Inside the shrine, the air was close with smoke and the heavy perfume of burning incense. Conus sat cross-legged near the far wall, his eyes fixed on the faint glow of his system screen. The numbers ticked down steadily, mercilessly. Fifteen minutes had passed.
The silence pressed, broken only by the occasional shuffle of feet or the drip of melted wax from the many candles.
"Conus?"
The voice pulled his gaze up. A woman stood before him, slim, with pale skin and a face made sharp by sleepless nights. Her auburn hair was braided tightly at the back, her dark eyes restless. This was Sarah, one of the young maids. She clasped her hands before her chest, fidgeting with the hem of her apron.
"It's been too long," she said nervously. "They should have been back by now. What if something's happened? We can't just sit here waiting—"
Bernard, who leaned against a pillar with his arms folded, let out a low grunt. The long scar that carved down his left cheek seemed deeper in the candlelight. His lips curled into a sneer.
"Then go, if you're so desperate to die," he spat. "Nobody's stopping you."
Sarah's eyes blazed. "Not everyone here is a coward like you."
Bernard pushed off the pillar with a heavy step, spitting onto the stone floor at her feet. "And luckily for you, not everyone here is fool enough to think hitting women makes them brave. If you were a man, I'd have cracked your jaw by now."
"Bernard."
The Oracle's voice cut through, sharp as a whip. She lifted a trembling hand, her face stern despite the disfigurement that twisted her features. "This is a sacred place of the goddess. Clean your filth."
Bernard gritted his teeth but nodded. With a grunt, he scraped the spit away with the heel of his boot, muttering under his breath.
Conus rose to his feet. His voice carried steady authority. "I'll give them a little more time. If they aren't back, I'll go."
The shrine hushed, the others watching him. But before more could be said, a sound rose from beyond the doors.
A voice.
Faint at first, like the echo of a dream. Then louder. Desperate. A call for help.
"Help! Please!"
Everyone stiffened. The voice grew clearer with each cry, nearer, frantic and weak.
Sarah spun toward Conus, her eyes wide. "It's Mara! It's Mara! We have to open the door!"
Bernard was already on his feet, his scarred face set with fury. "No. Don't be stupid. That's bait. You'll drag the spirit in here with open arms."
"And what if you are wrong?!" Sarah snapped, her voice breaking.
Hughes, a broad man with thinning hair and weary eyes, spoke. "Or he could be right and it could be the spirit. Pretending. For all we know."
The voices clashed in the room. Conus raised a hand for silence, his gaze fixed on the heavy wooden doors. His thumb brushed his chin as he thought.
The cries grew louder.
"Help me!"
He turned to the Oracle. Her face was unreadable, her disfigured lips pressed tight. For once, even she had no answer.
Conus drew in a breath and spoke with finality. "Everyone stand back."
He strode toward the doors, candle in hand. The flame sputtered as he lifted it high, the small circle of light barely scratching at the black beyond. His night vision, stripped from him, left him near-blind in the dark.
Slowly, the cries grew closer.
And then, in the wavering light, outlines appeared. Two figures staggering forward.
The girl's voice rang clearer now. "Please! Someone help us!"
Conus's grip tightened on the candleholder as the shapes came into view. A young maid, Mara, her hair tangled and her cheeks streaked with tears. Around her neck, draped and clinging, was a tall dark-skinned man, his face twisted in pain, his shirt soaked through with blood.
They were part of the group he had sent.
From behind him, the others caught sight of them, gasps breaking the silence.
"Mara!" Sarah cried, already rushing forward.
Conus stepped aside, pulling the door wide enough for them to stumble in. Mara collapsed into Sarah's arms, sobbing. Sammy, bleeding heavily, was lowered to the ground.
The Oracle moved quickly. Her frail hands did not falter as she ripped a strip of cloth and pressed it hard against Sammy's stomach. His groan shook the air.
"Stay still," she whispered, her voice unexpectedly tender. "You will live, boy." She sprinkled dried herbs from a pouch into the wound, muttering a prayer. Steam rose faintly as the mixture sizzled against torn flesh. Sammy writhed, his teeth grinding.
"You're going to be all right," she soothed, even as her hands worked fast, her rag turning red.
Conus crouched low before Mara, his dark eyes sharp. "Tell me everything."
