The spiral staircase swallowed them whole.
Cold air rushed upward from the depths, carrying a metallic scent—like old blood mixed with rusted steel. The steps were narrow and uneven, carved in a perfect circle that felt too precise for mortal hands.
Behind them, the roar of the infected Beast shook the hall above. The Watcher's screech followed, sharp enough to knife through the air.
Lira gripped the railing, breath uneven. "They're coming down—Arin, faster!"
He pulled her along. "Don't look back. Just keep going."
The stairway twisted deeper and deeper, the darkness so thick it clung to their skin. The only light came from the Obsidian Vein, its glow shifting between deep violet and hollow silver.
Every few steps, Arin felt the shard tug toward something below—like a magnet dragging him down.
He wasn't sure if it was guiding him… or claiming him.
The deeper they went, the more the air changed. It no longer felt cold—it felt heavy. Pressurized. Almost like a presence was waiting in the void beneath them.
After what felt like minutes—or hours—the staircase opened into a massive chamber.
Lira gasped. "Arin… what is this place?"
Arin stepped forward, eyes widening.
The chamber was enormous, carved from obsidian-like stone that shimmered with fractured reflections. Pillars shaped like twisted crowns lined the room. The ground was engraved with old runes—broken, scattered, glowing faintly like dying embers.
And at the far end, on a raised platform of cracked black stone, stood a throne.
Not polished.
Not elegant.
Not whole.
It was broken—split straight down the middle, as if cleaved by a blade that wasn't meant to exist.
Arin felt the breath leave his lungs.
The air vibrated.
The shard throbbed.
You return to the Throne of Splinters.
The voice was back—clearer now, resonating in his skull like the walls themselves were speaking.
Arin whispered, "Not again…"
Lira stepped closer to him, eyes filled with fear. "Arin… that voice—what's it saying?"
Before he could answer, something shifted behind them.
Stone cracked.
Steps echoed.
Slow. Heavy. Certain.
Arin spun around.
The Beast descended the staircase—scraping its claws along the walls, peeling stone like paper. Its body pulsed with the same pale energy as the Watcher, its chest heaving with corrupted breath.
The Watcher followed, gliding smoothly along the steps, its long limbs bending at impossible angles. Its eyes locked onto Arin as if greeting an old enemy.
Lira whispered, "We're trapped…"
Arin stepped in front of her. "I know."
The shard pulsed violently now, reacting to the presence of the throne. The runes across the floor brightened, forming a circle around the platform.
The voice returned, rumbling like the echo of a forgotten storm.
Sit, Fallen One.
Reclaim what was once broken.
Arin clenched his jaw. "I'm not sitting on anything."
The voice darkened.
Then you will die as a stranger in your own hall.
The Beast roared and charged.
The Watcher's limbs snapped outward like spears.
Lira screamed, "Arin!"
Arin raised the shard—
And the chamber exploded with light.
Not white.
Not gold.
A deep, violent void-light that swallowed color itself.
The runes surged.
The pillars trembled.
The broken throne ignited with dark flame.
And then—
Every statue from the hall above began to move.
Their stone crests cracked open. Their hollow eyes lit with the same void-light as the shard.
Not alive.
Not dead.
Awakening.
Lira stared in horror. "Arin… what did you just do?!"
Arin's hand trembled as the shard burned like fire.
"I think," he whispered,
"I just called the Fallen Kings."
The Beast roared again, but this time—
It wasn't the only thing in the chamber preparing for war.
The first stone knight took its step forward.
Heavy.
Ancient.
Obedient.
And it looked straight at Arin.
Waiting for a command.
[To be continued...]