The door rose far above, obsidian monolith scarred by time and ruin. No carvings marked its surface.
No inscription.
Only a faint pulse, like a heartbeat buried deep within stone.
Ian stood before it.
Lyra and Caelen at his side, their cloaks tattered, their eyes still stained with the memory of blood and silence.
"This is it," Ian murmured, extending his hand.
As one, they laid their Broken Relics upon the black stone floor. Nine in total—three for each soul. Decay. Hunger. Silence.
The moment the last relic clinked into place, the door groaned.
Not open. Not exactly.
It breathed.
A sound like a grave inhaling filled the air. Wind howled where there was no wind.
Dust peeled from the seams.
The stone split with the noise of ancient bones breaking. Then darkness stretched wide, swallowing light, space, sound—
And them.
They stepped forward, and the world fractured.
—
Ian was alone.
No sign of Caelen. No Lyra.
Just infinite dark.
The space felt unreal.
