The sun never truly rose in Vellhollow. A pale light filtered through the fog, but no warmth came with it. The group stood before the cathedral now, its rotting doors looming like the jaws of some ancient beast.
Kain pushed them open.
The interior was worse than expected—shattered pews, walls lined with faded murals of saints long forgotten, and an altar warped with decay. Vines of black ivy crept across the stone, pulsing with a dull green glow.
Rhyssa stepped lightly, arrow nocked, eyes scanning the gloom. "This place is hollow."
"Not just hollow," Aric muttered, "hungry."
A deep groan echoed from below. Not wood. Stone. Moving.
Kain gestured silently, and the three of them moved toward the altar. Behind it, half-hidden beneath a threadbare tapestry of some ancient god, was a stairwell spiraling down into darkness.
Aric lit a sphere of flame in his palm. "Down we go."
The air thickened with every step. The walls were carved with strange, repeating runes—old ones—etched deep enough that they looked like claw marks.
"It's getting colder," Rhyssa said. Her breath fogged in the air.
The stairway ended in a small stone antechamber. Ahead: a massive iron door, sealed shut with six turning rings etched with more of the root-like runes.
Kain approached it, and the mark on his arm flared.
The door groaned open without touch.
"I don't like that," Aric said.
They stepped inside.
The chamber was enormous—vaulted ceilings held up by cracked black stone columns. In the center stood a well. No rope. No bucket. Just a dark shaft, wide enough for a man to fall through.
Rhyssa peered in.
"No bottom."
Kain stared into it. "Then that's where he waits."
Before anyone could stop him, he stepped forward and dropped a single coin down.
No sound. No echo. Nothing.
Then...
A whisper.
Not from the well, but from the walls.
"Return what was taken..."
The whisper became a chant, rising in volume, overlapping voices—not speaking to them, but around them. A storm of breath.
Kain backed up.
From the base of the well, black smoke began to rise. It spun upward in long, twisting coils, thickening—solidifying.
A shape formed.
Seven feet tall, crowned in antlers made of petrified bone. A mask of bark and stone. No eyes. Only a mouth—stitched shut.
Rhyssa immediately loosed an arrow. It struck—then shattered.
The figure didn't flinch.
"Aric—" Kain started, but Aric was already casting.
"Lux fervens!"
A searing bolt of light shot from his hands. It struck the figure's chest—and was absorbed. The creature extended a long, bark-covered arm toward Kain.
The mark on his arm burned so hot he fell to his knees.
And then... it spoke.
But not from its mouth.
The voice was in his head.
"You have opened the gate. The roots remember."
Kain gritted his teeth. "What are you?"
"I am Warden. Herald. He who remains beneath."
Rhyssa drew a dagger. "Enough of this—!"
"No," Kain said sharply. "Don't."
The figure tilted its head. "You carry the key. You are not yet whole."
Kain stood slowly. "Then make me whole."
Silence.
Then the Warden extended a long claw, and with a flash of green light, sliced a thin line across Kain's palm.
The blood that dripped wasn't red.
It was black.
Kain stared at it. It evaporated before it hit the floor.
The Warden stepped back into the well, vanishing in smoke.
As soon as it disappeared, the chanting ceased. The well fell silent.
"I'm beginning to hate this place," Rhyssa muttered.
"You're not alone," Aric said.
Kain wrapped his hand. The pain was gone. But the mark on his arm had grown—stretching now across his forearm, new runes forming beneath the skin like roots beneath soil.
"We need answers," Kain said. "Real ones."
"And allies," Aric added.
"Then we leave," Kain said. "Tonight. There's nothing left here but ghosts."
As they made their way back up the stairwell, a figure stepped from the shadows above them. It was the old woman—the one who had helped them earlier.
But her eyes… were no longer human.
They were pitch black.
And she smiled.
"Leaving already?" she asked, voice calm. "But you've only just started."