—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
THEY'RE ALIVE.
IT'S
it's right
in front
of
me
me.
I
I can't
can't move.
my head
won't
turn.
I can
ju
st
s e e
the page.
don't
look
away
c
a
n
'
t
look
away
KEEP LOOKING
don't blink
don't
b l i n k
Its face
is
right
in
front
of
me.
It's been
a
day
d a y
d a y
d a y
I want
to shut
my
m y
eyes.
e y e s
shu
shut
d
o
n
'
t
don'tbli
bli
blin
blin k
bl i—
n k
—— ❖ ——
Words lost their sanity the further down the page they lay. The last lines were scribbled in an insane manner, too incomprehensible.
Then it abruptly ended.
Arion was silent, frozen. A bead of cold sweat slid down his brow as he slowly moved his eyes.
Everything muted, like he was inside a vacuum. His heart slowed, not daring even to breathe.
A crack.
His eyes darted towards the sound — but nothing. No change. No movement.
Essence grew thick in the air; he could sense it, smell it, almost taste it.
Something's in this room…
…And I can't detect it.
His gaze swept the room, quick, restless, never letting himself blink.
Chests creaked, shard-light fluttered, statues stood silently listening, candles wavered.
Every detail was catalogued, patterns, distinctions — anything that might give a sign.
C'mon!
Nothing.
…Fuck — fuck!
"What the hell!"
"No disturbances, no outline anomalies, no refraction distortions, no light-bending, no Vantablack effects —"
As his eyes swept the room again, they caught on a statue of a woman in the far corner. It was staring in his direction.
"Stare some more, or take a picture while you're at it, creepy fucker."
Annoyed, he stayed alert, eyes darting, mind racing.
CRACK.
Again, the same splitting noise.
"What is mak—"
He froze.
There — a face looking back at him. The same statue. But this time it felt personal, as if it was watching him, tracking him.
"Haha… no."
The staring contest began.
"No. No no, you're fucking with me."
Then — a blink.
His heart dropped. He saw his life flash before his eyes, a cute wife — no, two cute wives, ten kids, friends, allies, five-star food.
…
He snapped back to reality.
Still staring at the statue.
Nothing.
Just a creepy-looking statue staring back.
"Ahrrr! You're making me think weird things with all that staring, woman."
The statue didn't move.
Arion kept surveying the room. A sudden stone scrape split the silence.
Paranoia spiked. He tore his gaze back to the statue.
His heartbeat went erratic, struggling to stabilise.
"H-hello…?"
He took a slow step sideways, staying within reach of his staff, eyes locked, keeping it in frame.
Every rational thought begged for a cause, shifting light, refractive shadow, anything.
Nothing.
Another crack, behind him this time.
Reflex took over; he spun toward the sound—just a fissure in the wall.
Then another.
He turned back fast.
Pure white eyes.
A stretched-out maw of darkness.
Only now did he realise the truth.
It was playing with him.
…
There it stood, the female statue, morphed and disfigured.
Its eyes, inches from his own. He knew if he flinched, he'd die.
All he could do now …
Don't.
Blink.
Then came another sensation — pain rising in his side, warmth spreading under his shirt.
Am I… bleeding?
He ignored every instinct, fighting the impossible urge to look.
Keeping his gaze fixed on the statue, he probed inward with Vitalis.
Something blocked the flow — dense, alien.
Realisation hit him.
He'd been stabbed.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
Petrified.
White eyes stared back.
A pitch-black maw stretched below—deeper than sight, like a cracked line splitting open, ready to swallow its prey.
The first thing he felt was warmth. Then liquid.
A strange wetness that hadn't been there before. Trickling down his side, several droplets, flowing from separate puncture wounds.
Then pain set in.
The pain wasn't clean; it throbbed with something colder than blood, a pulse that wasn't his.
Nerves screamed, pain receptors overloading; his Vitalis flickered with unease.
Adrenaline dulled the shock, but something was clearly wrong.
It didn't go all the way through, otherwise I'd be heavily bleeding.
Good news: just a trickle…
But why do I feel like I'm bleeding more than I am?
He focused inward on the inner current of Vitalis, circulating it through the wound.
When he did, the flow weakened… then vanished.
