The catacombs beneath Evergrave breathed like a wounded beast—wet stone heaving, shadows twitching, the scent of rot thick in Franklin's lungs. His torch crackled against the damp, but the darkness swallowed light as though it craved it. Each step forward felt like stepping deeper into the belly of a dying creature, its ribs creaking in the cold silence that stretched beyond time.
"This is where it begins," Franklin muttered, his voice low, reverberating through the narrow stone corridors. "The first seal."
Behind him, Brenda's footsteps echoed softly, hesitant but determined. Cloaked in black, her face half-veiled, she glanced around with narrowed eyes, constantly assessing the unseen dangers lurking in the shadows. The faint glow of his torch illuminated the hard edges of her features, casting them in sharp relief. "You're certain the seal is here?" Her voice was quiet, but Franklin could hear the trace of uncertainty beneath her calm demeanour.
"I can feel it," he replied, his voice steady but carrying a quiet intensity. He didn't need proof. The air had changed down here, thick with the weight of ancient magic. The very stones seemed to hum with a deep, unsettling presence. The walls of the catacombs weren't just walls, they were listening. Alive in some manner. And in this place, where the scent of decay mingled with the damp cold, Franklin could feel Solorth's essence, like an oppressive shadow, looming over everything. "Solorth's presence is strongest in the places built on sacrifice."
Brenda said nothing. She never did, not in moments like these. She carried a dagger in one hand, its worn hilt familiar and solid, and the other hand was wrapped tightly around the edge of her cloak as if it offered her some comfort against the unseen horrors. Franklin knew she didn't follow him out of trust, not entirely. But something bound her to him still. Fear, duty, perhaps something more complicated. Whatever it was, it tethered her to his cause. Her silent presence was a reminder that even in the darkest corners of the world, alliances formed in unexpected ways.
The catacombs twisted, a labyrinthine maze carved long before either of them was born, built to bury kings, secrets, and gods. The paths seemed to shift underfoot, and Franklin's hand brushed the cold stone walls, following the intricate carvings etched in forgotten languages, runes that whispered with ancient power, their meanings lost to time. One symbol pulsed faintly under his touch, a jagged rune shaped like an eye, staring into him, searching.
He pressed his palm against it.
A deep, resonating groan filled the air, like the earth itself was waking from a long, restless sleep. The floor cracked beneath him, splitting open as the stone wall ahead split with a deafening scream of ancient hinges, revealing a chamber veiled in green mist. The air was so thick it felt like they were stepping into a dream or a nightmare.
Brenda exhaled sharply, her breath catching in her throat. "What is this place?"
Franklin stepped forward, unflinching, as though the very darkness recognised him. "A tomb."
Inside, the air was colder, heavier, as though it had been untouched for centuries. It was a tomb, yes, but not just for the dead. It was a place of old magic, of curses, of ancient contracts made by men too foolish to understand the power they bargained with. A stone platform rose in the centre of the chamber, etched with blood runes that pulsed faintly as they approached. The runes seemed to hunger, drawing their power from the very walls themselves. Atop the platform lay a corpse armoured in rusted gold, a crown shattered, eyes hollow and empty, as though whatever life had once been within had been drained, burned away.
Franklin froze, his breath catching in his throat. "My grandfather."
Brenda's sharp gaze flickered to him, but her expression remained impassive. "He died in his sleep, they said."
Franklin shook his head, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes. "He didn't. He was offered."
A chill passed over him, one that wasn't just the cold of the chamber. The memory of the day his father had knelt before Solorth, the day Franklin had taken the chalice of blood, was still vivid in his mind. The sharp sting of his blood mingling with the cursed drink, the strange satisfaction that had followed. Solorth's presence had filled him then, too, cold, all-consuming. The entity had smiled at him, its fangs gleaming in the dim light, the price of the pact already paid, the chains of his immortality already wrapped around his soul.
But this was not the time to revisit those memories. The seal still hung above his grandfather's body, a swirling, burning thing of molten glass and agony. Franklin's eyes locked on it as if it had eyes of its own, waiting.
The air shimmered again, and Franklin stepped forward, his body bracing for the inevitable. His skin prickled as if something was crawling beneath it, urging him forward. Pain sliced through him like a blade as he drew closer to the seal. The moment he reached out to touch it, his skull exploded with searing pain. The seal reacted instantly, fire licking down his spine, forcing him to his knees. His vision swam, and the world tilted dangerously.
Visions bombarded him with blurred, disjointed fragments of memories, half-formed and agonising. The day his father knelt before Solorth, the smell of incense was thick in the air as he sliced open his palm. The taste of blood as Franklin drank from the chalice, the warmth of Solorth's power flooding through him. And then, the smile too wide, too eternal of the entity, fanged and endless, stretching across a blackened sky.
Brenda grabbed his shoulder, her voice breaking through the haze of pain. "You're bleeding, Franklin !"
Blood poured from his nose, dripped down his chin, and his eyes blurred with crimson. He gasped for breath, the weight of the seal's power pressing down on him like an immovable mountain. "I have to break it," he choked out, his voice strained. "It has to be me."
The seal pulsed again, brighter now, as though it were alive, a living thing, feeding off his suffering. And then he heard it.
A voice, low and dripping with malice, echoed through the chamber.
"One must take the pain. One must give blood. Choose."
Brenda flinched, taking a step back. "What was that?"
"The seal," Franklin whispered, struggling to remain upright. "It's sentient. Solorth bound it with a voice."
The seal flared again, its molten light scorching everything in its path.
"One must die. One must bleed. Choose."
Franklin's heart hammered in his chest, his mind racing. He looked at Brenda, his eyes filled with a desperation he hadn't allowed himself to feel until now. "It wants sacrifice."
She stiffened, her hand tightening on the hilt of her dagger. "I'm not dying for your curse."
"No," he said, wiping blood from his face. "But if I do, this kingdom dies with me. There has to be another way."
Then, something unexpected happened. Brenda, the one who had always been cold and distant, the one who never showed weakness, sliced open her palm. Her blood, dark and thick, dripped onto the platform. She stared at the seal with a defiance that struck him hard.
"Take it," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Not all. Just enough. I'm not ready to die, but I'll bleed."
The seal trembled then flared white-hot, brighter than the sun itself. A sound, like a thousand tortured souls screaming in unison, filled the chamber. Franklin clutched at his head, but the pain was nothing compared to what he had experienced before. Then the scream stopped. The corpse of his grandfather, once a symbol of power, disintegrated into ash. The blood runes shattered in a brilliant flash of light.
The seal broke.
Crimson light exploded, filling every corner of the chamber with a violent force. The walls trembled, and the ground shook beneath their feet.
Franklin collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, the pain finally fading into nothingness. Brenda stood beside him, pale, her hand trembling, blood still dripping from her cut. Her breath came in shallow gasps, but there was something resolute in her eyes.
"It's done," she said quietly.
Franklin looked at her. Looked at her, and for the first time, he saw her as more than the cold shadow she had been. Maybe she wasn't the same woman who once sat silent beside him on a gilded throne. Maybe she was something more now. Or something broken.
Either way, they had just burned the first chain.
Two more to go.
But far above, in the throne room, Rebecca stood at Banji's side, whispering her plans into the rot of his reign. Far below, where shadows deepened, Solorth opened his eyes.