The cave was colder than anything Canya had ever felt. Not the kind of cold that touched skin, but the kind that clawed its way beneath flesh, coiled around the heart, and whispered to the bones. It wasn't just the absence of warmth—it was the chilling presence of something ancient and wrong, something that had lived in the dark long before the world knew the sun.
Canya and Allan stood silently in the stone chamber beneath the mountain, their hands folded in front of them like followers awaiting command. Their eyes held no fear now—only a glassy, distant calm. Their bodies no longer trembled, not even as Mashahl moved past them, his robe trailing the scent of old ink and rot.
"You see?" Henry Joel said softly, almost with reverence. "It only took the right kind of breaking."
He turned to Mashahl, whose form shifted faintly in the torchlight—human, yes, but not fully. The skin was too perfect, too still. The eyes too deep, reflecting not flame but silence. His mouth never moved when he spoke, yet his voice filled the chamber.
"They are ready."
Henry smiled. "Good. Then we begin."
A massive stone table stood at the chamber's center. Etched into its surface were runes too old for even Henry to decipher completely—loops and slashes that pulsed faintly when touched, as though the table itself remembered the hands that carved them.
Mashahl raised a pale hand, and the runes flared blue.
"Allan," he said without turning, "step forward."
Allan did so without hesitation. His eyes were glassy, his movements fluid and sure. A shadow of his former fire still smoldered deep inside him, but it had been buried beneath layers of submission. Mashahl had not broken him with pain—he had broken him with truth. Or at least, something that looked like truth. The illusion of helplessness. The soft erosion of will.
"Place your hand on the mark," Mashahl commanded.
Allan obeyed, pressing his palm against the glowing triangle-and-spiral symbol carved into the stone's center.
A pulse shot through him, sharp and electric. The symbol sank beneath his skin, and for a moment, his mind bloomed with images—cities of glass crumbling into the sea, a mountain cracked open to reveal a slumbering beast, a girl with eyes like mirrors whispering his name as she vanished into mist.
Then the images were gone, and Allan stepped back.
"Now the girl," Mashahl said.
Canya approached. Her step was slower, but just as steady. She glanced once at Allan—perhaps out of habit, perhaps out of something more—but her expression remained unreadable. She placed her hand beside his, on the other half of the mark.
A different surge. A warmth instead of fire. But it coiled just as tightly into her blood.
The runes on the table flared, then dimmed, leaving behind only silence.
Henry stepped forward, flipping open his journal. "It worked," he whispered, scribbling furiously. "They've been keyed to the sigil. We can send them now."
"Then do it," Mashahl said. "They will retrieve the fragment."
Henry turned to them. "There's a ruin, north of here. You'll recognize it by the trees—dead, black, as if burnt by cold flame. Beneath the ruin, in the chamber of the fourth vault, is a shard. A splinter of what once was whole. Bring it to me."
Allan nodded.
Canya said nothing.
Mashahl stepped between them. "Understand this: should either of you hesitate, the mark you now carry will burn your minds hollow. I do not make threats. I write truths."
He raised his hand, and the cave opened. The wall that had seemed solid stone slid back with a sigh, revealing a tunnel that climbed sharply upward, into the roots of the world. Fresh air rushed in—cold, sharp, bracing. A stark reminder that the world above still existed.
"Go," Henry said. "Return before nightfall. Or not at all."
Without a word, Allan and Canya stepped into the tunnel.
The climb was steep, but their legs did not tire. Whether by magic or will, the journey was swift. They emerged into a dead grove, the trees frozen in mid-collapse, bark blackened like fire-kissed bone. The sky above was pale and indifferent.
"Here," Allan said. He didn't know how he knew—but he knew.
Canya said nothing, but her hand hovered at the pendant hidden beneath her tunic—an old keepsake, once her mother's. A tremble passed through her fingers, quickly stilled. She followed Allan deeper into the ruin.
They moved like ghosts through the remnants of stone hallways and crumbled archways. Vines with no leaves slithered through cracks in the masonry, as if waiting for breath. The silence here was thick, heavy, watching.
Then, a door.
It was simple. Wood, iron-banded. But it breathed.
Allan stepped forward and placed his marked palm against it.
The door sighed and opened.
Inside was a small chamber, no larger than a stable. At its center, resting on a pedestal of black stone, was a jagged piece of obsidian, no larger than a hand. It shimmered faintly with inner light—red, gold, and deepest violet.
"The shard," Canya whispered. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears—too quiet, too thin. "Why do they want it?"
Allan didn't answer. He reached out and lifted it.
It didn't resist. Instead, it settled into his grasp like it had been waiting.
And then the walls screamed.
A wave of sound tore through the chamber, not from outside, but from the stone itself. Faces rippled across the stone walls—screaming, weeping, begging. A thousand voices pressed into the space, demanding to be heard.
Canya dropped to one knee, clutching her ears.
Allan stood still.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The chamber was silent.
The shard pulsed once in his hand. Then it dimmed.
"They've marked us," Canya said shakily. "The Circle… it tried to fight. But this place belongs to them now."
Allan looked down at the shard. "Then we give them what they want."
They turned and left the chamber.
By the time they returned to the cave, the sky had darkened. The tunnel opened again at their approach, as if the mountain itself recognized their new shape.
Henry was waiting. He looked up as they entered and grinned like a proud parent. "Well?"
Allan opened his hand and placed the shard into his palm.
Henry cradled it, eyes wide with awe. "Yes… Yes. This is one of them."
Mashahl appeared from the shadows, silent as smoke. "You have done well."
Allan bowed.
Canya did too.
Mashahl tilted his head. "The first obedience is complete. You have proven your worth. Now we begin."
Henry turned, excitement written across every line of his face. "There are three more fragments. And once they are assembled, the veil will part, and the true voice of the Script will rise again."
"And what happens to us?" Canya asked. Her voice was empty of rebellion now—only curiosity remained.
"You become the vessel," Mashahl replied. "You become the key."
Allan looked at Canya.
She met his gaze.
They said nothing—but both knew the next step had already begun.