It's… siphoning! It's aiming for my Vitalis.
Static crawled through his veins, like glass grinding under the skin.
At this point, Vitalis was worth as much as blood—maybe more.
This is gonna suck.
He arched his back. Stone claws slid out through flesh.
"G-grrhh!" Teeth clenched, eyes wide, he fought not to lose focus.
He took a step; a rush of blood followed, then another.
Agonising pain tore through him, heat flaring in his side until, finally, he broke free of its grasp.
He stumbled. Now feeling dizzy, he caught himself, pressed his hand to the wound, and leaned against the plinth beside him.
Slick warmth coated his palm.
Heartbeats hammered behind his ears, the room shrinking to rhythm and breath.
Weakness spread. Whatever the statue had done, he was feeling it.
His body slumped, breath quick, blood running faster. Stamina, blood, even Vitalis: all draining. He had to act.
It didn't hit anything vital… just flesh and muscle.
"Coagulate. I've gotta stop the flow, or I'll be a top donor at this rate." A weak smile; gallows humour.
Skin, muscle, nerves—it can wait. Blood first.
If not for Mum's bickering lectures, I wouldn't know any of this.
The thought steadied him, a chuckle even, knowledge was still his weapon.
But this—this was pushing it.
He reached inward. No healing spells; only himself.
His Vitalis circuit was restless, reacting to his condition.
Concentrate. Five entry points. Compress.
He imagined himself when compacting air or water—but this time, himself.
Focus the circulation. One entry at a time. Condense. Slow. Apply pressure.
Faint shimmer beneath the skin. The area flared hot; pain sharpened.
Moments later the bleeding slowed to a drip, thickening with every drop.
The sensation was alien—like blind surgery on himself, magic as scalpel, while still holding the world's longest staring contest.
He felt the flow shift, sluggish now but steady.
Heartbeat loud in his ears.
The smell of iron hung close.
…
Breath evened out. Cold sweat clung to his clothes; blood stained them dark, hair plastered to his forehead.
I… I think that did it.
Pressure held. Flow crawled. Coagulation in effect.
He let out a shaky laugh.
"J… just f… four more to go," he murmured, half-delirious.
…
The statue stood motionless—maw open, arm outstretched, claws extended and painted with blood.
Time ticked away, one drop of blood at a time.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
Each breath rasped dry through his throat.
Eyes burned. Limbs heavy.
He leaned on the plinth, cold stone under palm, posture collapsing under fatigue and blood loss.
F…low's stopped.
He lifted one hand into the edge of his vision, not risking a head turn that might let instincts win.
His hands were stained with dry blood; the sight finally told his brain what his body already knew. Nothing screams injury like seeing your own blood.
It's dry. Good…
He stared—or rather, kept staring, at the statue in front of him.
"So… You just gonna stand there?" he said, awkwardly wide-eyed.
No response, as if he was hoping for one.
"Seriously, this silent treatment is getting boring, real quick."
I want to blink so badly! How the hell did that guy last a day?
He resisted the urge to turn toward the body a few paces away.
Maybe… maybe I can do one-eyed blinks?
Hesitant, knowing the statue could move at unimaginable speed at this distance, he couldn't make a mistake.
Blink.
He closed one of his dried, crusted eyes; his body recoiled with sheer relief—a function he'd kept refusing.
Okay… t-that worked. Now the second one… haha, easy.
He closed the other while reopening the first. With a refreshed blink, he could keep going.
But… now there were the open wounds to deal with.
He took one hand and coaxed his little flame off his shoulder, gliding it into view. It wavered toward him, as if it feared the thing behind it.
"Hey, buddy… I need your help one last time, okay?"
The flame danced above his finger, ready for its last task.
He studied the little flame, its heartbeat faint but stable.
Heat density has to spike fast, not linger—sear, seal, and stop the flow. If I'm too slow, I'll cook muscle; too fast and it'll burst the clot.
He steadied his breath, pulling Vitalis to his finger and linking to the Luminary Essence sheathing the ember, focusing until it pinpointed to a white-orange spark.
Pressure, not size—that's the trick.
The air around it trembled. It pulsed against his control, straining like a living thing.
"Alright… quick and clean."
