The tunnel swallowed them whole, a throat of stone and runes that breathed with an ancient, malevolent rhythm. Every wall pulsed faintly, each glyph a whisper in a tongue Magnus could almost understand—too old for speech, too raw for thought. He led with his sword drawn, its wolf-blood runes casting a fevered glow on the walls, shadows slithering like snakes. His scar burned with every step, the curse inside him pacing like a caged beast, drawn by the shard's call.
Behind him, Kiera's boots were light but certain, her twin daggers gripped tight, glinting whenever they passed under the rune-light. She bore Veyne's limp body over her shoulders, the tracker's breathing ragged, her skin now a shifting patchwork of black veins and dulling runes. Jakob took the rear, his spear held at the ready, jaw clenched, gaze darting with every flicker of motion. The Citadel had grown darker than ever, not with shadow, but with intent. Even the air tasted wrong—bitter, metallic, wet with something that felt like rot and memory.
"She's slipping, Magnus," Kiera muttered, her voice low, as though afraid of waking the walls. "That thing Lysara did—whatever curse she laced into Veyne—it's burning through her."
Magnus didn't stop. His voice was gravel, barely leashed. "She's pack. We don't leave pack behind."
Jakob's voice cracked like dry bone. "And if she turns again? You saw what she became. That wasn't Veyne. That was something else wearing her skin."
A silence stretched between them, broken only by the quiet hiss of the runes. Magnus didn't answer right away. He couldn't. Veyne's scream still echoed in his blood, the flicker of amber in her eyes the only thing anchoring him from accepting what she'd become. The Citadel was toying with them—Lysara, the shard, the curse—they were all part of the same game, and they were all losing.
The tunnel finally widened into a cathedral of black stone, its ceiling lost to gloom. Carvings of wolves lined the walls—some noble, some grotesque—each with emerald eyes that glowed faintly as they passed, as if watching, judging. At the center of the chamber, suspended above a rippleless pool of black liquid, hovered the shard: obsidian, dagger-shaped, humming with unnatural gravity. It cast no reflection in the pool beneath, but the surface shimmered with the image of a blood-red moon, impossible and wrong.
And standing before the pool, wrapped in bone-stitched robes and shadow, was the figure from the chasm—its wolf-skull mask gleaming, the scent of oil and old blood heavy around it.
"First Howl's heir," the figure rasped, voice dry as crumbling parchment, "still chasing ghosts and relics. Do you know what waits if you claim it?"
Magnus raised his blade, the runes flaring like a heartbeat. "Enough riddles. Move, or I end you here."
The figure didn't flinch. "You misunderstand. I am not your obstacle. That thing—" it gestured to the shard, "—was never meant for mortal hands. You touch it, and the Suldari beneath this stone will wake. You turn back, and your kin will fall. Either way, your blood will be spent."
Kiera laid Veyne down carefully, eyes fixed on the pool. "It's bait. This whole place—it's luring you to touch it."
Jakob's voice was brittle with dread. "That liquid—it's not water. It's… it's watching us."
A ripple spread through the pool, like something shifting beneath its surface. Then came the first tendril—liquid black, long as a spear, lashing out. Magnus sidestepped, narrowly avoiding its strike as it sizzled against the stone with a hiss that smelled of sulfur and ash. Kiera leapt back, dragging Veyne with her. Jakob braced his spear, but didn't strike.
The figure tilted its head. "It feeds on impulse. You're all so very close to being swallowed."
Veyne convulsed on the floor, a gasp tearing from her throat, her body bowing as her runes burst into flame. Her eyes flew open—one black as tar, the other amber and weeping.
"MAGNUS!" Kiera shouted, slashing at a second tendril that reached for her leg. "She's reacting to it—whatever the shard is, it's drawing the curse out!"
Magnus surged forward, claws forming at his fingertips as the curse bled out of his scar. He slashed at a tendril, tearing it in two, but another coiled around his ankle, dragging him toward the pool. The obsidian shard pulsed brighter, its hum now a scream in his skull. He grabbed a stone edge, muscles straining, but the tendril was too strong.
The figure turned away. "Let it take you, wolf-thing. The Citadel is hungry."
A third tendril struck his back, knocking him forward into the black liquid. It engulfed him in seconds, swallowing him whole.
Kiera's scream was lost in the chamber's roar. Veyne writhed, her mouth open in a silent cry as her skin split, runes spilling light.
And above them all, the shard began to descend—slow, steady, like a blade preparing for execution.