Ronette and I scoured the chapel, our boots knocking echoes from dust-caked stone and splintered pews older than memory. Shadows hung thick as wet velvet, whispering secrets that no one had asked to hear. Yet aside from cobwebs and the smothering hush of ruin, the place seemed stubbornly empty.
"Hmm…" I murmured, twirling a strand of hair around my finger, the note of curiosity curling in my chest. "Where do you think those Red Robes are, Ronette?"
Silence answered me. Thick. Too thick.
"…Ronette?"
Still nothing.
"RRRROOOOONNNEEEETTTTTEEEEE~!" I sang, voice ricocheting off ancient stone like a ghost's taunt.
A panel in the shadows shifted, and Ronette emerged from a confessional booth, looking guilty enough to have eaten the last sacramental loaf. "You called, Louis?"
One brow arched, my grin crooked. "What were you doing in there? Confessing your sins?"
He shuffled forward, rubbing his neck. "Not quite. I think… I found a hidden door."
My eyes flared like oil meeting flame. "A hidden door? Where?!" The urge to pounce nearly twitched through my boots.
Ronette led me to the confessional, gesturing to the priest's side. I ducked in, eyes narrowing as I peered at worn stone that smelled faintly of dust and old regret.
"Looks pretty normal to me," I muttered, suspicion prickling the back of my mind.
Ronette shook his head. "No—look where the priest's back would face."
I leaned closer—and there, half swallowed by grime and age, was something etched into the stone. Neither word nor symbol. Just… wrong enough to feel right.
With the flourish of a showman and the nerve of a thief, I pressed my palm against it.
A soft click whispered through the booth, followed by silence heavy enough to weigh on the lungs.
"Louis? Nothing's happening…"
"Oh, my dear Ronette," I exhaled, stepping back, voice velvet and amusement. "It's called suspense."
"Suspense?"
"Yes. And if you get too anxious—" My grin gleamed as I drew my fiddle. "—allow me to serenade you through the tension."
The bow barely kissed the strings before a deeper, older click echoed. Air hissed, stale and cold, like something below had taken its first breath in centuries.
The confessional's back wall creaked open, stone grating against stone, revealing a spiral stairwell choked with shadow. Narrow as a coffin, slick with age, it yawned into darkness deeper than a grave.
Ronette took a hesitant step back, breath caught in his throat. "Ermm… do we descend?"
I flashed a grin sharp as a blade. "Of course! Time waits for no one!"
Cloak swirling, I ducked into the passage, boots ringing on ancient stone.
"Wait for me, Louis!" Ronette's voice chased after me, ragged with nerves.
The confessional door slammed shut behind us with a thud that felt… final. Darkness swallowed the chapel above, leaving us to the hungry dark below.
The ruin, it turned out, had a sense of humor—and it wasn't fond of trespassers.
First came the chandeliers, falling like divine guillotines. One nearly shaved the top of Ronette's hat clean off; if he hadn't bent down to tie his bootlace, it'd have been his head.
Then, a rain of darts hissed from hidden slits in the walls. I spun my fiddle like a shield, catching two, while Ronette dove, his shriek echoing so high it startled the bats above.
And then the floor betrayed us—not with spikes, nor flame, but a pit brimming with the most malicious creatures to ever wear feathers.
Geese. Dozens of them. Hissing, glaring, plotting. Their eyes burned with ancestral spite.
For one frozen breath, we simply stared.
Then came the shrieking.
"Why… why are there geese?" Ronette gasped, tottering at the edge.
I tilted my head, thoughtful. "Emergency food supply for the Red Robes, maybe? Judging by the fury, they've guessed their fate. Poor things are desperate."
One goose flapped so hard it looked ready to summon old gods. Another hissed with enough venom to curdle blood.
Ronette slipped. "Louis!"
In a lurch of motion, half instinct, half desperation, I caught him by the collar. He flailed like a hooked trout; I hauled him back from the brink of a pecked-to-death demise. We tumbled together, landing in a heap of bruised dignity.
The geese surged to the pit's edge, honking vengeance loud enough to rattle loose stones. One even tried to climb out.
I pointed, catching my breath. "Those birds aren't just angry, Ronette. They're vengeful."
The flock's honks chased us as we scrambled onward—shrill, righteous, unforgettable.
