The catacombs stretched endlessly, twisting deeper beneath the Vatican. The air grew damp and fetid, heavy with the stench of mold and something older—something rotten. Their footsteps echoed, uneven and cautious, until the passage widened into a cavernous hall.
Lucien slowed. His stomach tightened.
Rows of stone cells lined the walls, iron bars twisted and rusted by centuries. At first glance the prison seemed abandoned—only piles of bones, scraps of tattered wings, horns, and shattered claws remained. But then came the whispers.
From the darkness of some cells, yellow eyes blinked open. Gaunt figures pressed against the bars, their skin torn, their bodies half-decayed, barely alive. Demons—imprisoned, starved, broken.
"They… they kept them here?" Matteo's voice trembled.
"Not just kept," Ino muttered, staring at a mangled beast rocking back and forth. "They tortured them."
One of the creatures rasped, its voice like gravel in a fire pit.
"We smell him…" it hissed, talons scraping across the stone.
"We smell Johann Weyer… his stench clings to you..."
Lucien froze, breath catching behind the mask. The demon's words cut deeper than chains.
"Keep moving," the Grandmaster ordered coldly. "Do not answer them."
They pushed on, weaving through the prison of horrors, past demons who whispered, laughed, or wept. Some reached through their bars with skeletal hands, others merely watched, silent and knowing.
At the end of the hall, the ground opened into another chamber—this one a killing field.
Jagged spikes jutted from the floor, pressure plates hidden between them. Rusted contraptions lined the ceiling, poised to fire bolts at anything that dared pass. Thin streams of dried blood marked the path of those who had failed.
Without hesitation, the Grandmaster stepped forward. His boots pressed a plate—click—and a rain of arrows shot from the ceiling. With a casual wave of his hand and a burst of wind, the bolts shattered midair. He moved through with the ease of a man walking a garden path, never slowing, never flinching, until he reached the far side.
He turned, eyes gleaming in the torchlight.
"Now it is your turn."
The echo of his words lingered over the spikes, and the group exchanged uneasy glances.