Eden
The candle flickered in the suffocating darkness, casting twisted shadows on the damp stone walls. A spiral, crudely scratched into the floor, pulsed faintly beneath her knees as she knelt at its center. Her fingers trembled, stained with fresh blood from the cuts she traced along her skin.
They called her Eden — though the name felt borrowed, like a ghost's echo.
The room held its breath.
A dozen figures, cloaked and silent, stood in a circle around her, the tips of their candles winking like distant stars in the gloom. Their voices rose in an ancient chant, low and steady, weaving a thread of sound older than time.
Eden closed her eyes, letting the rhythm take her deeper. Pain was clarity. Grief was the key. The spiral was the path.
And somewhere far away, the legacy of the Holloways stretched and tightened like a noose.
Claire
In a cluttered apartment downtown, Claire Holloway stared at the faded photograph pinned to the wall — a family portrait taken long before the world cracked open. Her fingers hovered over the glass, trembling. The past never let go.
She had buried secrets darker than any cult could imagine. Yet the darkness was waking.
A knock at the door made her flinch.
She wasn't ready for new ghosts. Not yet.
Eden
The spiral burned beneath her knees like a brand. The candlelight warped the shadows, making the stone chamber feel alive — whispering secrets only she could hear. Each breath drew the stale air deeper into her lungs, sharp and cold.
Her fingers bled anew as she traced the spiral again, but this time the pain didn't scare her. It grounded her.
"Look inside," the Pale Matron's voice was a soft command. "What do you see?"
Eden swallowed. Shadows danced behind her eyelids — shapes she didn't understand but felt were part of her.
A mother. A flame. A spiral unwinding.
She wanted to scream, but the chant swallowed her voice.
Claire
Claire's phone buzzed against the table — a message from an unknown number.
"They're coming back."
Her breath caught. That simple sentence dredged up memories she'd fought to bury. The ritual killings, the spiral marks, the silence that followed.
She folded the phone carefully and slipped it into her pocket.
Out there, somewhere, the Cleaners stirred again. And this time, she wouldn't be able to hide.
Eden
The Pale Matron stepped closer, the flickering candlelight revealing sharp angles of a face both beautiful and haunted. Her eyes held a weight that stretched beyond years — as if she carried every sorrow ever born.
"Your blood remembers," she whispered, tracing a finger along Eden's cheek. "The Spiral is in your veins. It calls to you."
Eden's heart hammered in her chest. She wanted to run, but her feet were rooted to the stone.
"Why me?" Eden asked, voice barely a breath.
"Because you are the ash from the old flame," the Matron said. "The past is not dead. It waits, like fire beneath cold ash — ready to burn anew."
The chant grew louder, voices blending into a single, unyielding tide.
Eden closed her eyes and let it wash over her.
Claire
Rain streaked down the grimy windowpane as Claire stared into the night. Shadows moved beneath the flickering streetlamps — too many, and too deliberate.
She pulled her coat tighter around her thin frame, the weight of every secret pressing down. The world had changed since she fled Gracemire. But some darkness never truly leaves.
Her phone buzzed again.
"They never forget. Neither should you."
The message was unsigned, but the meaning was clear. The Cleaners were awake. The spiral was turning.
Claire slipped the phone into her pocket and moved toward the door.
This time, she wouldn't run.