Then, as if insulted by our survival, an enchanted statue hurled lightning that kissed my fiddle. The string shrieked back, a note so sharp it could've cut glass.
Ronette hunched over, wheezing, sweat dripping from his brow. "When… is this going to end…?" His voice cracked, brittle as old parchment.
But my grin only widened. "What thrill! Who'd have thought we'd be stopped by traps, eh, Ronette?" My bow danced, plucking a mocking chord.
Ronette, breathless and pale, whispered, "You're enjoying this, aren't you…"
And then, like revelation struck by thunder, it came to me.
"This… this is…!" A shiver of inspiration ran through every bone.
"L-Louis?" Ronette edged closer, dread pooling in his eyes. "You okay—?"
I seized his hand in mine, shaking with fervor. "Ronette! I've been blessed! The greatest ilham—the muse herself!"
He yelped, nearly toppling over. "W-What now?!"
"Watch and listen, dear Ronette!" I lifted my fiddle like a blade and carved a trembling note into the stale air. "This ruin sings to me! And I shall sing back!"
And so, heart hammering, I launched into song. The ruin itself seemed to tremble under the weight of melody, shadows shifting as cobwebs danced. Even the vengeful geese seemed to honk in time.
[Verse 1]
Through the veil of creeping vine,
We crossed where old gods cease to shine,
Ronette laughed, her blade held tight,
I lit the way with bard's delight.
Ghosts in pews and shattered glass,
Traps that snapped and breathed out gas,
She danced past death with hair aflame,
I tripped and lived—she took the blame.
[Chorus]
We ran through ruin, hand in hand,
Past warnings scrawled in blood and sand,
Red Robes stirred in shadowed halls,
But we two siblings broke their walls!
With every thrill, a tale was spun—
A song to birth when all was done!
Secrets deep, and traps unsprung,
But the greatest song's yet to be sung...
By me, the glorious minstrel of fate,
Ronette's sibling, bold and great!
[Bridge]
Cracked bells tolled and stone eyes wept,
Still through cursed halls we crept.
A whisper here, a near-miss there—
A spike, a flame, a ghoul's cold stare.
But nothing stops two hearts on fire,
In ruins filled with dark desire.
[Final Chorus]
So raise your cups and sing with pride,
Of ruins where the dead still hide!
Of secrets kept and fates entwined—
Of siblings fierce, and traps designed!
A legend carved in crimson thread,
Where even Red Robes fear to tread!
And when this tale is told with glee,
The song will live—composed by me!
The minstrel bold, the song divine—
This tale, this thrill... forever mine!
But the ruin wasn't a fan of encores.
Each twang of my fiddle awakened calamity: a dart zipped past Ronette's ear; a rusted bell crashed inches from our feet; a hidden panel cracked open to unleash a swinging log that flattened an unsuspecting statue of Saint Unbothered.
And still, breathless with fervor, I played on.
When the dust settled, the chapel's bowels looked like a battlefield between music and masonry—and masonry had lost spectacularly.
Ronette, hair wild and face pale, lowered trembling hands from his ears and managed a shaky clap. "Louis! You're actually… really good at singing. But if I may suggest—" he panted, "maybe forgo the fiddle."
I gasped, clutching it to my chest like a mother shielding her child. "What? Absolutely not. The fiddle is my soul, Ronette. My soul!"
His expression spoke what he dared not say, 'You stole that fiddle.'
I squinted back. "Borrowed. I borrowed it. Just… not a face-to-face agreement."
Ronette's look flattened into a deadpan so pure it could press linen. "So… you admit you stole it."
Without missing a beat, Ronette folded his hands in prayer. "Oh, good lord, please don't punish Louis too harshly. She's innocent. She merely committed a one-time sin. A lapse in judgment."
I cleared my throat, voice dropping to a mumble. "Yup… one time…"
Ronette's head snapped toward me, horror dawning like sunrise. "That wasn't your first time?"
"That's beside the point," I dismissed quickly, swatting away guilt like a persistent fly. "The fiddle was dying in silence. Now, it lives again. It sings."
The fiddle let out a defiant, slightly off-key squeak as I struck it proudly. "See? It lives."
"It screeches," Ronette muttered.
"Art is pain, Ronette." I lifted my chin, cloak swirling, eyes burning with unrepentant pride. "Sometimes pain sounds like screeching."