Spandrex waited until the midnight bells had long faded into the thick silence of the dome.
Only then did he dare unseal the wrappings.
The book, strange and old beyond reckoning, had been whispering to him since he returned from the vault. Not with words, but with intention. Like it wanted to be opened. As if the leather binding ached for release. He placed it gently on his stone slab desk, his breath shallow, his heartbeat echoing unnaturally in the room.
He lit three candles in a triangle, each flame quivering as if nervous. Kael had once told him that triangles held power—for focus, for control, for warding. It was the only protection Spandrex could think of. It felt like trying to hold back a flood with a paper gate.
He stared at the cover.
It no longer looked old.
The leather shimmered faintly, shifting colors like bruised skin under the candlelight. The lock that once bound it had crumbled at his touch hours earlier—like it had been waiting for him specifically.
He opened it.
The glyph on his wrist—the one that had begun as a single rune etched in bright crimson—flared with a sharp heat. The glow bled into his palm and up his arm like wildfire.
And then the room changed.
The flickering candlelight didn't spread warmth—it bent inward, as if devoured by something unseen. Shadows grew thicker, heavier, dripping down the corners of the walls like oil. It was as if night had taken on weight.
And behind him...
No sound. No whisper. No breath.
Only presence.
His body stiffened. The air turned icy, but not with temperature—something older, a chill that sank into his spirit. Slowly, he turned his head.
The shadow had returned.
It stood in the deepest corner of the dome, half-coiled, half-risen. It didn't move like smoke. It moved like intention. Like hunger. Featureless and tall, its presence filled the space more than its size should allow, like it existed slightly behind reality and was pushing in.
Panic overtook instinct.
He slammed the book shut.
The shadow vanished instantly.
Gone. Just like that. The corners of the room softened. The candles returned to steady flickers. Even the glyph on his wrist dimmed.
But Spandrex was breathing too fast now, his back pressed to the wall, hands trembling. The book sat there, silent and innocent-looking again. He wanted to run. To throw it out the window. To find Kael and beg him to take it away.
But something stronger held him still.
He stepped forward. His fingers twitched.
"You've already invited it," a thought echoed inside him, though no voice spoke it aloud.
He opened the book again.
The temperature dropped. A heavy silence descended like a weight pressing against his ears. The pages pulsed beneath his fingers, alive. He turned to the glyph-marked spread from before, and the second he did—
The shadow returned.
This time closer. More formed.
It no longer watched. It approached.
Arms like curling wisps extended toward him. A shape hunched forward, long and crooked, like a priest cloaked in funeral smoke.
A deep, voiceless command rumbled through the very bones of the room.
"Read it out."
Spandrex's jaw clenched. He tried to stand tall, his shoulders stiff, his fear masked.
"No," he said. "I'll read it in my own might."
The thing moved fast—impossibly fast.
Smoke surged across the space like a spear, and in an instant, a clawed black hand wrapped around Spandrex's neck. It didn't squeeze, yet it choked. Not physically—but spiritually. His thoughts slowed. His limbs numbed. The air thickened like tar.
"Read. It. Out."
The grip tightened.
His hand twitched across the page. The runes glowed. Bright red lines shot through the parchment and spiraled up his arm, merging with the glyph. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Only the words remained—searing into his vision, branding themselves behind his eyes.
And so, gasping, he read.
The syllables twisted unnaturally on his tongue. The air warped. It wasn't just sound—it was spell. Reality groaned under the pressure of ancient language finally spoken aloud.
The glyph on his wrist didn't just glow—it burned.
The triangle of candles surged upward. Each flame roared into a thin column of fire, licking the stone ceiling. They no longer flickered—they screamed.
The bed shook.
Scrolls burst from drawers, their inked letters bleeding in the air. His shelves toppled. The floor cracked faintly beneath him, trembling like it wanted to rise.
The shadow—now towering over him—breathed in every word.
And then, in a voice that shook the candleglass—
"Finally."
It exploded into smoke.
A roiling cloud of black mist swallowed the book, the desk, the light. It surged like a storm unleashed, and before Spandrex could cry out, it rushed into him.
Through his mouth. His nose. His skin. It forced its way in with a hunger that defied shape.
His back arched.
He screamed, though no sound left him. His fingers clawed at the stone floor. His body convulsed once, then twice, and then—
He dropped.
Hard.
Silence.
The book slid shut on its own. The flames died in perfect unison. The room became still.
Spandrex lay sprawled on the floor, his chest barely rising.
A single glowing rune blinked once on his wrist—and then faded.