The fifth toll faded into the stone, but the silence that followed was not empty.
The air thickened, heavy and damp, pressing against their skin. The torches guttered, their flames shrinking as if strangled by unseen hands.
Elara's breath hitched. "It's starting."
Aldric raised his broken staff, his knuckles white. "The Hour… here. God forgive us."
DONG.
The sixth toll shook the crypt. The warped chain shuddered, sparks spilling from its jagged seams. Dust cascaded from the ceiling, the walls groaning.
Shadows erupted from the cracks.
They did not rush blindly as before. They slid together, folding and merging, forming shapes half-human, half-serpent, their eyes burning white, their limbs elongated. They circled the chamber, testing, waiting.
Anselm bared his teeth. "They're learning." He hefted his hammer. "Let's see how well they bleed."
He charged, his swing shattering the first creature in a burst of ash. But two more slithered from the cracks, wrapping around his arms, pulling, straining. He roared, muscles bulging, ripping one free and smashing it against the wall.
Tomas darted to his side, blade flashing, severing the tendrils of the second. "You're not dying here, old man!"
The crypt shook again.
DONG.
The seventh toll. Too fast. Far too fast.
Elara stumbled toward the warped chain, the key blazing in her hand. "I can't hold it—"
The barefoot child's voice cut through the chaos. "You must. Or you will all be nothing but dust."
"I don't know how!" she cried, tears burning her eyes. "Every time I use it, it breaks me!"
"Then break," the child whispered. "Or watch them break instead."
Shadows surged. One lashed toward Aldric, striking his chest. He staggered, clutching his robe, blood seeping through his fingers. His lips moved in frantic prayer, but his voice faltered, drowned in the silence.
Elara screamed, raising the key. Light burst, searing through the chamber, burning shadows to ash. The warped chain flared in answer, molten white—but cracks spread faster along its length, glowing like veins of fire.
A vision slammed into her mind:
The Guardian straining. The chains snapping one by one. But beneath it—deeper—another shape, darker, vaster, something bound not by seven chains but by eight. Something the Guardian itself seemed to guard against.
Her knees buckled. "There's another," she gasped. "An eighth chain."
Aldric's head snapped toward her, his face drained of color. "Blasphemy—there were only ever seven—"
"No," Elara cried, clutching the key to her chest. "It's true. My grandmother must have known. The murals didn't show it, but I saw—it's buried deeper. Deeper than this place."
The barefoot child's eyes gleamed with a light not of the torches. "At last, you begin to see. The Guardian is not the end. It is the lock. The true horror lies beneath."
The eighth toll struck.
The warped chain screamed, its glow flaring, splitting, sparks showering the chamber. The shadows shrieked with it, hurling themselves at Elara, at Tomas, at Anselm.
She raised the key high, the light pouring out, blinding, burning, tearing the crypt apart.
And for the first time, she did not fear breaking.
She feared what she might set free.
The eighth toll still reverberated when the crypt erupted into chaos.
The warped chain split further, shards of molten light spraying across the stone. The runes screamed, flaring so bright they burned afterimages into their eyes. The ground lurched beneath them, the air tasting of copper and ash.
Shadows poured from every crack, but now they had voices—hissing, whispering, chanting. Their words clawed at Elara's mind, splintering her thoughts.
Join. Join. Join.
She clutched the key tighter, her knuckles white. "They're inside my head!"
"Block them out!" Tomas shouted, his blade flashing as he cleaved a serpent-limbed shadow in two. Ash spilled across the stones, glowing faintly before fading. His chest heaved, sweat streaking his face, but his eyes never left her. "We need you standing, Elara! Don't let them win!"
Anselm roared, swinging his hammer in a wide arc that crushed three shadows at once. His arms bled where tendrils had wrapped and torn his flesh, but he fought on, teeth bared. "Hold fast! They bleed like anything else if you hit 'em hard enough!"
Aldric stumbled, clutching his staff. His lips still moved in prayer, but his voice cracked, his words faltering. Shadows licked at his robes, eating away the fabric, leaving blackened burns on his skin. He cried out, falling to one knee.
Elara lunged toward him, blasting light from the key. The creatures shrieked and pulled back, their white eyes searing shut. Aldric looked up at her, sweat plastering his hair to his face. "The eighth chain," he gasped. "I… I thought it myth. But if it is real—"
His words cut off in a choking scream as a shadow struck from behind, slamming him to the ground.
"Aldric!" Elara shrieked. She rushed forward, but Tomas grabbed her arm, yanking her back just as another tendril whipped past, narrowly missing her throat.
"We can't save him if you die!" he shouted. His eyes were fierce, desperate. "Focus on the chain! On the key!"
Her whole body shook, torn between the priest's cry and the chain screaming in her mind.
The barefoot child stood untouched at the edge of the battle, their silver eyes watching with cold amusement. "So many choices. So little time."
DONG.
The ninth toll shattered the chamber.
The warped chain snapped another seam, a fissure of burning light crawling its length. From the crack, something moved.
Not shadow. Not smoke. Something with weight. Something that pressed against reality itself.
Elara's heart stuttered. "It's—trying to push through."
A roar—not of beast or man—rolled from the chain, vibrating through their bones. The shadows fell silent, bowing low, as if their master had spoken.
Tomas froze, his face pale. "Gods above… that's no Guardian."
The barefoot child smiled, faint and terrible. "No. That is what the Guardian guards."
The crack widened. The chamber split.
Elara screamed as the key blazed so bright she thought it might shatter in her hand. Instinct took over. She slammed it against the warped chain.
Light exploded.
Shadows shrieked, disintegrating by the dozens, their ash choking the air. The roar cut off, the fissure sealing halfway before freezing, unstable, trembling. The chain was not healed—it was locked, jagged, pulsing with fury.
Elara collapsed, the key burning into her palm, her chest heaving.
The silence that followed was worse than the battle.
Ash drifted like snow. The torches flickered weakly. Aldric lay unconscious, his breath shallow. Anselm leaned against his hammer, bloodied and shaking, but alive. Tomas knelt at Elara's side, one hand steadying her shoulder, his eyes filled with fear he would not voice.
The barefoot child broke the silence. "You've delayed it. But delay is not victory."
Elara forced her head up, her throat raw. "The eighth chain," she rasped. "Where is it?"
The child tilted their head. "Where all forgotten things are buried. Beneath the roots of the world."
Their smile widened, silver eyes glinting. "And it waits for you."
The tenth toll struck.
The ground split.
And the floor beneath them gave way.