Isabella broke the wax seal with a flick of her thumb. Her expression hardened as she read, then she slowly lowered the parchment to the table.
"You chose well," she said. "Or perhaps foolishly. The Abbey of Echoes lies a day north of Rome, on the old pilgrim's road. It was abandoned half a year ago after a massacre of monks. Hunters who ventured there since have spoken of whispers that drive men mad, shadows that steal their voices. The mission is simple on parchment—purge the Abbey and return with proof of cleansing."
"Simple," Juan muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Always hate that word."
Isabella's gaze cut to him. "Simple does not mean safe. Four flames are not handed out lightly."
They set out immediately. On a carriage: that was the most convenient way. Not only it was faster than on foot, the group could also sleep on their way.
While Matteo and Ino had a good 10 hour sleep, Juan managed to take a few naps.
The road bent through olive groves and stony hills. Shepherds they passed crossed themselves and spat on the ground when the Abbey was mentioned. By the night, the group camped within sight of a hilltop ruin. Its jagged towers clawed at the stars, moonlight pooling in shattered windows.
"This place looks like a tomb," Matteo whispered.
"It is," Ino replied flatly.
They entered at dawn. The Abbey's doors hung like broken teeth, creaking in the wind. Inside, murals of saints were half-burnt, their painted eyes scratched out. The air was cold, thick, filled with the faint murmur of voices.
"Whispers," Juan muttered, tightening his grip on the sabre.
The deeper they went, the louder it became—not words, not language, but a chorus of moans, laughter, and sobs. The sound gnawed at their thoughts. Azazel caught himself gripping his daggers too tightly, knuckles white.
Then, in the cloister's courtyard, they found them. Figures in torn habits, faces hidden by iron masks shaped like screaming mouths. Their bodies twitched with jerks not unlike marionettes. One turned its head, the iron jaws scraping open.
The whisper became words—low, guttural, spoken by many mouths at once.
"Welcome… hunters."
The group froze as the iron-faced monks began to move, slow at first, then with unnatural speed, circling them like wolves.
Azazel drew his blade, breath quickening.
"Stay sharp," he said.
And then, all at once, the whispers turned into a deafening scream.