The silence inside the mountain was heavier than the stone itself.
They had been walking for what felt like hours. The screeches of the Razor-Wings and the screams of the dying soldiers had long faded, replaced by the rhythmic dripping of water and the sound of their own ragged breathing.
Ciro held the torch high. The flame was sputtering, feeding on the last dregs of oil on the arrow's tip. The light cast long, dancing shadows against the walls, making the natural rock formations look like grasping hands.
"Ciro," Elara whispered. The acoustics of the tunnel amplified her voice into a ghostly echo. "The air... it changed."
Ciro stopped. She was right. The stale, musky smell of the bat colony was gone. The air here was dry, cold, and smelled of dust. Ancient dust.
He lowered the torch to the ground. The floor was no longer rough, uneven limestone. It was flat. Paved with square blocks of black granite, fitted together so seamlessly that not even a blade of grass could grow between them.
"We are not in a cave anymore," Ciro murmured, crouching to touch the stone. "This is a road."
"A road?" Elara looked around nervously. "Under the Weeping Cliffs? Who would build a road here?"
"The Old Kings," Ciro said, standing up. "Before Morvath was a kingdom of men, it was a mining colony for the giants of the North. Or so the stories say."
He moved the torch to the left. The light revealed a massive pillar carved into the rock wall, depicting a face with hollow eyes and a mouth open in a silent scream.
Elara gasped, stepping closer to Ciro. "It's hideous."
"It's a warning," Ciro corrected.
The flame on the torch flickered violently and then shrank to the size of a candle flame. They had minutes, maybe seconds, of light left.
"We need to find an exit before the light dies," Ciro said, his pace quickening. "If we are caught in the dark here, we will wander until we starve."
They hurried down the ancient stone road. The tunnel widened, opening up into a colossal cavern that stretched beyond the reach of their meager light.
As they ran, Ciro noticed something disturbing. The road was lined with statues. Hundreds of them. But they weren't statues of kings or gods. They were statues of people—men, women, children—cowering, screaming, or begging. They looked hyper-realistic.
Too realistic.
"Ciro," Elara stopped, pointing ahead. "Look."
At the end of the road, illuminated by the dying ember of their torch, stood a massive pair of double doors. They were made of iron, rusted shut, and covered in chains.
But it wasn't the doors that froze Ciro's blood. It was what lay in front of them.
A skeleton.
It was wearing rusted armor—not the armor of Morvath, but ancient, plate armor. And it was sitting against the door, clutching a small leather journal.
The torch sputtered one last time.
"Read it," Ciro commanded, grabbing the journal from the skeleton's bony fingers. "Fast."
Elara opened the brittle pages. The ink was faded, but legible.
"Day 40. The doors are sealed. The King has locked us in with It. We can hear It breathing in the dark. May the gods have mercy on our souls."
Phhhht.
The torch died.
Pitch blackness swallowed them instantly.
"Ciro?" Elara's voice was high with panic. She reached out, grabbing his arm.
"Don't move," Ciro whispered.
In the absolute darkness, a sound echoed from behind the iron doors.
It was a slow, heavy scratch. Like metal dragging on stone.
Scrrrraaaape.
Something was on the other side. And it wanted to come out.