The pendant glowed faintly in Azazel's hand, casting pale light that spread like a lantern through the suffocating dark of the basement. The moment they stepped inside, a wave of stench struck them—rot, old blood, and something far fouler, almost metallic.
Then they saw it.
At the center of the chamber stood an altar—not stone, but a grotesque construction of blackened, shadow-like hands frozen mid-clutch, as if they were trying to drag something down into the abyss. Upon it lay the corpse of a priest. His abdomen had been split open, his insides long spoiled. Around him, flies, rats, and other vermin lay dead, as though the very altar had sucked the life from them too.
Juan cursed under his breath, covering his mouth and nose with a sleeve. Ino muttered, "This is wrong… this is very wrong."
Azazel steadied himself and pulled a small pouch from his satchel. From it, he withdrew a piece of consecrated chalk.
On the stone floor he began to draw a large circle, carefully inscribing the Seal of Solomon within it. Candles were placed at its points, their flames flickering against the damp walls.
"Everyone together," Azazel ordered. His voice was low but commanding. "Repeat after me."
He began to chant, the words flowing in a tongue that resonated with both weight and rhythm:
"Exsurge, lumen aeternum.
Exsurge, veritas divina.
Clavis Salomonis, claude portas tenebrarum.
Lux vincat umbras, in nomine Sancti."
The others joined in. Their voices overlapped, gaining force with every repetition.
The corpse on the altar twitched. Then it convulsed violently, a guttural scream ripping from its lifeless throat. The chamber shook with whispers, hundreds of them, layered on top of each other, seeping into their ears, promising, taunting, begging. The shadows thickened, pressing down.
"Don't stop!" Azazel shouted.
Ino dashed forward, sprinkling holy water over the altar. Steam hissed where droplets struck, and the priest's body thrashed harder.
Together they pressed on, their chant louder, faster, like a hammer striking against the abyss itself.
At the final verse, Azazel slammed the chalk into the center of the sigil. The Seal flared with blinding light.
The altar burst apart, shattering into shards of black smoke. A single voice—soft, weary, almost relieved—whispered "Gratias..."
Then it was gone.
Hundreds of souls spiraled upward, a torrent of pale light rushing past them, breaking free from the altar's grasp. They shot through the ceiling, out into the night.
The group, breathless, stumbled up the stairs.
When they emerged into the corridor, they froze.
The monks were no longer statues. They were alive—breathing, blinking, moving. Some embraced each other in tears. Others fell to their knees in prayer. A few simply wandered, dazed, as if waking from a nightmare they could barely remember.
Through the windows they saw the courtyard. More and more townsfolk clawed away their demonic iron masks, which disintegrated into ash as they fell. Voices rose in gratitude, prayers and thanks echoing in every direction.
A nun approached, tears streaming. "The abbot…?"
Azazel swallowed hard. "He fell resisting the curse. He gave his life to hold it back."
Her sob confirmed their suspicion—it had indeed been the head of the abbey.
The nuns and monks thanked them greatly and offered food, place to sleep, even money. But the group declined(notwithstanding the burning desire of Juan). Now they couldn't waste any more time.
They left soon after, climbing into the carriage beneath a sky heavy with stars. Exhaustion pressed on every bone, but there was a quiet triumph in their silence. By midnight, they rolled into the basilica's square. Without pause, they followed Isabella—limping but composed—toward the Wardens' pavilion to deliver their report.