Moonlight streams through the broken rose windows, each shard of remaining glass casting fractured rainbows across the floor. The patterns shift as clouds pass overhead, creating the illusion of movement in the still air. I can almost imagine what this place looked like in its glory—windows ablaze with colored light, carved screens gleaming with gold leaf, the air thick with incense and devotion.
The pews lie scattered like broken teeth, a testament to whatever violence claimed this place. Some bear scorch marks that speak of fire. Others show the deep gouges of claws or blades. A few lean against the walls where they were hurled by inhuman strength, their oak frames splintered beyond repair.
What happened here? What force was strong enough to drive holy men from their sanctuary?
My boots crunch on debris as I walk between the ruins. Glass fragments catch the moonlight, winking like fallen stars. Bits of charred wood crumble to dust at my touch. The detritus of faith destroyed, dreams reduced to splinters and ash.
But beneath it all, older stones show through. Spirals and interlocking circles that speak of powers far older than any Christian god. Runes that hold meaning too vast for mortal comprehension.
This place was sacred long before monks ever walked these halls. The mountain itself pulses with ancient power, and those who built the abbey simply raised their temple atop something that was already holy. Or perhaps cursed. In places where magic runs deep, the distinction often blurs beyond recognition.
I run my fingers along one of the carved pillars, feeling the grooves worn smooth by countless hands. How many monks touched this same stone? How many prayers were whispered here? How many fears spoken to uncaring darkness?
The stone feels warm beneath my palm, warmer than it should in the chill night air. As if something sleeps within it, dreaming patient dreams of what was and what might yet be.
A draft stirs through the nave, though I see no source for it. The candles I lit earlier flicker but don’t die, their flames bending like supplicants before an invisible presence. Still, the shadows seem to deepen, pressing closer to my small circle of light.
The sensation of being watched settles over me gradually, like fog creeping up from a valley. Not the immediate threat of an enemy, but something more patient. Something that has all the time in the world to study, to plan, to wait for the perfect moment to act.
I draw my sword on instinct, ember-light flaring along the blade. The familiar weight grounds me, gives me something solid to hold while everything else feels uncertain. The metal hums faintly in my grip, responding to whatever power saturates this place.
"Just nerves," I mutter to the empty air, but the words echo strangely in the vast space. "Too many years in a tomb."
The excuse feels thin even to my own ears. I’ve been cursed long enough to know the difference between paranoia and genuine threat. This sensation crawling along my spine speaks of real danger, patient and calculating.
But even as I tell myself this, I know it’s not entirely true. This restlessness isn’t just about potential enemies lurking in shadows. It’s about her—the witch sleeping three floors above, the woman who risked everything to free me from a curse I’d accepted as permanent.
When was the last time someone fought for me instead of against me? When was the last time someone saw my imprisonment as a problem to solve rather than a convenient way to keep a monster contained?
Two centuries of solitude have taught me to expect nothing from others except fear or hatred. Rhea offers something different—partnership, perhaps. Maybe even trust. The novelty of it unsettles me more than any supernatural threat.
A sound echoes from the far end of the nave. Not quite footsteps, but deliberate movement. Leather on stone, careful and measured. I turn toward it, sword raised, but see only deeper shadows pooling between the pillars.
The darkness there seems thicker than it should be, as if light itself fears to venture too close. I can feel attention focused on me from within that blackness—patient, evaluating, utterly without warmth.
"Who’s there?"
My voice echoes off stone walls, bouncing back distorted and strange. The sound seems to twist as it travels, carrying undertones.
No answer comes, but the sensation of being watched intensifies. Whatever lurks in the darkness isn’t showing itself—not yet. It’s content to observe, to study, to catalog my weaknesses for future use.
The game has begun, but I don’t know the rules.
I back toward the abbey’s main doors, keeping my blade ready. Whatever this is, I won’t face it blind and unprepared. Better to retreat to defensible ground than engage an unknown enemy in the open.
My boots crunch on debris with each careful step. Behind me, I feel that alien attention following my movement, measuring my retreat. But nothing emerges from the shadows to give chase. Whatever watches me is in no hurry to act.
The sensation of eyes on my back follows me as I leave the nave, a weight between my shoulder blades that speaks of predatory focus. When I reach the safety of the upper corridors, the feeling finally fades to a whisper.
But it doesn’t disappear entirely. It lingers at the edge of my awareness, a constant pressure that tells me this reprieve is temporary. Whatever announced its presence tonight isn’t finished with me. It’s simply choosing its moment more carefully.
Something knows I’m awake. Something is planning.
I make my way back toward the sleeping quarters, checking each corridor as I pass. Everything appears normal—dust and shadows and the accumulated silence of centuries. But I’ve learned not to trust appearances in cursed places.
A soft sound stops me outside Rhea’s door. Not quite a cry, but distress. The mark on my palm flares with sympathetic heat, carrying echoes of whatever troubles her sleep.
Nightmares. Of course.
