A suffocating, viscous darkness pressed in, broken only by a lone, anemic moonbeam spilling through the cave mouth. No. 7 stood at the vanguard, yet even his preternaturally sharp eyes failed to pierce the Stygian gloom beyond a few paces.
"What in the blighted hells is this place?" No. 5 hissed, fumbling at his waist for flint and steel. The sharp, metallic *clink-clink* echoed with unnerving clarity in the oppressive silence. No. 6's fingers, a vise on No. 7's arm, trembled uncontrollably—a warm, soft pressure that sent a disquieting tremor through him.
A sharp *hiss*, and the first torch flared to life. Its flickering, orange flame clawed at the darkness, illuminating their deathly pale faces. A second followed, then a third, the amber glow bleeding outwards, stretching their shadows into grotesque, dancing specters.
When the combined light of their torches finally beat back the darkness at the entrance, a collective gasp tore from their throats.
Before them yawned a colossal, spiraling cavern; the entire mountain had been eviscerated from within. Broad stone steps, immense and serpentine, coiled upwards along the cave walls, yet they were uncannily clean, testament to recent, frequent passage.
They thrust their torches high, a futile attempt to illuminate the cavern's apex, but the light faltered, swallowed by the unfathomable blackness that clung to the distant ceiling.
"This… this is simply…" No. 6's voice died in her throat, her mind scrabbling for a word.
No. 8 supplied it, his voice rough. "It's a goddamn, oversized anthill."
They began the ascent, their boots whispering on the eerily smooth steps; No. 7 half-expected them to be waxed. As their light danced, murals bled into view on the cavern walls—familiar scenes from hymns and holy writ: Jupiter birthing the cosmos, raining down divine retribution, guiding his faithful flock.
Yet, in the torchlight's treacherous dance, these sacred depictions seemed to writhe and melt.
"I feel… I feel like they're watching us," No. 6 stammered, her grip on No. 7's arm bone-crushingly tight. He was, for all intents and purposes, dragging her upwards.
He offered no reply, though his own gaze skittered away from the walls. It was true. The eyes of the painted gods and saints shimmered with an unnatural, predatory gleam, seeming to track their every movement. A trick of the light? Or, as they climbed ever higher, were his own inner demons twisting the images? The beatific face of Jupiter began to warp, to distend, the final panels depicting not a god, but some unnameable, Cthulhu-esque horror.
"Enough. Don't look. Keep moving."
A cloying, sickly-sweet odor hung heavy in the air, mingled with an unidentifiable, ancient must. Their footfalls echoed with unnerving loudness in the vast chamber. Periodically, a loose pebble would skitter down from the unseen heights, the sharp *clack* a fresh jolt to their frayed nerves.
After an indeterminate climb, No. 5 halted abruptly. "Is it just me, or… do I hear water?"
Silence, thick and absolute, descended as they strained their ears. And there it was—a faint, rhythmic *drip… drip… drip*, as if water kissed stone in some distant, hidden recess.
"Likely an underground stream," No. 7 surmised, angling his torch downwards, though the darkness yielded nothing. "We're close to the River Er; it's not unexpected."
His words died, stillborn. No. 8, bringing up the rear, had cannoned into his back.
"What gives?" No. 8 snapped, then he too froze, words forgotten.
The stairway terminated. The cavern walls fell away, revealing a space that stole their breath.
A colossal, circular hall stretched before them, its soaring, domed ceiling supported by twelve massive stone pillars, evenly spaced. At its heart lay an immense stone disk. The entire chamber was pristine, swept clean of even a speck of dust.
"Is this… the Covenant Dais?" No. 6 whispered, the question more a fearful self-musing than a genuine inquiry. Her voice, though faint, eddied with slight, ghostly echoes in the cavernous space.
"Why so spotless?" No. 8 muttered, equally bewildered. "Who'd bother to scrub down this godforsaken pit?"
No. 7 didn't answer. His gaze was inexorably drawn to the central stone disk, a cold tendril of foreboding coiling in his gut. He moved towards it slowly, his torch flame painting dancing, erratic shadows on its polished surface.