Pressure differentiation: don't make it larger—increase PSI, not volume. Small but extremely hot; fast, ugly sealing.
" Haha… no biggie," he said with blind faith, sweat beading on brow and hands.
He freed his other hand and leaned fully back on the plinth. Feeling along his side, he found the first entry point and pinched the torn flesh together.
"Mmhhff!" Teeth clenched, eyes widening even more.
This… is gonna hurt like a bitch.
He brought the pressured flame close. He held it just off the skin; the hiss began before the bite, drying the edge.
The smell hit before the pain—iron, salt, burnt cloth. Then the fire bit through.
Touch, off, breathe.
His teeth locked, focus straining through the shock. Sharp, sudden pain—the kind that makes no sound, just a convulsion and a muffled curse.
He pulled away quickly, reapplying without letting the seal cool too long. Each pass burned new iron and salt into the air. Each hiss sounded different, tissue shrinking, sealing, surrendering to the heat.
He swept a sliver of Vitalis around the seam, stripping the heat, cooling it just enough to hold.
…
After a few more passes sealing the skin, he finally took a long breath.
"Fuck!"
"Mum, you undersold that part."
Just cauterising a finger-claw-sized hole in his side was enough to rattle his already debilitated psyche.
C'mon, Arion.
He took a moment to catch his breath.
"Four more—then we leave this hell-hole." His voice cracked halfway through, raw from grit and heat.
Somewhere in the room, stone settled with a hairline crack.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
The flame trembled, no larger than a flutter. Its glow had turned pale, the bright core now a dull ember fighting to exist.
Arion held it still, the heat barely kissing his skin. The air around it shimmered weakly, Luminary unravelling from its heart.
He felt it—like the pulse of a friend fading under his palm. His Vitalis were at critical levels, he'd have to do the trip back alone.
"...You did good."
The words came out hoarse, but the flame seemed to hear. It flickered once, a final heartbeat, before collapsing inward. Light folded into nothing. A soft curl of grey rose from his fingertip, twisting up until the ruin swallowed it whole.
Darkness returned, heavier somehow. The scent of burnt blood lingered longer than the warmth.
Four open wounds now burnt shut. The air was thick with blood and scorched skin flakes.
Eyelids barely hanging on, two eyes narrowed on a very familiar statue.
For a moment, there was only the hum of cooling stone. The smell of iron and char. The ceiling shard was glistening, stuttering every once in a while. His breath fogged once, twice, before settling.
He wasn't sure if the silence meant safety or if he'd simply gone deaf to fear.
He pushed himself up from the plinth. One hand lifted; recall snapped, and slapped into his palm—a walking stick.
He started moving, eyes locked on the statue, the stick feeling for anything that might trip his escape.
Eyes forward, still on it. He edged back toward the corridor, one step at a time, making sure the hell-spawn of stone didn't follow.
"Fun first date… but we don't really gel too well."
"Definitely wasn't you, not the stone skin or the huge wide maw. That's for sure…"
Yeah… I'm gonna be having sleep-paralysis demons because of this bloody statue.
And the trauma. God, the trauma.
He tried not to shiver and trigger an accidental blink.
The corridor behind him seemed to grow wider with every step, like a black maw ready to swallow him whole.
It wasn't silent—low, steady breaths of draft flowed through the ruin, as if the structure itself was breathing.
Tap.
Step.
He caught glimpses of old carvings between flickers of shard-light. Something about the symmetry made him uneasy.
Tap.
Step.
Shard-light skated across the dark corners, carving shapes of shadow that existed for a second before melting back into the dark.
Was it real—or pareidolia? His fractured, paranoid mind couldn't tell. At this point, he wasn't taking chances.
Arion was making good progress, considering he'd had a handful of claw in his side a moment ago. The staff took his weight as he stepped back, giving him a third foothold on the ground.
Step.
Then—silence.
No staff tap. He hadn't lifted it.
He'd reached a spot where light from a ceiling ornament gleamed down, slightly blinding—not enough to slow him.
What froze him was the staff itself. The iron-dark fitting at the top caught a gleam, a reflection that showed it plainly.
White. Silent. Complete stillness.
It was only then he remembered:
'THEY'RE ALIVE.'
Shit…
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——