And then?
as if the boundary itself tore apart.
Stone scraped against stone and crumbled as the exit was slammed shut. The sound was ominous. Every fragment of falling rock rang like a death bell. The ancient symbols carved into the wooden door flared up with a blood-red glow, as if they had waited centuries for this very moment.
Mursalin's body shuddered involuntarily. The door was closed. A controlled terror surfaced on his face.
A deep shadow of concern crossed Mir's eyes. His long hair fell messily over his shoulders, his expression sharpened into fierce concentration.
Vesha, Halem, Narvi.
On the faces of these three young men now rested the same expression: the grim resolve of warriors ready to receive whatever came for them.
A cloud of dust and crushed stone rose into the air, making every breath painful. The dust filled Mursalin's lungs and he began to cough, yet his gaze did not waver for even a moment.
The walls, as if they possessed lives of their own, began to speak in a low, solemn voice. Their sound was like a tomb being sealed—deep, echoing, and inhuman. The moss and layers of dust clinging to the stone trembled under the vibration.
Suddenly, a unified voice spoke out,
"Welcome, Roham."
These words were not merely sound; they were a curse spoken aloud, slithering through the air like living serpents. Every syllable entered the ears of the eight young men and drove itself into their minds like iron nails.
Mursalin and Mir—Roham's others—stood frozen.
Mursalin's blood turned to ice. Every drop within his body seemed to stop moving at the sound of that single word.
Before Mir could speak, the court chamber shook again. This time the tremor was far more terrifying than before. From beneath the floor rose a deep roar, as if some ancient beast had awakened at the core of the earth. Dust and small stones began to rain down from the ceiling onto their heads.
Vesha raised his arm over his head to shield himself from a large falling stone. His face bore the mark of sharp alertness, his eyes sweeping the surroundings in search of possible lines of attack.
The bell was tolling. The sound was like mountains collapsing. Each peal tore at their eardrums, igniting a sharp pain in their minds. This sound did not assault hearing alone—it pierced deep into their souls, awakening a primal fear.
The shadows twisted. On the walls, on the floor, on the ceiling—everywhere—the shadows came alive. They were no longer still shapes; they writhed and danced, weaving a net around the five young men. Within each shadow lurked countless dangers.
There was no longer any trace of Vesha's usual calm in his voice. His face was distorted with fierce excitement, his eyes burning with the fire of battle. His hand tightened around the grip of his weapon, his entire body poised for the coming clash.
"What do we do now?" Vesha roared.
Enemies on every side, no path of escape, and danger growing with every passing moment. The door was shut. The walls were shaking. The guards were advancing.
Within these lines lay the summary of their complete despair. Every word hinted at a new threat. A closed door meant no escape. Shaking walls meant the entire structure had turned against them. The arrival of the guards meant approaching death.
The scream of the armours' advance echoed through the hall. This was not a sound a human throat could produce. It was an unholy noise born from stone and metal combined. As if the death cries of thousands had fused together into a single, horrifying note.
The air grew heavy—so heavy it felt burdened with the weight of a thousand years of curses. With every breath, the lungs filled with the stench of death, the old scent of dried blood, and the presence of a malignant force no ordinary human could endure. From the cracks in the walls seeped an unseen mist that devoured light and gave life to the shadows.
Suddenly Mir noticed that the map was not in his hand. He turned around, the lines of his face twisted with worry. Deep in his eyes burned a kind of desperate fear, the complete opposite of his usual calm nature. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, his breath tightening with fear and tension. His fingers were trembling, his fist clenched tight yet unable to hold anything. He asked,
"Where is Halem?"
The question hung in the suffocating darkness, as if the words themselves had been trapped inside this terrifying place.
The map. The cursed map. Gone from Mir's hand. That ancient paper was nowhere to be found.
Mursalin's body shook with anger, a fierce mix of rage and frustration spreading across his face. Fire of accusation flared in his eyes.
"How did he take it from your hand?"
There was disbelief and sharp regret in his voice. As if he could not accept that the one responsible for their misery was his most trusted companion.
Mir said,
"I panicked because of everything happening around us. I thought you were taking it from my hand."
As he spoke, his voice slowly turned bitter, like the edge of a sword. In his eyes burned the pain of betrayal and broken trust.
"Halem betrayed us like this."
As he spoke these words, Mir's face twisted with anger and despair.
At this moment, it was no longer a court hall. It was a trap, whose jaws never open once they close. Doubt spread like air, unseen, yet entering the blood with every breath. Trust, which had held them together until now, was breaking apart like cracked stone. Halem's absence was not just the loss of a companion; it was an emptiness where fear made its home.
The darkness thickened further. The shadows were no longer just guards, they were expectations, they were memories, they were guilt. Each person's inner fears seemed to reflect on these walls and come alive. Losing the map did not mean losing just an object, it meant losing control. The path still existed, but direction was gone.
In the middle of this suffocating moment, outside, the night was slowly changing its shape. Beyond the thick walls, the sky stretched on without concern. The stars were shining, but their light could not reach here. Still, that sky knew what was happening inside. It knew that a balance had been broken. There was a strange vibration in the night air, as if somewhere far away someone had spoken a wrong name, and the universe had heard it.
On the roof of the museum, through unseen cracks, moonlight tried to enter. The light did not enter, it only created shadows. Within those shadows, the future began to gather. A future with no clear enemy, only uncertainty. Where the blow would come from behind, or from within.
Something stirred deep below, not joy, not anger. It was satisfaction. The trap had worked. The first layer of trust had broken, and that was the true goal. The guards were drawing closer, but they were not in a hurry. Time was on their side now.
And the sky? The sky remained a witness. In the light of the stars there was no morality, only distance. Within that distance hid the shadow of the next chapter. A journey that was no longer only about external danger, but about inner collapse.
This night was a division. After this, nothing would remain the same. Closed doors, shaking walls, a lost map, all of these were only signs. The real change had happened silently, invisibly. Not under the sky, not inside the stone, but inside people.
The museum did not imprison them. It changed them.