Her breath hitched, her voice shaky. "We… We were walking back, arguing. Then… then we realized Loran was gone. He wasn't with us anymore." Her hands trembled as she clutched Sarah tighter. "And then, something attacked. In the dark. Gregor screamed first. I don't know what happened to the others. I was just lucky to find Sammy."
She swallowed, her eyes filling with fear. "I think… I think Loran is the host now."
Conus nodded slowly, absorbing the words. He stood, his gaze turning grim. "Then I'll check."
A deep and slow voice broke the tense silence. "I will come with you."
It was Owen.
Conus studied him for a beat, then gave a single nod. "Grab a candle."
The gardener obeyed.
At the door, Conus turned back, his eyes finding the Oracle. "Do not open this door again for anyone but me. No matter what you hear."
The Oracle's gaze darkened, but she inclined her head in agreement.
Conus pushed the door open, its hinges groaning. The dark corridor yawned before him. With Owen behind him and the candlelight stretching only a few feet ahead, they vanished into the dark.
The shrine fell silent once more.
Conus walked with measured steps, the faint pool of candlelight spilling ahead of him like a fragile lifeline against the vast dark. Behind him, Owen followed, his tall, bent frame casting long, crooked shadows across the cracked walls. Each step seemed to echo too loudly, the silence of the corridor pressing in on them from all sides.
"Stay vigilant," Conus murmured, his voice little more than a breath. "The spirit could be anywhere."
Owen made a low sound of agreement, his voice rasping like gravel. "I see more in the dark than most. But even I cannot see what wears another man's skin." He said.
They turned into the second wing, the air growing colder, heavier. The candles flickered violently, their flames bending as though something unseen drifted past. The hallway stretched long and empty, the silence broken only by the creak of floorboards under their boots.
Conus halted suddenly, raising a hand. His head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing. There underneath the groan of wood and the faint hiss of the candle, he heard it. A soft sound. Weak. Trembling.
Whimpering.
His muscles tightened. Without a word, he moved toward the sound, his steps deliberate, Owen following close. The faint cries grew clearer, pulling them to a narrow door at the end of the hall.
The door was shut tight. Too tight.
Conus pressed his palm against the wood. It felt cold, almost wet with damp. He gave it a push. It resisted at first, groaning against its frame, then gave way with a sharp crack.
A yelp tore from within.
Conus lifted his candle higher, the flickering light clawing into the shadows of the room.
There, huddled in the far corner, was Modret.
The old butler shook like a leaf in a storm, his once-proud coat smeared with crimson. His pale hands were stained red to the fingertips. His face was contorted with terror, his thin lips trembling as he whimpered incoherently.
"Modret?" Conus's voice was steady, though his grip tightened on the dagger at his belt.
The butler's head snapped up slowly. His eyes, wide and glistening with fear, caught the glow of the candle. "Messenger?" His voice cracked. He staggered weakly to his feet.
Relief broke through his trembling when he saw Owen's crooked silhouette behind Conus. His hands rose shakily in reverence. "Thanks be to the goddess of the night," he whispered.
Conus didn't move closer. His eyes flicked to the blood painting Modret's chest and sleeves, the thick stains drying in uneven patches. His dagger appeared in his hand with a whisper of steel. He leveled it at the butler.
"Whose blood is that?" His tone was iron.
Modret froze, his breath catching. His eyes darted between the blade and Conus's face. "I—I…" He swallowed hard, words stammering from his lips. "It's Paul's."
Owen stiffened behind Conus, the shadows across his gaunt face twisting.
"Paul's blood," Conus repeated, his voice low, dangerous. "Why?"
Modret raised both hands, shaking so hard it looked as though he might collapse.
"We were attacked!" His words spilled out in a rush. "Paul was with me when it happened. He…he was struck down. I tried to stop the bleeding, I swear it, Messenger! But I… I couldn't. He wouldn't stop shaking, wouldn't stop bleeding." His chest heaved, his voice cracking under the weight of it. "I ran. I… I had to. I didn't want to die too."
Conus's eyes narrowed. "Who attacked you?"
"I don't know!" Modret's cry was desperate, ragged. "It was too dark. But…" His gaze darted to the floor, then back up. "I think it must have been Loran. It had to be him. Who else?"
The room fell into tense silence, broken only by Modret's labored breathing.
Conus studied him through the wavering light, every twitch of his lips, every flicker of his eyes. The dagger did not lower.