The kitten darted ahead.
“Nexus, wait.” She started toward the door, heart hammering as she crossed the threshold.
The air changed as she entered the chamber.
It was colder here, the kind of cold that clung to bone. The torchlight flickered at the threshold, as though even fire dared not breathe too loudly in this place.
Before her rose a monstrous structure.
Part gate, part tomb, part wound in the earth itself. It sat upon a mound of black stone and bone, its jagged spires piercing upward like the teeth of some ancient god. The metal of the gates was scorched and blackened, latticed with cruel thorns and sharp edges that hummed faintly when she drew near.
Faces were etched into the stone. Hundreds, maybe thousands, some screaming, some silent, their mouths open in perpetual agony. Their features were half-eroded, their eyes hollow, as if the mountain itself had swallowed their souls and left the echo.
It wasn’t glowing. Not like the fires she’d seen in the other halls. The Gate lay still, merely cold stone and shadow.
The faint red she’d glimpsed earlier came not from it, but from the ground.
A carpet of crimson, spindly blossoms had sprouted from the mound, glowing faintly like flickers of flame in the dark. Their petals swayed though there was no wind or sun. Their scent was sweet, andwrong.
Alora’s hands shook.
She’d seen those flowers before…
Her steps slowed, each one echoing in the quiet. The closer she came, the louder the quiet grew, as if the world had stopped breathing. Something deep in her chest stirred, a pull like a thread of unseen magic tugging her forward.
Her hand lifted, drawn as if by instinct, reaching toward a bloom.
A voice surfaced from the shadows.
“I don’t recommend that.”
Alora gasped, spinning around.
A figure approached from the furthest corner of the chamber.
It could have been sculpted from the same black stone, if not for the slow ripple of life beneath his skin. His body gleamed like onyx stretched over muscle, armored in spines and barbs that grew from him rather than worn. White hair like silken strands framed a face both exquisite and dreadful. High-boned, almost noble, yet too still, too perfect, like a corpse that refused to decay.
There was an eerie clicking sound as he moved closer.
Then she found the source of it.
Behind him unfolded six spined appendages. They flexed as he moved, scraping the floor with a whisper like knives drawn from their sheaths. Web-like filaments shimmered faintly in the gloom around his arachnid claws.
Alora swallowed, tensing as he positioned himself between her and the exit. As he stepped into the torchlight, recognition jolted through her.
He was one of the Dominions from the balcony, the ones who Deimos refused to name.
She reached for the knife strapped to her thigh.
The Dominion smiled at the action.
“Well, well,” he murmured. “At last, I have the pleasure of meeting our queen.”
His voice was smooth as silk, low and measured, laced with cold amusement that made a chill skitter down her spine.
“Stay back,” Alora warned.
But moved closer and she stumbled backward. “You are rather bold to wander in here alone. Many dangers lurk about.”
