The side door fights me,warped by centuries of damp and neglect. I brace my boot against the frame and heave, putting my whole body behind the crowbar I packed for exactly this purpose.
Wood groans. Iron screams.
The door gives way with a crack that echoes through the nave.
Beyond lies a narrow staircase carved directly into the abbey’s foundation. The steps descend into darkness so complete, my lantern seems to hesitate before piercing it. But there’s heat rising from below—unexpected warmth that makes no sense in a ruin this old.
Underground vents. Natural causes.
I light my lantern and start down.
The stairs are slick with condensation, treacherous enough that I keep one hand on the rough stone wall for balance. Strange how the walls grow warmer as I descend, not cooler. And that scent of ash grows stronger too, mixed now with iron and old burning.
The catacombs open before me.
Alcoves line the passage, stuffed with the detritus of centuries. Rotted books lean against tarnished religious artifacts. Moldering tapestries hang in tatters from iron hooks. Everything bears a thick coating of soot, as if the entire lower level has been breathing smoke for decades.
My lantern light flickers across symbols carved into every surface—more runes, more desperate warnings. But there are other markings too. And beneath it all, that persistent heat building with each step deeper.
I move cautiously, journal ready, sketching what I can in the dancing light. The catacombs branch and twist, forming a maze that probably extends beneath the entire abbey. Perfect place to hide archives. Perfect place to hide anything you didn’t want found.
Or anything you wanted to make sure never escaped.
The thought sends ice down my spine despite the growing warmth. But I push forward. I didn’t come this far to let paranoia turn me back.
The passage opens into a circular chamber dominated by a raised dais. And there, carved into the stone floor in perfect symmetry, is the most complex magical circle I’ve ever seen.
Runes ring the outer edge—binding sigils, containment marks, symbols that practically screamDANGERin three different magical dialects. Inner rings hold shapes that seem to fold in on themselves. And at the very center...
A sarcophagus.
Massive, ancient, carved from black stone that drinks the light. Its surface bears the same spiraling patterns as the surrounding runes, inlaid with what looks like tarnished silver. The lid sits slightly askew, revealing a sliver of absolute darkness within.
This is a bad idea.
But I’m already approaching, lantern raised, curiosity overriding every survival instinct I possess. The runes around the sarcophagus are different from the others—older, more complex. Some are definitely containment bindings, but others...
Summoning circles. Binding contracts. Soul-anchors.
Someone didn’t just bury someone here. They bound them. Chained them with magic and will and probably considerable screaming.
And you’re standing in the middle of their containment circle.
I should leave. Right now. Turn around, climb the stairs, mount Sweetie, and ride hard for the coven lands. Let someone else deal with whatever sleeps in that black stone tomb.
Instead, I step closer.
The lantern light catches on script carved along the sarcophagus’s rim. Not Gothic this time. Something older, harsher. Orcish, maybe? The angular letters seem familiar, though I can’t read them. But there—one symbol I recognize from my studies of pre-Veil magical theory.
Ashbane.
A name. Or perhaps a title. The Ash-Something. The Ash-Bearer. The?—
Ash-Bound.
Brother Aldric’s words echo in my memory.The ash-bound lord whispers to him through the stones.
My hands tremble as I pull out my journal, flipping to a fresh page. Just a quick sketch. Just enough to research later, in safety, away from whatever wrongness permeates this place.
