At first, Erikos thought it was a trick of the wind—just the echo of air brushing against the rotting pillars of the church.
But the footsteps continued… steady, deliberate, cutting through the silence like a weight pressing down on the soul.
He looked toward Isolde, and her expression was frozen—she had heard them too… and she understood.
> "That's not human..."
She didn't move her lips. The words seemed to come from somewhere deeper.
Isolde tucked the map back into the suede envelope, her fingers trembling.
Erikos, without a word, reached for the glass vial where the black sand churned with anxious rhythm, as if it too could sense what was coming.
They moved quickly.
Behind the altar, hidden beneath a moldy curtain, was a narrow door.
Erikos pushed it aside, revealing a steep staircase descending into darkness—a stairwell untouched by time, and by light.
The deeper they went, the colder it became, the shadows thickening around them like wet ash. Even the lantern flickered reluctantly, as though the flame wanted to flee.
At the bottom, they entered a small chamber.
The walls were covered in markings—not written words, but desperate carvings, like screams trapped in stone.
In the center stood something resembling an hourglass, only upside-down.
The black sand within wasn't falling... it was rising.
> "This... isn't measuring time,"
Erikos whispered.
"It's tracking something beneath us."
Before they could speak further, the walls trembled.
A cry rang out—distant, yet agonizing. Not the scream of a body, but the sound of a soul being torn loose.
Isolde gasped and pointed toward the far wall.
There was a smooth surface there, broken only by a faint impression in the shape of a hand.
Erikos stepped forward, drawn by instinct.
Without knowing why, he pressed his palm against the stone.
Instantly, a wave of heat surged through him—
and a vision exploded in his mind:
A city buried beneath shifting sands.
Twisted spires leaning toward the void.
And at its heart... a stone shepherd without eyes—watching.
Erikos pulled his hand back, breathless.
He turned to Isolde.
> "I saw Ramata…"
But she didn't answer.
She was staring at his hand—
where the black sand had begun to seep out of his skin this time.
---
Above them, the footsteps returned.
But it was no longer a single set.
There were many.
And they were getting closer.