The screams above had dulled to a distant hum, as though the very earth muffled the sound of a dying city. Down here, beneath the bones of Cindralis, in the winding tunnels of ash and old stone, it was almost too quiet.
Kieran moved like a shadow, twin daggers in hand, every sense sharpened to a razor's edge. The stale, sour air reeked of blood and ancient rot. Torchlight flickered along the damp walls, illuminating grotesque carvings of forgotten gods and symbols long since banned.
He was careful, precise — until a voice sounded behind him.
"Going somewhere dangerous, are we?"
Kieran jumped, whirling to find Lyra stepping from the shadows, one brow arched, golden brown eyes sharp despite the soot and sweat staining her face.
"Gods above, Lyra," Kieran hissed. "You trying to kill me with a heart attack?"
She crossed her arms. "You're the one skulking through a death cult's lair alone."
Kieran sighed, sheathing one dagger. "Stalker. I was gonna invite you after. Honest."
Lyra didn't smile. "What's your plan, Kieran?"
He gestured deeper into the corridor. "This place… it's not just a staging ground. No way they pulled that thing off up there without backup. I'm betting there's more monsters down here. Or worse. Figured I'd gut a few priests, maybe blow up a relic or two. You know — morale booster."
Her eyes narrowed. "Or maybe die in a hole and make my job harder."
But she fell into step beside him.
They moved silently down the corridor, dispatching the few robed cultists they crossed paths with — a quick blade to the throat, a shadow-dagger to the heart. Clean, efficient kills. Neither spoke of it.
But when they reached the next chamber, words died altogether.
It was a ritual room.
No — a slaughterhouse.
The walls were painted with blood. Symbols drawn in thick, scabbed streaks covered every inch of stone, glowing faintly in the dark.
And the bodies.
At least thirty of them.
Men, women, children — strung up by chains or nailed to the walls. Some lay crumpled in heaps, their flesh twisted by horrific experiments. Limbs elongated, faces distorted into unrecognizable masks of agony. Eyeless sockets stared from mutilated faces.
Some were still breathing.
Faint, ragged, sobbing sounds.
Kieran's stomach churned.
"Gods…" he whispered. His usual grin was nowhere to be found. His face was pale, throat tight.
Lyra stepped forward, jaw clenched, eyes hard as steel. "Animals."
There was nothing else to call it.
"They… they were using them. Sacrifices… test subjects…" Kieran muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with a shaking hand. He pointed to a crude diagram on the wall — a ritual array, with marks indicating each death as part of the spell matrix.
Lyra's gaze lingered on a young boy's body slumped against the altar, his skin marred with failed rune carvings.
"We can't leave them here."
"No." Kieran's voice was hoarse. "We burn this place to the ground."
Lyra knelt beside one of the barely living victims, her dagger flashing quick mercy.
"End their pain first."
Kieran followed suit, throat tight, their blades flashing like glimmers of cold light in the darkness.
The ritual room stank of blood and death, but now — at least — no more suffering.
"We kill every last one of these cult bastards," Lyra murmured, voice low and sharp as a drawn knife.
Kieran managed a grim nod. "A good plan, Sis."
And then they moved on, deeper into the belly of the beast.
* * * * *
The air grew colder the deeper they descended.
The foul stench of rot and old blood clung to every surface, the walls narrowing as Lyra and Kieran moved silently through the winding passages of the cult's hidden lair. Even the flickering torchlight seemed reluctant to touch these depths.
Kieran glanced around warily. "Place is getting uglier by the step."
Lyra didn't respond, her golden-brown eyes sharp, focused ahead.
And then she saw it — a chamber veiled in hanging chains, thick tomes stacked haphazardly atop a crude stone table. Papers scattered, stained in blood and ash. Faint glyphs glimmered in the air like dying fireflies.
Her gaze fell on a worn, leather-bound journal resting open.
A name carved into the cover.
"Ravon."
Curiosity flared in her chest. She stepped forward and opened the brittle pages.
Handwritten scrawl, jagged and unstable, filled the parchment.
I, Ravon of the Drowned Moon, record these final accounts for the glory of my lord and the dark truth of our age.
Page after page detailed ancient rites, forgotten blood pacts, and the history of demon lords long erased from mortal records.
And then, one passage caught her eye.
'The Last True Demon Lord: Soldran the Pale Tyrant.'
A sketch accompanied it — a regal, cruel figure, pale-skinned, horned, with eyes like endless void.
'He commanded six demon commanders, each a terror in their own right.'
There were illustrations beside each name.
Maezhra.
A fierce, beautiful demoness with curling horns and predatory eyes. Lyra's blood ran cold.
She remembered that face.
It was the same head Envy had carried into the throne room like a trophy.
'The others… gone now. Dead or vanished.'
But one line stood out beneath the commanders' portraits.
'Two beings remain. Beyond command, beyond allegiance. Virion and the Shadow.'
Another sketch. A man with long emerald hair, eyes like polished jade, a tail curling at his side, horns curved like a crown.
And beside him — a faceless shadow. Silver eyes like twin abyssal voids. Hollow, empty, terrifying.
Lyra's pulse quickened.
Ravon's writing grew frantic.
'They serve no master — not even the Demon Lord. Soldran himself confessed they obey another, a greater will, a being older and stronger than any known to this world. I have seen them move, and I know true terror. Should this being ever rise… the world will drown in silence and blood.'
She felt a chill coil in her gut.
Was he talking about her?
The Demon Lord she met?
Her hands tightened around the diary.
"What'd you find?"
Kieran's voice made her jump.
He stepped into the room, wiping blood from his blade. His smirk faded as he noticed the grim look in her eyes.
"Nothing." Lyra said flatly.
And she tossed the book into a nearby brazier.
The flames consumed it instantly, curling the parchment into blackened ash.
Kieran raised a brow. "That bad, huh?"
"Worse." Lyra murmured. **"We can't let any of this survive."
Kieran hesitated, but nodded. "Then let's bury it."
Together, they moved through the chamber, smashing glyphstones, overturning altars, and scattering relics into the flames. With each item destroyed, the oppressive weight in the air lightened.
The last sigil cracked under Lyra's dagger.
"Now," she muttered. "We go back. The others are still fighting."
Kieran gave a grim grin. "Right behind you, boss."
And with the remnants of ancient horrors burning behind them, they sprinted toward the surface.