The City of Shinshigan still slept under a low-hanging mist when Marcus, Lila, and Elias arrived at the outskirts. The roads were slick with overnight rain, the streetlamps dimmed to near invisibility, each glowing orb flickering as if reluctant to illuminate the world. The pendant against Marcus's chest pulsed faintly, a heartbeat of gold in a sea of shadow, and with every beat, he felt the weight of responsibility press deeper.
Elias drove slowly, his eyes scanning side streets and alleyways, alert to the faintest movement. "The archivist isn't far," he muttered. "If he's alive, he should be expecting visitors—at least, a group who looks like they've survived the apocalypse."
Marcus didn't answer. His eyes were focused on the road ahead, but beneath his focus, he could feel it—threads of decay reaching out from the hotel's direction, coiling into the city's veins. The Host was not bound to the building anymore; it moved like a shadow through the streets.
Lila stirred in the passenger seat, blinking. "Marcus… I can feel it too," she said quietly. Her voice trembled, though not in fear. "The city… it's like it's sick."
"Yes," Marcus said. "And it wants to reclaim what it lost. Everything. All of it."
They passed a block where a stray cat hissed and fled into the fog. The light beneath Lila's skin glimmered as she instinctively reached toward the source of unease. Marcus's hand fell over hers, steadying her. "Don't reach yet. We need a plan, not instinct."
Elias cleared his throat. "There's something else. Something I should've told you before we left the city. Jonathan… Thecla's brother." His voice faltered.
Marcus glanced at him. "Thecla's brother?"
"Yes. He's in Jakar… studying. He called the hotel last week—or tried. Something blocked the line. He should be worried. I think, he knows something's wrong."
Marcus exhaled slowly. "That complicates things… not the worst, but… timing is crucial."
Elias gave a short nod. "I thought you should know."
From the driver seat, the night clerk spoke again, his voice quiet but unsteady. "If the boy feels what she felt, then the light is not bound to distance anymore. It's spreading. Through blood."
Marcus turned slightly. "Then maybe he's meant to follow it."
---
Far away, in Jakar, Jonathan sat on the edge of his dormitory bed, staring at a letter he had meant to mail before the storm. The envelope was blank, unopened, but he didn't need words. Something pressed against his chest, a heartbeat not his own, a warmth threading through him like a warning.
He rose and paced the small room. Each step echoed in the narrow space, each step seemed to pull him closer to something he couldn't see but could feel. His dreams had been relentless: hallways filled with shadows, voices whispering his sister's name, the seal of Hermon burned onto walls that weren't there.
He tried calling his parents again. Rings. Clicks. Nothing. His heart clenched. Jonathan folded the letter and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He would go to Shinshigan. That was the last place he had contacted them, yet his calls to the neighbors at Bullock went unanswered, and the hotel line remained dead.
He didn't know how, or why, but he could feel it in every fiber of his body: his family needed him now.
---
Back in Shinshigan, Elias' car guided them through the damp, fog-laden streets, finally arriving at a hidden alleyway that led to the old archivist's retreat. The building was small, ancient, with ivy crawling up its stone façade, and faint smoke drifting from the chimney. A brass plaque, tarnished and nearly unreadable, bore the name: Father Ilyas.
"I told you he'd be expecting trouble," Elias muttered as he parked. "The old man's seen things most people wouldn't believe—or want to."
Marcus nodded, stepping out of the car, Lila following closely. The air felt heavier here, charged with anticipation. He pressed the pendant beneath his coat. The warmth spread upward, filling his chest, moving into his shoulders. It was both burden and compass.
The door creaked open before they could knock. A tall man with hair like silver mist and eyes too bright for his age regarded them carefully. A thin rosary wound tight around his scarred wrist. "You are not from here," he said simply, his voice echoing faintly, as if layered with unseen harmonics.
"No," Marcus said. "We've come a long way. I need guidance—about the Foundation."
The archivist's eyes softened, but his gaze remained piercing. "You carry a light," he said. "Not your own. It has already touched those who are vulnerable. It has marked you."
Marcus tightened his grip on the pendant. "It came from her. From Thecla. She… she spoke to me. She said the Foundation must be broken."
The man nodded slowly. "Yes. The Shomon Hotel is only the surface. King Hermon's heart beats below the stones, feeding the city. If it is not destroyed, all who pass through its veins will eventually be consumed."
Lila's hand brushed Marcus's sleeve. "How… how do we stop it?" she whispered.
Father Ilyas looked away toward the window, where morning light was still thin and gray. "By unbinding what was bound. By facing the root. But be warned—nothing in your world can do this alone. You will need strength that is both mortal and divine."
Marcus swallowed. The words felt heavy, but necessary. "Then we'll gather it. Whatever it takes."
Elias cleared his throat. "You said something about Hermon's bloodline. That's… relevant, right?"
"Yes," Father Ilyas said. "The Foundation is tied to the king—and his will. His power was never natural, only sanctioned through devotion… corrupted devotion. Faith, twisted into chains. Breaking it requires the same: faith uncorrupted."
A sudden chill passed through the room. Marcus felt it immediately—a whispering tug of malice, distant yet present, threading through the air. The Host was testing boundaries. Its reach was expanding.
He pressed the pendant to his chest again, whispering under his breath, "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."
A faint echo stirred inside the pendant—Thecla's voice, calm and resolute: "Remember this, Marcus. Faith uncorrupted."
Father Ilyas's eyes flickered as if he'd heard it too. "You're running out of time," he said. "The Host follows the living light. Leave now, and I'll draw what I can of its attention."
Marcus hesitated. "You'll die if you do."
The old man smiled faintly. "Perhaps. But I've lived long enough in the shadow. Go."
---
Meanwhile, in Jakar, Jonathan packed his bag. He had no route planned, no clear instructions, but the pull was undeniable. Something—or someone—was calling him to Shinshigan. He slipped the blank letter into his jacket and whispered a prayer he barely remembered from childhood, hands pressed to his chest:
"Lord, guide my steps. Protect my family. Let not darkness claim what is yours."
A faint warmth suffused his fingers, and he knew, somehow, the prayer was heard. His heart grew warm as electricity surged through his veins. It never burned or hurt, but brought hope and peace. His heart right now, against the storm and distance, burned like a promise.
As the train began its long, winding route through the misty mountains, Jonathan glanced at the window—just as far away, the pendant against Marcus's chest flared once, a single pulse shared between two hearts.
Jonathan didn't see it, but he felt it. And for the first time since the storm began, he smiled.
---
By the time the sun rose over Shinshigan, Marcus and his small group had left the outskirts behind and followed the directions Father Ilyas gave them. Each step forward was heavy with tension: the Host's influence was not just confined to walls anymore, it was in streets, in shadows, in the mist.
But with every pulse from the pendant, Marcus felt Thecla's presence—a steady, unwavering beacon. The city could tremble; the world could bend, but the light carried a mandate.
"The Chamber is the engine, Marcus," her voice whispered again, faint and ethereal, "but the Foundation is the heart. Strike true, and strike pure."
And far away, on a train cutting through the fog, Jonathan's heartbeat synced, unknowingly, to the same pulse.