But my hand finds my athame’s hilt anyway as I face the doors again. The iron handle feels solid, real. Proof that I’m still in the world of living things and rational thought.
I set my shoulder against the doors and push.
They swing open with a groan that echoes through the ruins.
The nave stretches before me,beautiful even in ruin. Light streams through the shattered rose windows, painting symmetrical patterns across broken pews and fallen stones. The air tastes of centuries-old incense mixed with that persistent scent of ash.
But there’s something else. A heaviness that presses against my skin, making each breath an effort. The atmosphere itself feels wrong—thick with malevolence that has soaked into the very stones.
My boots crunch across the debris-scattered floor. Bones, I realize with a start. Not human bones, thankfully. Too small, too delicate. Birds, maybe. Or rats. Lots of rats.
Hymnals lie scattered among the debris, their pages eaten by damp and time. I pick one up, squinting at the faded script. The language is familiar but archaic—High Gothic, the formal tongue used in religious ceremonies before the Veil War simplified everything into Common.
"In shadow’s depth, the light endures. In light’s embrace, the shadow serves."
Cheerful stuff. I drop the book and continue deeper into the nave, each step echoing in the oppressive silence.
A glint of metal catches my eye near the altar. I approach carefully, athame drawn. But it’s just a journal, its brass clasps green with age. The leather cover bears the abbey’s seal—a bell wreathed in thorns—and beneath it, someone has scratched a name in shaking letters.
Brother Aldric
I flip it open, squinting at the cramped handwriting. The early entries are mundane—prayers, duties, observations about weather and visitors. But as I read deeper, the tone shifts. The letters grow more frantic, the ink darker.
"The dreams grow stronger each night. Brother Marcus speaks of the traitor in his sleep, names that should not be spoken. The bell calls to us though no hand touches rope, and we wake with ash on our tongues."
A few pages later:
"Found Brother Thomas in the catacombs again. He claims the ash-bound lord whispers to him through the stones. Abbot fears the shadow-sickness takes hold, but what if Thomas speaks truth? What if something stirs below that should never wake?"
The final entry makes my blood run cold:
"They took Marcus in the night. The bell tolled thirteen times, though no man rang it. The lord stirs beneath stone and binding. The traitor comes with promises of freedom. God forgive us, we should have burned this place when we had the chance."
Below the words, someone has scrawled in what looks suspiciously?—
DO NOT BLEED HERE.
A page falls loose as I close the journal. More frantic scratches, almost illegible:
"The witch will come as the prophecy foretold. One drop of willing blood to wake what sleeps. The bell will toll for the living and the dead alike. God help her when she does."
My hands shake as I slip the journal into my satchel.
The witch will come.
Just stories. Mad ramblings from monks driven insane by isolation and whatever shadow-spawn attacked this place. Nothing more.
But the whispers return, threading through the broken arches with new urgency.
Rhea... come deeper... we have waited so long...
This time, I can’t pretend it’s just wind. The voices are distinct, multiple, desperate. They know my name though I’ve told no one where I was going. They want?—
Need.
That’s why I’m here. Not for whispers or ghost stories, but for the texts hidden somewhere in this ruin. The abbey’s archives supposedly held volumes that could teach me arts the coven would never permit—forbidden knowledge, lost magic, power beyond what any hedge witch could imagine.
I square my shoulders and head for the side passage I spotted near the altar. If the archives survived, they would be in the lower levels where stone walls offered more protection.
