The entrance to the catacombs used to mean something. Revered, maybe. A place folks whispered about when they still believed walls could protect them. Stone stairs, worn thin by feet centuries dead, twisted down beneath arches scraped with gold inlay. Runes once bright as struck flint clung to the walls, carved in careful rows. Every mark a ward. Every line a breath held in faith.
But faith doesn't last forever.
Now, those same runes leaked green moss and salt. The kind that stank of old tide and rot. Damp crept in like a sickness, seeping from every corner. The air turned thick and sour, and the stone cried in patches, black streaks bleeding like brine from a wound. Even the dark pulled back, curling inward on itself. Watching.
No one spoke.
The deeper they walked, the more the surface world faded, like a half-remembered story. The only thing left was the weight of the earth—layer after layer pressing down, heavy as guilt.
Verek led, staff giving off a thin ring of light. Not bright. Just enough to see the next step. His lips moved without sound at first, then the faintest thread of whisper. Not spells. Not really. Just a string of thoughts spoken aloud, keeping himself grounded. Clarity came slow down here, and the deeper halls didn't care for straight lines or solid memory. Even chalk, fresh and white, smeared to nothing if you turned your back.
Ezreal stayed close behind him, eyes catching strange reflections. He didn't walk so much as glide, sharp-edged and tense, his focus like a knife edge ready to break skin. Caylen's hand hovered near his harp, fingers twitching like nerves exposed. Dax stalked behind them, steps heavy and full of warning, his axe strapped over his back like a threat he hadn't said out loud yet.
It was quiet. Too quiet. Not just silence—but the kind that felt built into the bones of the place. Like nothing had ever lived here. Like sound didn't know how to reach this deep. Every breath felt stolen. Every thought doubled back, repeating itself like it was caught in a loop.
Caylen finally cracked the hush. "Why's it feel like we've passed that same bend three times now?"
Ezreal didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice barely carried. "Because we have. Three times."
Dax's head tilted. "You sure?"
Ezreal nodded at a jagged crack in the wall. "That's how I know. The moss on it changes color each time. It's tracking us."
"The catacombs are alive," Verek muttered, eyes narrowing. "Not thinking. Not dreaming. But wounded. Reacting."
Thimblewick, no longer a clear shape, shimmered on Verek's shoulder like smoke with teeth. "I hate buildings that react. They're always in a mood."
The path closed in. Narrowed like a throat swallowing. Their footsteps echoed too far and too long, stacking on top of each other like ghosts trailing just out of reach.
"Feels like the walls're listening," Dax muttered under his breath.
"They are," Caylen replied, voice hushed like he wasn't sure he wanted to hear himself say it. "But not to us. They're waiting for something else."
Down and down. The weight got worse. Not just the air pressing in, but something gnawing at the edges of their minds. Thoughts turned sticky. Emotions surfaced, jagged and raw. Caylen started humming low under his breath. Not for the others. Just for himself. An old tune. The kind his mother used to hum when the fire burned too low in the winter tents.
Ezreal's eyes never left the dark ahead. He whispered something that didn't belong to this world. Words old enough to be dangerous. Maybe a ward. Maybe a tether.
Dax flexed his fists. "Feels like penance. Like we're paying off someone else's damn tab."
Verek's reply came soft. "We are. This place was meant to stay buried."
The tunnel broke open into a vast chamber, the kind that made you feel like the dirt above was holding its breath. Columns stretched high, shaped like limbs pulled long by gravity. Some of the floor had caved in, swallowed by black-green water that didn't ripple.
In the center stood a statue. Seven arms. No face. Bloodstone tears ran from every palm.
Ezreal moved first. "It watches."
Caylen's eyes didn't leave it. "They all do. We're not the only ones down here."
Verek touched the base. Cold shot through his fingertips, numbing thought before it could form. He pulled back fast.
Then the sound came. Not rock falling. Not cracking.
Breath.
Low. Drawn slow from the walls around them like the place had lungs.
Dax stepped back, his hand finding the haft of his axe. "Something's waking up."
