The chimes faded, but their weight lingered in the stone.
Elion stood still, holding the notebook tightly. His breath came slow, controlled. The mark behind his ear throbbed again, but not with pain.
It felt... aligned.
The chamber around him was silent, except for the faint crackle of something deeper. Something below.
He turned slowly, scanning the shadows until his eyes landed on a metal hatch in the floor—almost hidden beneath a tattered rug.
He knelt and pulled it back.
A circular door, rusted with age, sat embedded in the stone. Symbols ringed its edges—some he recognized from the spiral path, others entirely alien. His fingers brushed the cold metal.
The hatch opened on its own.
No sound. Just a quiet release of air, dry and old, as though the room beneath had been sealed for centuries.
A staircase led down.
No light.
He struck a match.
The flame swayed in his hand as he stepped into the darkness.
The walls were smoother here. Less like carved stone, more like something shaped by design—deliberate, calculated. Spirals ran along the edges of the steps, shallow grooves that seemed to pulse as he passed.
Finally, the stairs ended.
He emerged into a circular chamber, vast and domed, with no source of light—but still dimly lit.
Nine pedestals surrounded the center.
Each pedestal bore a symbol carved in black stone: a spiral, a sealed mouth, a blindfolded eye, an open ear, a fractured mask, a cracked clock, a weeping flame, a mirrored tear, and a gate with no handle.
At the center of the circle stood a pillar.
On it rested a horn, black and curved like a twisted shell. Its surface shimmered faintly, as if coated in oil and shadow.
As Elion stepped closer, the mark behind his ear burned white-hot.
He reached for the horn.
The moment his fingers touched it—
He heard it.
A voice.
No—a thousand voices layered as one, speaking in different tongues, all whispering the same sentence, over and over:
— Do not listen —
— Do not listen —
— Do not listen —
He stumbled back, hand over his ear.
But it was too late.
Something had already entered.
His mind shook. His heartbeat skipped. He saw flashes—images behind his eyes.
A man wearing a shattered mask, standing in the rain.
A crowd of hooded figures bowing toward a mirror that reflected nothing.
A spiral carved into the heart of a dying god.
And then silence.
Perfect, unbearable silence.
He collapsed to his knees.
His breath returned in ragged gasps.
But the chamber remained still.
The horn no longer shimmered.
Its purpose had been fulfilled.
And in his ear, a new whisper took shape. A voice not from the chamber.
Not from the horn.
From within.
— You are now bound to the first echo.
— The others will hear you soon.