The ruin held them like a mouth clamping shut on prey.
Fifty travelers eased their burdens onto the broken stone floor, setting down packs with weary grunts. Spears were propped against cracked pillars, bone hafts clattering faintly. Hunters unstrapped hides and tools, women hushed children, men rubbed at sore shoulders. The ruin swallowed all sound, turning it into something smaller, something hesitant.
The pillars leaned at strange angles, their bases swollen with cracks, their tops vanishing into haze. Rusted beams jutted from the ceiling like ribs, groaning faintly as the ruin adjusted to new weight. Shapes crouched in corners—machines, perhaps, or the carcasses of them, their bones clothed in rust and dust.
The air smelled of iron and wet stone. Water dripped from a crack overhead, each drop echoing too long, as if the ruin wanted to remind them it had once been full of voices and still remembered how to speak.
Garrick sat first, spear across his knees. The scar across his left eye tugged his mouth into a permanent frown. He rubbed the spear's shaft with his thumb, eyes fixed on the tunnel mouth they had entered through.
Bren lowered himself more carefully, his limp heavier after the march. He eased down with a grunt, back against a pack almost as wide as his shoulders. His breath was harsh but steady. He adjusted the knife at his belt, more by habit than need.
Mara guided the boy down beside her, her arm trembling faintly as the tattoos beneath her sleeve glowed in response to the fog. She clenched her jaw until the light dimmed. The boy cradled his spear across his lap, too long for him, but he held it with both hands as though it were his only anchor.
The elder came last, clicking forward with his broken staff. He lowered himself stiffly, muttering as always. The staff rested across his knees, splinters bound with leather straps. His lips never stopped moving, words too soft to catch, prayers or curses or both.
The sisters settled together among the group. They did not walk the ruin's edge this time. They sat side by side, their blindfolds smooth and black, their heads turning slightly toward each other. Their lips moved in whispers, soft as falling ash, weaving words too thin to be heard but thick enough to shape the air around them.
For a while, the only sounds were breathing and the drip, drip, drip of water.
"Ruins don't sit right with me," Garrick muttered at last. His voice was low, but in the hush it carried far enough. "Stone remembers too much."
Bren chuckled dryly, though it ended with a hiss of pain as he shifted his leg. "Better stone above than claws outside."
"Stone above doesn't mean stone won't fall on your head."
The elder barked a laugh. "Superstition keeps more men alive than steel, Garrick. Don't mock it."
Mara smoothed the boy's hair, though her eyes stayed on the shadowed corners. "Quiet," she whispered—not to the boy alone, but to the ruin itself.
The leader leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, watching. His silence pressed heavier than Garrick's doubts. When his head turned slightly, the conversation ended without command.
Dust drifted down. A creak groaned through the ceiling, a long sigh of old weight.
Then a scrape.
Soft. Faint. Like claws dragged against stone.
Bren stiffened. "Stone settling."
"Stone doesn't scrape," Garrick said, tightening his grip on his spear.
But no one argued further. They were too tired for arguments.
The sisters' whispers grew, faint threads weaving into rhythm. The taller swayed gently, chin tilted upward. The shorter bowed her head, her voice quick and sharp. Some leaned closer unconsciously, as though the murmurs pulled at them. Even Garrick scowled at himself for listening.
For a moment, the ruin almost seemed calm. Almost.
Then came the growl.
It rolled low at first, like stone shifting, then rose sharp and wet. The tunnel at the far end of the ruin erupted.
The first ghoul burst through in a blur of gray.
It came on all fours, claws carving sparks from stone, mouth split wide. Garrick was already moving. His spear thrust forward, bone tip piercing its chest with a wet crunch. The ghoul shrieked, a high screech that rattled every ear, then writhed and fell. Garrick yanked the spear free with a snarl.
Another followed. Then three more. Then ten.
The collapsed tunnel vomited gray shapes, twisted bodies scrambling over one another, claws raking. Their eyes gleamed faintly in the lichen light, their mouths wet with hunger. The ruin filled with their shrieks.
"Spears!" Garrick roared.
Chaos.
Bren shoved his pack forward to shield a crouching child, then ripped his knife free. A ghoul lunged. He met it with a slash across the throat, hot blood spraying. He snarled, shoving it back, kicking its chest until it collapsed.
