The descent was a blur of ash and broken stone.
Every step Kaen took was a battle, his body screaming in rebellion. Lira half-carried him down the jagged slopes, urgency sharpening her every breath.
Behind them, the mountain pulsed—a heartbeat from something not human.
The storm deepened overhead. Rain began to fall, thick and stinging, washing the blood from Kaen's skin but not from his soul.
"We're almost to the base," Lira panted.
Kaen could barely hear her. The world spun in shades of grey and red. His mind kept flashing back—
—to the silver-haired woman screaming before the gate—
—to the hollow voice claiming his blood—
—to the truth he'd buried his whole life: he was not normal. He never had been.
They reached a ridge overlooking the valley.
Kaen sagged to the ground, gasping. Lira knelt beside him, scanning the forest below. It looked… wrong.
The trees shifted subtly, breathing in patterns that no natural wood should.
"Lira," Kaen rasped.
She was already on edge. "I see it."
The forest was moving.
At first, it was just a ripple. Then whole sections of the wood shivered—and from the mist rose figures.
Not beasts. Not men.
Something in between.
Their bodies were lean and twisted, with joints bending too far, and skin stretched thin over bone. Eyes like black pearls reflected no light. Their movements were jerky, like puppets pulled by invisible strings.
Ash Heralds.
"The Hollow Crown sent them," Kaen murmured, feeling it deep in his bones.
Lira gripped her sword tighter. "How many?"
Kaen closed his eyes briefly.
Opened them.
"All of them."
The Heralds began to climb the slope—silent, tireless, inevitable.
"No good fighting here," Lira muttered, hauling Kaen up. "We need shelter."
They stumbled eastward along the ridge, the storm howling around them.
Lightning threw the landscape into jagged relief—and in one blinding flash, they saw it.
An ancient ruin, half-buried by centuries of rock and vine.
Columns broken. Archways collapsed.
A door yawning open at its center, leading underground.
Kaen's heart kicked in his chest.
He knew that place.
He had seen it—in the vision.
The Gate.
"Lira…" he whispered. "That's where she fought it."
Lira didn't question. She pulled him toward it.
Behind them, the Ash Heralds shrieked—a high, unearthly sound that cut through the storm.
They reached the threshold of the ruin just as the first Herald lunged.
Lira whirled, blade flashing. The creature's head separated cleanly from its body—but it kept staggering forward, headless, arms reaching.
"They don't die easy!" Lira shouted.
Kaen pressed a hand to the cracked pendant at his chest, willing something—anything—to answer.
Nothing.
Not the glow. Not the whisper.
Just his own blood pounding in his ears.
Another Herald leapt at Lira. She ducked, slashing its legs. It collapsed, hissing like steam escaping a broken pipe.
"Inside!" Kaen growled, forcing himself to move.
They stumbled into the ruin.
The air shifted immediately—heavier, older.
The howling storm muted as if swallowed.
The door slammed shut behind them with a boom that shook dust from the ceiling.
Silence.
Darkness.
Kaen leaned against a wall, panting.
Lira lit a torch from her pack, the small flame casting long, flickering shadows.
The hallway ahead sloped downward—deeper into the earth, into the bones of the mountain itself.
"We have to keep moving," Lira said, her voice low.
Kaen nodded, though every step was agony.
As they pressed forward, carvings emerged from the walls—tales of battles long forgotten, of men and monsters locked in endless war.
Somewhere ahead, deep in the dark, a new sound stirred.
A slow, scraping breath.
Not one voice—but many, layered atop each other, like a choir choking on ash.
Kaen's stomach twisted.
"We're not alone," he whispered.
And from the gloom, figures began to emerge.
Not the Heralds.
Something worse.
Creatures of ash and bone, fused together, singing a wordless dirge that gnawed at the edges of Kaen's sanity.
"The Hollowed Choir," Lira breathed.
Kaen recognized the name instantly—from the Matron's warnings, from the nightmares he used t
o think were dreams.
The Choir feasted on fear. They sang to drown souls.
And now, they sang for him.
To be continued…