Colossal idols of stone, each one monstrous and half-withered, with ribcages like cages for souls and hollow faces twisted in silent hunger. Their arms were crossed against their chests as if holding in the ruin of the world. Braziers flickered at their feet, casting quivering shadows across their faces.
The air thrummed with an old, sleeping malice. A pulse. A heartbeat.
Her own magic stirred in answer.
Skulls were embedded in the walls between the statues like forgotten thoughts, eye sockets packed with sand. Whoever had died here had been given no burial rites.
They had been sacrificed.
In the room’s heart was another circular platform, carved with ancient glyphs. Stone steps led up to it, worn and uneven, surrounded by pillars that leaned like tired sentinels.
Atop that platform stood a pedestal wrought of obsidian and iron. It burned with subtle light, glyphs flickering orange in its base like dying coals. And rising from that black stone was a mirror. Its frame was fashioned of jagged black stone, barbs like claws curling inward around its circumference.
The reflective surface rippled like liquid silver as they neared and faint, indiscernible whispers drifted through the chamber. Rune hissed. The shadows recoiled slightly, like animals scenting a predator.
“What is that?” Alora asked.
He stared at the mirror like it might lunge forward and bite him.
“Rune?”
“It’s a Scryglass,” he answered tightly. “Wrought from the In-Between, a plane between the Realms. All who look upon its surface receive visions, divinations, or speak with those who lurk in the Abyss.”
Alora stiffened, her throat tightening.
The skulls almost appeared to be watching them, waiting. Even the floor hummed with an undercurrent of energy, each step echoing with something like a heartbeat sagging under stone.
And worst of all, the platform itself was surrounded by spider lilies, growing from the barren earth, as if they had forced their way through.
Alora swallowed and whispered. “This is where she bargained.”
Rune’s reply was cold, absolute. “No. This is where shepaid.”
Her heart shook as she imagined her mother coming to this place. It was clear Khar Avalen was evil. What desperation drove Salvia to bargain away her life merely to have a child?
To have her.
The shadows drifted among their feet as Rune paused to stare at the glyphs on the altar. Then he read them aloud in Hellspeech, his tone dropping with the unnerving guttural words that echoed around them.
KHAVA’RUN VEK’TAL ARESH.
VORA’TESH I’NARK.
SEVAK TOR SHA’RA.
“What does it mean?” she whispered.
Flames churned in Rune’s eyes as he looked at her. “Behold the mirror for your soul’s desire. Call to the abyss and heed who answers. What is granted, blood shall claim.”
Goosebumps formed on her arms.
Perhaps they should not have come here, but there was no going back now.
After a breath, Alora slowly climbed the steps, Nexus and Rune following closely. What was her desire?
She wanted to learn the truth. Who she was and the curse’s origin. But how would she call the Abyss?
Her gaze took in the Scry Mirror and the ancient glyphs at her feet. Something about the symbols was familiar, like the rhythm of a song.
