The footsteps grew louder, slow and deliberate, echoing off the stone walls with a dread that gnawed at John's nerves. He pressed his back to the cold wall, clutching the book to his chest. Its pulse was stronger now, keeping time with his own racing heartbeat.
"Put it down," a voice called from the dark.
The tone was almost calm, but there was steel beneath the words — the kind of authority that came from someone used to being obeyed.
John said nothing. He strained his eyes, but could only make out the barest outline of a tall figure descending the stairs — a shadow within shadows. Something glinted faintly in the intruder's hand. A blade.
"It's not meant for you," the man said, boots thudding one step at a time. "You haven't paid the cost."
John's grip tightened. "And what's the cost?"
"Your life."
The words hung in the air, heavier than the damp cold.
Suddenly, the man lunged.
John twisted away, the marble pedestal scraping his side. The book shifted in his hands — and the room exploded with light. Blinding, golden radiance burst from the pages, washing the chamber clean of darkness for a single frozen moment.
In that instant, John saw him clearly: a hooded man in worn leather armor, his face half-covered by a scarf, his eyes pale as ice.
Then the light collapsed, plunging everything back into black.
A whisper not spoken aloud brushed John's mind:
"Run."
He didn't hesitate. His hand brushed against the back wall until he found a thin crack between the stones. With desperate force, he shoved his shoulder against it. The wall gave way just enough for him to squeeze through into a narrow, damp tunnel.
The man roared behind him. "You can't run from what's written!"
John ran anyway. The tunnel bent and twisted, its walls slick with moisture. His boots slammed against the uneven ground, splashing through shallow puddles. The book's heartbeat thudded in his arms, faster and harder, as though urging him on.
Finally, he saw it — a faint blue glow ahead. Moonlight.
He burst out into an overgrown courtyard behind the clock tower, its walls draped in ivy, weeds tangling at his feet. The rain had thinned to a mist, beading across his cloak.
Only then did he stop, hunched over and gasping. He opened the book again, half-expecting the pages to be blank — but new words had written themselves beneath the first line:
"Those who seek Me will be hunted. Those who find Me will be tested."
John's fingers traced the glowing script. His mind raced with questions — about Marro, the warning, the cost… and why this book felt alive.
A faint crunch of gravel made his head snap up.
At the far end of the courtyard, the hooded man emerged from the shadows, blade in hand, walking toward him with the steady patience of someone who knew escape was impossible.