Fog rolled low across the manor grounds, swallowing the path behind them.
"You sure it didn't lie?" Finn asked, adjusting his scarf nervously. "Cyclopses aren't exactly known for their bedside manners."
Caius snorted. "You mean the part where it said 'many feet walk into the Grotto, but only shadows walk out'? Yeah. Real comforting."
"He wasn't warning us," Isla murmured, eyes fixed ahead. "He was challenging us."
Melodias padded beside her, ears flicking. His nose twitched at the air.
Finn glanced back at the decaying spires of the manor. "I still can't believe it spoke in riddles. Like… is that just a cursed thing?"
"That, or it got bored of chewing on bones," Caius said dryly.
They followed the overgrown path into the woods, the trees pressed tight, like they were being funneled toward something. Crows croaked overhead, and the wind carried the scent of damp stone and rotting leaves.
Then—
rustle.
Melodias froze.
His snarl cut the silence like a blade.
Caius raised a hand. "Something's there."
From the underbrush, a figure stumbled forward—black hair tangled, face smeared with dirt and blood. She was young—maybe Isla's age—but her wide eyes flicked with terror, and a long gash ran down her arm.
"Please," she gasped. "Don't hurt me."
Isla rushed forward instinctively. "She's bleeding!"
Caius caught her by the arm. "We don't know what she is."
"I'm human," the girl whispered. "I swear—I was running. I-I was taken by the Hollow Keepers. They dragged me from my village."
"Hollow what?" Finn asked, blinking.
"They're not part of your Circle," the girl said quickly. "They worship something else—beneath the earth. I escaped when one of them… turned on the others. I just kept running."
Caius narrowed his eyes. "You guys aren't actually buying this, are you?"
Isla turned, her voice firm. "You saw her. She's terrified."
"That doesn't mean she's not dangerous," Caius growled. "We've met plenty of terrified things that tried to kill us."
Melodias let out a low whine and stepped toward the girl, sniffing cautiously. He licked her hand.
Finn stepped beside Isla. "She doesn't look like she could even lift a dagger, let alone use one."
The girl looked between them, trembling. "My name's Lyra. I don't know where I am anymore—I just… saw your firelight. I thought maybe…"
Caius scoffed. "Maybe we'd feed you and walk you to your doom?"
"She's hurt, Caius," Isla said. "We can't leave her out here."
"Fine," Caius said, voice clipped. "But if she so much as breathes wrong—"
"I'll watch her," Finn said.
That surprised even Caius.
Lyra gave a trembling nod. "Thank you. I won't be trouble. I swear."
Melodias barked once and padded ahead, tail swaying cautiously.
Caius muttered under his breath as they resumed walking. "This is going to end in blood, I know it."
Isla didn't respond. But she stayed close to Lyra, eyes flicking once to the darkening path ahead.
The Grotto awaited....
-------
The manor was silent now—emptied of its prey, stained with blood and broken oaths. Only a trail of ash remained where fire once licked the stone halls. Somewhere deep within, past winding stairwells and cracked portraits, a lone figure sat in a chair, hunched near the window. The Cyclops, bruised and worn, rubbed the side of his temple as rain trickled down the glass.
A soft knock echoed through the corridor.
Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just… deliberate.
The Cyclops stiffened.
Footsteps. Measured and calm.
Then, from the mist beyond the broken doorway, a shadowy figure emerged, cloaked in fog and silence.
The Cyclops slowly stood, voice hoarse. "You…"
The figure said nothing. Only stepped forward with unsettling grace, the soft tap of a cane accompanying his gait.
It was then that candlelight revealed him:
He wore a long, archaic coat—coal-black with ash-gray trim—woven in strange, timeworn patterns. A high collar framed his gaunt face like a crow's wing. But it was the cane in his gloved hand that drew the eye—its head shaped like an eagle, gilded and sharp-eyed, the beak subtly etched into a latch.
The Cyclops backed away a step.
"Thorne Washburn," he muttered.
The man paused mid-step.
And then, ever so slightly, he smiled.
"I gave you one task," Washburn said, his voice rich and cold. "And not only did you fail… you spoke."
"I had to. They were going to die anyway," the Cyclops replied, throat tight. "I just nudged them the right way. Toward the Hollow Grotto. Toward fate."
Washburn approached slowly, tapping the cane lightly on the stone floor. "That is not your role. You do not guide fate. You serve it."
"I protected you. Even now, I speak well of you. I—"
Click.
Washburn's thumb lifted the eagle's beak.
With a soft hiss, a dagger emerged from the cane's handle.
Washburn gripped it without hesitation.
"And I reward loyalty," he said, voice cold. "But never insolence."
The Cyclops lunged—but too slow.
Washburn drove the hidden blade deep into his gut, twisting it once, then again. The Cyclops gasped, falling to his knees.
Washburn leaned close, almost gently.
"I warned you once, Elias: the Circle has no room for cracks."
Another thrust. Blood splattered the cold stone.
Washburn straightened, wiping the blade clean with a cloth from his coat.
From the shadows, a tall hooded figure stepped into the flickering candlelight—a masked Acolyte with no words, only purpose.
"Dispose of him," Washburn said, calmly sheathing the blade back into the cane.
The Acolyte dragged the Cyclops' lifeless body into the dark.
Washburn turned back toward the window, watching the rain fall.
"They're heading for the Hollow Grotto," he murmured, more to himself now. "Let them. The Grotto remembers. And it devours."
His reflection shimmered faintly in the window—warped by the rain, as if something beneath the glass were trying to claw its way out.
Cut to black.