The singing vein never slept.
Even after the horn sounded and the overseers dragged the slaves back into chains, the violet glow lingered in the rock—angry and bruised, as if the mountain itself refused to rest.
Leon was not returned to the main gallery.
Grave's order was simple.
"Deeper."
They were led into a side passage barely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, sloping sharply downward into the mountain's gut. Stone pressed close on all sides. The air thickened with every step, heavy with sulfur and old blood.
Claire walked beside Leon, shackled to the same short line as three others—two hollow-eyed men who hadn't spoken in days, and a girl no older than twelve whose hands trembled around her chisel.
Grave led the way.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
His iron rod struck stone like a metronome counting down something final.
Behind them, iron-masked overseers dragged a massive chain that scraped along the floor with an unnatural weight.
Leon crawled when he had to.
His right knee—partially bound by that crystalline black thread inside the joint—took some of his weight. Not enough to stand. Enough to move without collapsing every few breaths.
The violet lines beneath the cloth wrapped around his palm itched.
No—pulled.
As if they wanted to be closer to something waiting below.
The blue flames thinned as they descended, replaced by the vein's own light—slow, heavy pulses that throbbed like a buried heart.
Grave stopped before a jagged fissure in the wall.
"Through here," he said. "The Mistress wants the heart-vein tonight."
His gaze slid to Leon.
"Listener goes first. You hear where it sings loudest."
Leon didn't argue.
They shoved him forward.
The fissure scraped skin and cloth as he passed through—and then the tunnel opened into a low, cavernous chamber.
The ceiling vanished into shadow.
The floor was littered with broken ore shards—and older things.
Rusted chains.
Half-buried bones.
Cloth fused into stone-dust.
The vein ran thick here. Violet rivers twisted through the black rock, glowing so fiercely it hurt to look at directly.
Claire slipped in after him.
Her breath caught.
Against the far wall lay a mound of bodies.
Not fresh.
Not old enough to be dust.
Stacked without care—limbs tangled, fingers interlocked as if they had tried to comfort one another at the end. Their skin was darkened, veins glittering faintly beneath it.
Eyes open.
Empty.
One of the silent men whimpered.
Grave laughed—short and dry.
"Old offerings," he said. "The mountain keeps what it likes."
Leon's vein-sense screamed.
The pulse here was wrong.
Hungry.
Then—
CRRRAAAACK.
Stone split like dry bread.
The wall moved.
Something unfolded from it.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The Blackwind Ghoul emerged.
It was too tall for the chamber, hunched forward on elongated limbs. Skin stretched tight over bone, black as ore, cracked to reveal pulsing violet beneath. Veins crawled across its chest and arms like living runes, beating in time with the mountain.
Its face had once been human.
Now the jaw hung loose, elongated, split too wide. Teeth jagged and uneven. No lips—only a wet, glistening maw.
Its eyes burned with flat violet light.
No pupils.
No whites.
A long, segmented tongue flicked out—
SSSSK.
Frost bloomed where it touched stone.
The ghoul did not roar.
It did not need to.
The air froze.
Breath came out in sharp, painful clouds.
One of the older slaves stumbled back.
His chisel clattered.
The ghoul moved.
WHRRR—
Faster than rot should move.
A single swipe—almost gentle—opened the man's throat.
Blood sprayed, dark and steaming.
Before the body could fall, the ghoul caught it.
Lifted it like a doll.
Then it fed.
Methodical.
Precise.
Teeth tore into the neck first—clean through muscle and tendon.
The scream cut off in a wet gurgle.
CRUNCH. CRACK.
The ghoul swallowed chunks whole, jaws working with mechanical rhythm. Blood spilled down its chin, froze halfway, then thawed again as the violet glow flared brighter.
It ate while the body still twitched.
While the eyes still blinked in slow, helpless horror.
Claire pressed herself flat against the wall.
The young girl sobbed—small, broken sounds she couldn't stop.
Leon's palm burned.
The violet lines flared beneath the cloth.
Danger—close—hunger—
The ghoul finished.
It dropped the ruined husk onto the pile.
Then it turned.
Toward Leon.
The tongue flicked again—longer this time—brushing the air inches from his face.
SSSSSK.
Frost bit his cheek.
The ghoul tilted its head.
Listening.
A sound crawled out of its chest.
Not a growl.
A rasp.
"Leeeeonnn…"
The name echoed, layered, distorted.
Not quite human.
Not quite Mueor.
Recognition.
Leon did not move.
The ghoul stepped closer. Claws scraped stone.
It raised one hand—fingers ending in blackened, chisel-like talons—and raked Leon's left arm.
Not deep.
Just enough.
Cold venom flooded the cut.
Numbness—then fire.
The violet lines surged, racing up his arm, knitting into the wound like roots finding soil.
The ghoul leaned in.
Its breath reeked of old blood and wet iron.
Then—
It turned away.
Dragged the fresh corpse deeper into the shadows where the vein glowed brightest.
A low, satisfied rumble rolled from its throat.
Grave watched from the fissure.
"First offering accepted," he said quietly. "Lucky you, listener. It didn't finish you."
He gestured.
Chains yanked tight.
The remaining slaves were pulled back.
Claire caught Leon's sleeve as they retreated.
"That's how they start," she whispered, shaking. "The hunger. It never stops. They feed the vein… and the vein feeds them."
Leon looked down at his arm.
The shallow cut had already crusted—not with scab, but thin black crystal.
The numbness lingered.
Beneath it—
Strength.
Faint.
Unsteady.
His thighs tightened.
For one cruel heartbeat, he pushed himself upright.
Stood.
Then his knees buckled, and he fell back into the chains.
Enough.
Enough to stand.
Once.
The ghoul's voice echoed in his skull.
Leeeonnn… feed… or be fed…
Mueor pulsed—slow, approving.
The mountain had marked him twice now.
And deep within Leon's own veins—
The hunger was waking.