“Pair off. I’ll take Seren—if she can hear them, I’ll need her to lead me to them,” I say, and Therion’s lips press into a thin line. He doesn’t like this.
“I’ll protect her,” I say intently, and I fucking mean it. Not only is shesomeoneto Therion, she’s the best friend of my Starbound.
He nods, reluctant, and gestures to Ronyn to go with him. Jax and Merrik take off down a tunnel, and Seren looks at me, eyes defiant and ready.
“I believe it’s Death that calls to me,” she says confidently. “And he wants you.”
I don’t know why he wantsme, but I relish the chance to look upon his face.
“And I wanthim,” I say with conviction.
“This way,” she says, leading me down a tunnel to the right.
The old mining tunnel smells of a forgotten place—dust, mildew, decaying vermin, and memories that hang in the air, refusing to vanish.
Zerynthian children are raised on stories of Black Heart Belt. Stories of reverence, honor and holy rites of passage, and I feel the weight of walking these sacred tunnels, a lump in my throat forming for the Old Zerynthian ways we’ve lost to time and the curse.
I pick up an old plank of wood and light the end with my flint. It illuminates the narrow path, and cobwebs catch the light of the flame. Seren swats at the webs with her crossbow, unfazed by the filth.
We descend the mines, the air growing more humid with each step we take. Seren navigates the mines as if she’s worked here all her life. Confident, knowing and unafraid.
Every step feels like walking deeper into the marrow of the world.
She stops, turning to me with a penetrating stare. “He warns you—no magic,” she relays sternly. She turns and walks on without another word.
We walk for what feels like hours, but finally, Seren stops. A cavernous tomb carved from black stone unfurls, filled with the hushed weight of ages. Along its walls, vessels of every kind stand—gilded urns for kings, gem-studded reliquaries for fallen gods, ironbound caskets for warriors whose names have long since turned to dust. And at the center, dominating the chamber, rests an obsidian sarcophagus. And I know with absolute certainty;it’s Morrathys.
I’ve heard of obsidian sarcophagi only in legend. Made of a single block of volcanic glass, its surface veined with threads of zarethite that glimmer faintly in the dark, as though lit by a pulse deep within. Runes etched into the stone crawl like scars across their lids.
I look to Seren, but she’s already speaking. “The runes bind the spirit within—they’ve trapped him in eternal unrest.”Seren’s face twists into one of horror. “It’s sacrilege,” she breathes.
Unlike the honored dead around him, this coffin does not bless or protect—it imprisons, ensuring the soul of Morrathys can never roam free.
“They dishonor our culture,” I spit, rage rushing through me sharp and hot at the disrespect to our traditional customs.
Seren moves to the sarcophagi, her hands pressing into the runes, as if she’s pained by his trapped soul. Then?—
Her head throws back at an unnatural angle.
A strangled scream rasps from her throat—possessed, distorted.
“Morrathys,” she chokes out.
“Seren!” I scream, rushing to her.
Her eyes roll back in her head, whites exposed.
They spin back, and this time, she’s different.Changed.
Because her eyes are pure, bottomless, unadulterated black.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ELYSSARA
The dreaded groanof my cell’s gate rouses me from slumber—a relatively peaceful sleep with the restorative properties of my magic having healed many of my broken bones and ripped flesh. The same cannot be said for my mind.Or my heart.
Vessira peers down at me, her deep-brown eyes narrowing in time with her snarling mouth. “Wakey wakey, Gutter Rat. Time for another dining experience with His Majesty,” she laughs cruelly, as if she knows this dinner includes more than a meal and conversation.