Ezreal's eyes flashed. "No. It's been awake. We just got its attention."
Ahead, the passage opened into a long tunnel. Ribbed. Organic. Stone that looked too much like bone, weeping thin sheets of moss. The air shifted again. From damp, to cold, to still.
They walked. Slow. Careful. The floor grew slick. Not water. Not blood. Something green and viscous, veins of faint starlight pulsing beneath it.
"Ichor," Verek said. He didn't look at the others. "The real kind."
"Whose ichor?" Caylen asked.
Verek didn't answer.
Their pace slowed. The air dragged at them, like gravity was stronger here, like the ground didn't want to let go.
The sounds changed again. Not loud. Not quiet. Just... off. Every footfall echoed at the wrong time. Every breath came too late.
Then came the whispering.
Not voices. Not words. Just memory, turned loose.
Verek heard himself, younger, saying something dumb and hopeful from a life that barely felt like his. Ezreal saw his mother, not sick in bed, but laughing—like nothing had gone wrong. Dax heard a melody hummed by a woman whose name he didn't say anymore. Caylen—his first song, twisted now, buried under the weight of its own melody.
"Ignore it," Verek said, voice rough. "None of it's real. It's bait."
They turned left. The tunnel grew tighter. Ribbed walls pulsed faintly with something like breath.
"How far down?" Caylen's voice shook a little.
Verek didn't look back. "Too far for any map to care."
The corridor ended in a vault shaped like a womb. Star-etched runes covered every inch. And in the center—
—not a hole. Not a doorway.
A tear.
Reality ripped open like paper.
Inside, something beat. Not a heart. Not truly. But real in the worst way. It pulsed with color that didn't belong. Cold hues—violet, black, sickly green. It gave off a hum that hit the bone.
"The Dreamer," Ezreal whispered.
Verek's voice came like flint struck in the dark. "No. This isn't the Dreamer. This is the blood. The leak. What's poisoning the sea."
Nobody breathed.
Mist crawled out of the breach. Inside it, shapes twisted. Half-formed things. Not yet people. Ideas with limbs.
And then—it spoke.
Not one voice. Not many. All and none.
"The Accord is broken. The gate is open. Sleepwalks again."
Caylen buckled, one hand to his temple, teeth bared in pain.
Ezreal stepped forward, hand raised. "I bind this place," he hissed. "By pact, by name—"
The mist screamed.
It rose like a wave, all shape and no center. Faces flashed inside it, blinked in and out, never staying long enough to be known.
Dax let out a wordless growl and swung. His axe tore through it, but it pulled itself back together like smoke with memory.
"We can't fight it here," Verek said, voice taut. "Not without losing something permanent."
"Then we go," Ezreal snapped. "Now."
They ran. Not blindly. Instinct took over. Muscle and fear and something older than training guided them.
Behind, the chamber howled.
The catacombs twisted as they fled. Walls folded. Paths rearranged. But Zavara's old wards still held, flickering like the last embers of a dying fire.
Ichor hissed behind them, spattered on stone. A low moan chased them, deep and long. Like the world was sighing in its sleep.
Ezreal glanced back once. Faces stared from the mist. No voices. Just mouths open too wide, eyes stretched with something deeper than pain.
Caylen stumbled. Dax caught him, hauled him upright without a word.
The walls breathed. Whispers kissed their ears.
Ezreal heard his own death, spoken in a voice far too calm.
Verek heard his name, soft and familiar. A voice he hadn't heard since the stars had turned silent.
The vault door came into view. The stairs behind them crumbled. Time warped, spilled, blurred.
They made it through.
Stone slammed shut behind them.
The silence after was thicker than anything they'd heard.
Caylen's voice cracked. "What in the hells was that?"
"A wound," Verek said. "And it's bleeding faster."
Ezreal stared at his hand.
It trembled.
Beneath the skin, light pulsed. Not warmth. Not life. Something colder.
"It touched us," he whispered.
Outside, thunder split the sky. No storm in sight.
Below, something answered.
Another breath.
Slower.
Closer.
The catacombs weren't done.
And they weren't alone.