The instant his fingertips brushed the stone, a preternatural chill, sharp as a needle of ice, shot up his arm and into his spine. The disk appeared smooth, yet in the torch's canted light, he discerned a myriad of almost invisible scratches, and…
Bloodstains. Faded, but not entirely erased.
No. 7's hand recoiled as if burned. The dark, rust-brown smears began to writhe in his vision, twisting, coalescing, until they formed the unmistakable, perpetually guileless, grinning face of No. 3. His last, optimistic words seemed to whisper on the stale air: *"Don't you worry! I swear I'll be careful!"*
"No. 7? What is it? What did you find?" No. 6's anxious voice, her hand on his shoulder, pulled him back from the brink.
"N-nothing." He snatched his hand away, scrubbing it violently against his trousers as if to obliterate the phantom stickiness. "Let's… let's just check around."
"Where's No. 5?"
No. 8's raw shout shattered the fragile quiet. All heads snapped towards him. He stood, torch held high, his gaze sweeping the empty space, his expression morphing from bafflement to raw, unadulterated terror.
"Where in the bloody hells is No. 5? He was right behind me, tugging on my damn sleeve not a moment ago! How could he just… vanish?"
The torchlight arced across the vacant stairway, illuminating the leering, distorted murals. The painted gods' eyes glittered, their smiles seeming to stretch wider, more malevolent. But No. 5, who should have been the last in their line, had disappeared as if the very stones had devoured him.
"No. 5!" No. 6 screamed, her voice swallowed by the vastness, only a warped, mocking echo returning from the distant, oppressive darkness.
No. 7 ripped another torch from a wall sconce, its flame painting a searing orange scar across the gloom. "Quickly! Light every torch!" he commanded, his voice low, strung as tight as a bowstring at full draw. The other two leaped into action, torch after torch flaring to life, bathing the immense hall in a brilliant, if unsettling, light.
The wild dance of the flames banished much of the oppressive shadow, but in doing so, it lent the wall murals an even more grotesque, animate quality.
No. 7 tore his gaze away, forcing himself to scan every nook, every cranny of the vast hall.
"Look! Blood! Over here!" No. 6 cried out suddenly. She was crouched before a heavy stone door set into the far wall, her fingers tracing something on the ground. In the augmented torchlight, the dark crimson stains were starkly visible—a thin, gruesome rivulet leading into the impenetrable blackness beyond the doorway.
The blood was horrifyingly fresh. He was beside her in an instant, squatting, dipping a finger into the viscous fluid. It was still tacky, not yet fully coagulated, stringing thinly from his fingertip.
"This was recent. It's No. 5's blood. There's no mistaking it," he assessed, his voice a grim whisper.
No. 8 was already at the stone door, his torch illuminating the narrow gap between door and frame. "What in perdition is this? Are there actual monsters in here? Are we seriously going in?" he demanded, his customary belligerence leached away, replaced by a taut, wary alertness born of a primal, unknown fear.
No. 7 didn't respond immediately. His gaze was fixed on a stone plinth beside the door. Upon it, several longswords lay neatly arranged. Their blades were etched with intricate, swirling patterns, their hilts wrapped in faded gold thread—clearly ceremonial armaments. He hefted one, testing its balance. Ancient, yes, but the edge remained wickedly sharp.
No. 6 selected a shorter blade, managing a few stiff, awkward swings. Her teeth chattered audibly, her movements clumsy and uncoordinated.
No. 8 scowled at the sharpened dinner knife at his belt, then, with a dismissive grunt, thrust it back and seized the largest sword from the plinth. The blade was nearly as tall as he was, yet he lifted it with surprising ease, its polished surface catching the torchlight in a deadly, silver arc.
"Whatever happens, we find No. 5. Alive, or we bring back his body. Everyone ready?" No. 7 took a deep, shuddering breath, his gaze meeting theirs. No. 6's face was a ghostly white in the firelight, but she met his look with a firm, resolute nod. No. 8, gripping the massive sword two-handed, looked like a berserker torn from the pages of a saga, a savage glint in his eyes as he gritted his teeth and jutted his chin in grim determination.
"Open it."
No. 7 channeled his power, a surge of amplified strength flooding his arm, far exceeding his usual limits. With a single, explosive shove, he thrust the heavy stone door inward.