The door didn't creak behind him.
It breathed.
That was the only word Elias could think of. As he stepped through the threshold, he felt the air around him shift—not like wind, but like something alive exhaling.
He turned, half-expecting the door to slam shut.
It didn't.
It simply closed—slow, silent, deliberate.
The latch clicked.
And the light vanished.
He was alone in the dark.
But not completely.
Somewhere ahead, a dim flickering glow pulsed orange against stone. It came from deeper in the corridor, bouncing off the old brick like firelight. The walls were strange—too smooth in some places, too organic in others, like bone grown into mortar.
Elias walked slowly, one hand against the wall for balance. The temperature dropped with every step.
He passed symbols carved into the stone—letters he didn't recognize, etched in spirals, circles, broken lines. They pulsed faintly as he moved past them, like echoes responding to his presence.
He was beginning to feel… dizzy.
Not from fear.
From pressure.
Like he was being drawn forward—not pulled, not pushed, but guided.
The corridor opened into a wider chamber.
It wasn't large. No more than five or six meters across. But it felt bigger. Deeper. As if the space didn't obey the same rules anymore.
The glow came from a series of wall sconces—gas lamps, old as the stones themselves, flickering with unnatural steadiness.
In the center of the chamber stood a pedestal.
Not marble.
Not wood.
Something black. Glassy. Almost liquid in how it reflected the firelight.
Atop it, wrapped in thick, twitching chains, lay a book.
Elias didn't move. Not at first.
His breath fogged the air. The air itself felt… too quiet. There was no sound. Not even his heartbeat.
He took a step.
The floor groaned, like stone cracking.
The book shifted.
Not opened. Not moved.
Shifted.
Like it had adjusted its weight. Or like it had turned to look at him—if a book could do that.
Elias froze.
The chains were wrapped tightly around it, but not still. They twitched, coiled, as if trying to settle into position. As if they were holding something inside. Something alive.
He took another step.
And another.
His instincts screamed at him to run. But his legs didn't listen.
He was moving again. Slow. Breath shallow.
He was staring at the book.
And the book—
Was staring back.