give way to smooth, fitted stone, the construction precise and deliberate. We walk in silence, the only sound the shuffling of our feet and the distant, steady drip of water.
I can't shake the feeling of being buried alive.
Finally, the tunnel opens up into a vast, circular chamber. It's a place of breathtaking, somber beauty. The ceiling is lost in the gloom high above, but the walls are lined with tier after tier of stone alcoves, each one holding a single, sealed sarcophagus. A catacomb. A resting place for the greatest heroes of the Order.
In the center of the chamber stands a simple stone table, its surface covered with scrolls and ancient-looking devices. And behind the table, carved into the very back wall of the chamber, is a massive doorway leading off I don't know where.
Maybe to other coffins.
Presumably to...rooms. Living quarters. Maybe a library. A kitchen. A place that actually looks like people live here, instead of just burying their dead.
At least...
At least it's a safe place.
"This is the Crypt of Heroes," Thomson says, his voice reverent, echoing slightly in the vast, silent space. "The final resting place of the Order's strongest. The most protected place in our entire network. It has been sealed for over two hundred years. No one has entered or left in that time."