The road to Sanctum grew colder with every mile.
The four vessels moved in near-silence now—Liora's betrayal still fresh, the memory of Abaddon's black flames searing her mark like a brand. She walked at the rear, shadows subdued, eyes downcast. No more smiles. No more sly comments. Only quiet obedience.
Elara kept glancing back at her, hand never far from the knife. Behemoth said nothing, but his footsteps fell heavier, as though the earth itself needed reminding who carried the weight.
Elias walked in front—hood up, shoulders tense. The sigil on his chest felt heavier than ever, like a stone tied around his heart. Abaddon had been quiet since the chapel, but the quiet was not peaceful. It was expectant.
They reached the catacombs on the seventh night.
The entrance lay hidden beneath an overgrown cemetery on the capital's eastern fringe—forgotten graves tilting under ivy, a rusted iron grate half-buried in moss. Liora whispered a word; the shadows peeled the grate aside like paper. They descended single file into darkness that smelled of wet stone and old death.
The tunnels stretched for miles—vaulted passages lined with niches where bones rested in neat rows, faded inscriptions whispering names long erased. Torchlight would have drawn attention; instead Liora's shadows clung to the walls, glowing faintly so they could see without being seen.
They stopped in a wide chamber where six passages met. An ancient stone table stood in the center, carved with runes no living priest could read. Dust lay thick; no footprints marred it.
Elias leaned against the wall, breathing hard. The march had been relentless.
"We rest here," he said. "Just a few hours."
The others nodded—too tired to argue.
Behemoth sat first, back against a pillar, club across his knees. Elara curled near the table, knees drawn up. Liora settled in the darkest corner, shadows wrapping around her like a blanket.
Elias slid down the wall opposite them. His eyes closed almost immediately.
Sleep came fast—and with it, the whisper.
It was not Abaddon's voice.
It was not Lucifer's.
It was neither male nor female, neither kind nor cruel. It was the sound of pages turning in an empty library, of wind through a house long abandoned, of silence noticing itself.
Who do you think wrote the rules of creation?
Elias's eyes snapped open.
He was no longer in the catacombs.
He stood on a vast plain of black glass under a sky with no stars—no moon, no light at all, yet he could see perfectly. The ground reflected nothing. The air tasted of nothing.
The voice came again—from everywhere and nowhere.
Lucifer believes he fell because he questioned. Abaddon believes he was imprisoned because he threatened to end the question. Both are wrong.
A shape appeared—not a figure, but an absence. A place where reality folded inward, like a hole in the page of the world.
They are characters. You are characters. The story was written long before any of you drew breath.
Elias's heart hammered. "Who are you?"
I am the one who set the board. I am the one who placed the pieces. I am the one who watches to see how long it takes for the pieces to realize they are played.
The absence rippled.
Lucifer wants to burn the board because he hates the rules. Abaddon wants to eat the board because he hates the game. You… you still think you can win.
Elias clenched his fists. "Then stop us. If you wrote it all, end it."
A sound like distant laughter—dry, indifferent.
But that would be boring.
The voice faded slightly.
Keep playing. Make it interesting. When the board is finally cleared… perhaps I will start a new one.
Elias felt himself pulled backward—toward waking.
One last whisper brushed his mind.
Tell no one what you heard. Not yet. Let them believe they still have choices.
He woke with a gasp.
The catacombs were unchanged. The others still slept—or pretended to.
Elias pressed a hand to his chest. The sigil pulsed once—slow, almost curious.
Abaddon spoke then, soft and amused.
You dreamed.
Elias did not answer.
But the whisper lingered in his skull—faint, persistent, inescapable.
Who do you think wrote the rules…
He looked at his companions—Elara breathing steadily, Behemoth like a statue, Liora curled small in her shadows.
For the first time since the obelisk, Elias felt truly alone.
Not because Abaddon was inside him.
But because something far older, far colder, watched from outside.
And it was bored.
The march resumed at dawn.
None of them spoke of dreams.
But Elias walked with his head slightly bowed—as though listening to a voice only he could hear.
And somewhere above them, in Sanctum's highest tower, a silver-haired boy sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his own hands.
He whispered the same question into the dark.
"Who…?"
No answer came.
Only silence.
And the patient turning of an unseen page.
End of Chapter 18