We’ve memorized this building like a multiplication table. Every corridor, every stair, every hatch has been studied, mapped, and stored in our heads. The plan is simple: the bolt hits the heart, and then we vanish back into the building, down the spiral ladder, and through the now-unlocked hatch below.
I step closer to the edge, another brisk brush of wind slicing across my face. The target below rambles on, oblivious, while I crack the muscles in my neck, preparing to sprint.
“Ready,” I answer, the word steady.
I focus on the crossbow in Dante’s hands—a compact, lethal thing. His finger hovers above the trigger, the quiet tension almost palpable.
Then, he releases it. The bolt flies with a whisper, slicing through the night. Dante immediately lowers his stance, and I mirror him, eyes locked on the target. The man freezes mid-step, his smile sliding off his face like oil spilling over stone.
For a heartbeat, the bolt seems suspended, hovering between stone and sky, as if time itself has caught its breath. There is a dull, terrible sound when it strikes, the muted impact of cloth and bone swallowed by distance and wool.
The target shifts his weight, the bolt buried deep in his chest, his lips quivering, eyes flicking to the frozen audience around him. For that instant, it feels as if the entire world holds its breath, suspended in the electric silence that follows.
My eyes glisten as I watch the body collapse to the cobblestones. Red blooms from the wound, a slow, liquid spreadthat stains the ground. Then, as if a switch has been flipped, a scream pierces the night.
One scream follows another, like a chain of dominoes toppling in rapid succession. In seconds, the crowd erupts into chaos: wide eyes, gaping mouths, terror spilling from every corner of the courtyard. Guards rush toward the fallen man, their movements clumsy, jerky, confusion written across their faces as they try to locate the shooter.
A sharp tug on my arm pulls me out of the scene. “We need to go. Guards will be all over this place any second.”
We need to move, I know that. But a dark thrill curls inside me, a sick pleasure at watching him execute perfection under my eyes. My gaze lingers on the body even as he drags me away.
Dante swings the castle door open, and a rush of cold, stale air strikes me like a slap. The wind pushes me fully into motion, an invisible hand urging me forward. I step inside, the darkness and draft immediately wrapping around me.
I don’t believe in ghosts, but I’d be lying if I said this place didn’t crawl under my skin. It feels haunted.
The uppermost chamber looms above like the castle’s forgotten skull—an attic devoid of warmth, where air goes to die. The ceiling slopes steeply under the roof’s pitch, thick beams crossing like the ribs of some ancient beast.
The wood groans under every shift of weight, as if resenting the intrusion. Cobwebs stretch like silver threads between beams and trunks, catching the faintest glimmer of light.
Dante’s hand finds mine as we descend a narrow ladder into the castle’s throat. At the bottom, the hatch rim bears scuffed marks—boot prints worn deep into the wood, a silent testament to someone who passed this way long ago.
Outside, footsteps echo, blending with the weak screams and chaotic murmur of the crowd above. Dante grips the hatchhandle carefully and lifts it, sending a puff of dust into the air. I wave my hand, shielding my nose from the grit as we peer down.
A metallic ladder snakes along cement walls, sturdy but untouched for decades. Below, only catacombs stretch into shadow, according to the map—a labyrinth of history and silence, waiting for us to descend.
“I’m going first,” I say, pressing my gloved palms against the dusty floor. Slowly, I place my foot on the metal ladder, testing it, leaning my weight cautiously.
Dante’s hand brushes against my arm, steadying me. “Slow and steady, baby.”
I move, each rung rattling beneath me, a metallic tremor that pulses straight into my bones. Cold moisture coats the ladder, seeping into my gloves and leaving my hands slick. The attic above recedes into a shrinking square of pale light, fading fast until it’s nothing more than a thin suggestion of gray.
I jump off, letting a rush of relief roll through me when my feet touch solid ground. The ladder hums under Dante’s weight as he climbs down right after me. He pulls the hatch closed behind him, sealing us from the world above. Darkness presses in, and for a heartbeat, I forget to breathe.
I pull out the flashlight, flipping it on. Its beam pierces the gloom, illuminating dust motes suspended in the stale air. A few spiders scuttle in frantic arcs, their tiny legs scratching against stone. I wrinkle my nose and step back.
The scent of minerals and chalky earth fills my senses, carrying the weight of centuries undisturbed. Ahead, rough-cut limestone walls rise like the pages of ancient parchment, yellowed and worn. I blink against the light, watching Dante drop off the ladder.
“I feel like we’re in a fucking horror movie,” Dante mutters flatly. “Ever seenAs Above, So Below?”
I narrow my eyes, digging through memory. “No. Do they survive?”
He shrugs, nodding forward. “Not all of them.”
Of course.
Each step echoes in dull, padded tones, sound swallowed by the cavernous silence. My own breathing rings loud in my ears, louder than my footsteps, as if the catacombs themselves are listening.
The passage widens into the first chamber—the threshold of the catacombs. Niches carved into the stone cradle old shapes: stacked bones in uneven towers, skulls with hollow eyes staring into nothing, stone tablets whose names have eroded into dust.