Mara screamed as her tattoos blazed, pain twisting her face. She gripped her spear tighter, driving it through a ghoul's gut. The boy beside her shrieked, thrusting clumsily but managing to pierce one's side. It collapsed, twitching. Mara dragged him back before another could reach.
The elder swung his staff with ferocity that belied his age. The cracked wood smashed into a ghoul's jaw, sending it stumbling sideways. He spat, muttering louder now: "Not dead yet. Not yet."
Hunters formed a line, bone spears thrusting. The ruin filled with snarls, shrieks, shouts, the wet crunch of bodies colliding.
The sisters rose. The taller lifted her chin, her voice sharp as bells: a chant that cut through the noise. The shorter pressed her hands forward, whispering prayers so fast they blurred. Their voices tangled, one high, one low, weaving into the fight.
Still the ghouls came.
Garrick speared one, spun, gutted another. Bren stabbed one in the side, gritting his teeth as claws raked his arm. Mara thrust, pulled, thrust again, her face white with pain. The boy jabbed wildly, his spear bouncing off bone, until Mara shoved him back.
The elder broke his staff across a ghoul's face. The wood split further, but he drove the jagged end into its throat. Blood gushed. He cursed, eyes wild.
A hunter screamed as a ghoul dragged him down. Claws tore. His cry cut short.
The ruin shook with the weight of the fight.
Then the leader moved.
He strode into the chaos without a sound. A ghoul leapt—his hand closed around its throat. He lifted, slammed it against a pillar. Bone cracked. Another lunged—he drove a boot into its chest, sending it skidding back. He snatched a spear from the ground, spun it, hurled it. The bone point pierced a ghoul's skull and pinned it to the wall.
He said nothing. But his silence commanded more than any order.
The expedition shifted, falling into rough defense around him. Garrick barked curses, Bren shielded the weak, Mara fought through agony, the elder struck like a madman. The sisters' voices rose, weaving over the din.
Still the ghouls poured in.
"Back!" Garrick roared. "Deeper!"
The leader lifted his hand. One motion. Enough.
They began to retreat, step by step, dragging the wounded, children shielded between bodies. The ghouls pressed after them, shrieking, claws clattering across stone. Blood streaked the floor.
Then the light began.
A pulse. Faint at first. A glow from above.
The ghouls froze.
Their shrieks cut short. They clawed at stone, snarling, but did not advance. Their bodies shook, eyes burning, but the line of light stopped them cold.
The expedition stumbled to a halt.
High above, suspended from the ceiling, hung a cocoon.
Smooth. White. Faintly luminous. Unlike any sac of the World Tree, it bore no veins, no stench of gore. It breathed faintly, shimmering.
"What in the hells—" Garrick snarled, raising his spear.
"Wait," Bren hissed, seizing his arm. "Look. They fear it."
The ghouls writhed, hissed, clawed—but would not cross the glow.
Murmurs rippled.
"It's another nest."
"No—it's different."
"Kill it before it opens!"
"Don't touch it!"
Garrick snarled, spear ready. "It's no gift. It's a curse."
The taller sister rose, trembling. "This is not of demons."
The shorter's whisper carried, urgent: "This is Mother's embrace."
"Do not fear," the taller cried, her voice echoing. "Come closer. Be held."
The ruin quivered with silence. Some drew back. Others stepped forward. Garrick cursed. Bren held him firm. Mara stared, wide-eyed. Even the elder's mutters had stopped.
The leader's gaze fixed on the cocoon. His silence was heavier than words.
One by one, halting, the expedition edged closer.
The cocoon shivered. A crack split across its surface with a sound like stone breaking.
Light erupted.
It burst outward, white fire sweeping across the ruin. Blinding. Crushing. A wave that threw bodies to the floor.
The ghouls screamed. Their flesh blistered, bones dissolved, bodies collapsing into black ash. One by one, they shrieked and died, their voices cut short until silence returned.
The ruin held only breath and dripping water.
The cocoon split.
From it dropped a man. Naked, skin slick with transparent liquid. His body glowed faintly with the cocoon's fading light.
He lay still, chest rising slow, ragged.
The sisters fell to their knees, voices tangling in desperate prayer.
The leader stepped closer, silent, unreadable. Garrick lowered his spear. Bren exhaled. Mara held the boy against her, her tattoos still glowing faint.
The man stirred. Slowly, his head lifted. His eyes opened.
The ruin seemed to lean closer.