Felix stumbled blindly through the suffocating dark, his shins and knees paying the price with every unseen corner and jagged edge. More than once he crashed into something cold and unyielding, staggering forward with a muttered curse.
"Damn it! Why's it always so damn dark!?" he growled, breath ragged, heart still hammering from his earlier brush with death.
The air was stale, heavy with the weight of stone. From the faint echoes of his footsteps, he guessed he was in some kind of corridor hollowed out of the mountain itself. His hands brushed against shapes along the walls—statues, maybe? They felt vaguely human, though the details were lost to the gloom. Or perhaps it was better not to know.
Felix pressed on, teeth gritted. If he didn't find a light soon, he'd wander here until madness or something worse claimed him.
Then—crack. Pain flared across his horn as he smacked it against something solid.
Felix winced, clutching at the sore spot.
"What now?" he muttered, irritation curling his words.
Reaching out, his fingers closed around a strange object. The instant he gripped it, a soft whoosh broke the silence as a pale blue flame flickered to life, spilling its ghostly glow into the corridor.
Felix blinked against the sudden light. In his hand, a lantern—its metal frame etched with runes that shimmered faintly, alive in his grasp.
He turned it over, brows furrowing. "How the hell…?" The flame dimmed when he loosened his hold, then flared bright the moment his grip tightened again.
Slowly, a grin crept across his face. "Heh. Maybe Lady Luck hasn't forgotten me after all."
Now that he finally had some light, even faint as it was, Felix could make out the shapes around him. The statues lining the corridor loomed taller than he'd realized. Their stone faces, though worn and eroded, all seemed to have their heads turned in unison—gazing further down the passage, as if fixated on something unseen. Their silent attention prickled at the back of his neck, urging him forward.
At last, he reached another set of massive stone doors. The weight of centuries pressed against them, and it took every ounce of his strength just to grind the slabs apart. The gap was narrow, but enough—Felix forced himself through with a grunt.
What awaited on the other side stole the breath from his lungs.
A vast ceremonial chamber stretched out before him, the ghost of grandeur still clinging to its bones. Light spilled down from a great wound in the ceiling, a jagged shaft that reached straight through the mountain to the sky. Dust motes shimmered in the pale beam, dancing like spirits.
But with the awe came sorrow. All around the chamber, skeletons lay scattered in silent testimony. Some knelt in eternal prayer, brittle hands clasped, heads bowed toward altars that no longer held gods. Others had died clutching one another, bone fingers still entwined in desperate embrace.
Felix stepped closer to one of the fallen, his lantern's glow brushing across a cracked skull. His stomach tightened as he saw it—not fully human. A jagged remnant of a horn jutted from the bone, broken but unmistakable.
A shiver ran down his spine. Whoever these people were, they were like him. Or maybe something else.
Felix shook his head, forcing away the thoughts gnawing at him. He lifted his lantern toward the chamber's heart—and froze.
There, where the dead lay in their greatest number, a statue loomed out of the darkness. The figure knelt upon a pedestal, its frame thin and elongated, draped in stone robes so masterfully carved they seemed to ripple like silk frozen in time. Long hair cascaded over its shoulders in flowing waves, each strand so delicately sculpted Felix half-expected them to stir at the brush of his breath.
He narrowed his eyes, trying to pin down the figure's face. Yet the more he studied it, the more it slipped away from definition. At one moment the features struck him as sharp and masculine, stern yet noble. In the next, they softened into something delicate, almost feminine. He could never decide—and the uncertainty unnerved him more than any clear truth could. Still, one thing was undeniable: its gaze. The eyes, carved with impossible tenderness, seemed to look upon the world with a compassion so deep it hurt to meet.
Seven horns arched upward from its brow like a twisted crown, each engraved with minute, curling patterns that shimmered faintly in the lantern's blue glow. Its hands rested with gentle grace upon the bowed heads of smaller statues at its knees—figures locked forever in poses of devotion.
Around the pedestal, the true faithful had gathered long ago, their remains still testifying to their reverence. Skeletons knelt with clasped hands, brittle fingers frozen in prayer. Others lay collapsed where they had once prostrated, skulls tilted back toward the figure, empty sockets still transfixed by its serene expression.
Felix's chest tightened. The longer he stared, the heavier the air seemed to press against him, urging him forward, whispering for him to kneel among the congregation of the dead. For a terrible instant, he nearly obeyed.
Then, like a memory pulled violently to the surface, he realized what he was looking at. The statue—this was one of the Seven Saviors, those long-forgotten saints who had once walked beside the Coward. At the thought, Felix recoiled. Whatever holiness this figure had once held, it now reeked of something else, something that demanded distance.
And yet, his eyes caught on faint carvings along the pedestal. Writing. He squinted, leaning closer. The symbols were ancient, a script he did not know. But as his gaze traced the grooves, a whisper stirred in the back of his mind—words forming on his tongue without his consent.
He spoke them aloud, voice low and trembling:
"Do not fear death… It is only a long sleep… If you yet have fears… fall into my embrace… for I welcome all…"
Felix shook his head as he uttered the last word. "What… was that?"
His lantern's glow wavered as he turned back to the statue. Beneath the inscription, carved deep into the pedestal, a single name glared at him:
"Belphegor…"
The instant the word left his lips, pain tore through his skull. It felt like the mountain itself pressed inward, crushing thought, crushing breath. He staggered and clutched at his horn, cursing through gritted teeth.
"Damn!"
When the pressure finally ebbed, he was left panting, slick with sweat. "The hell was that!?" he spat into the silence, though no answer came.
He rubbed at his temple, scanning the chamber for a way out. His nerves were frayed, his body still trembling. He had decided—he needed to leave. But then…
He heard it.
A child's laughter.
Soft, bright, impossible.
"No…" he whispered. "I'm just tired. Hearing things."
But then came another voice—an adult's sharp reprimand, a scolding tone that carried across the chamber. The sound was too clear to dismiss.
Felix turned slowly back to the statue.
And froze.
Apparitions shimmered into existence, their ghostly forms filling the once-dead temple with life. Men, women, and children bustled through the chamber, their movements natural, their voices a murmur of prayer, conversation, and song. The air itself felt different, warm with devotion, alive with purpose.
Felix stood transfixed as a child darted past him, so close he swore he felt the brush of air against his arm. A boy, no older than six, laughing with unbridled joy as he wove between the kneeling worshippers. Against his will, Felix's lips curved into a faint smile, his gaze following the boy's carefree sprint. For just a heartbeat, the bleak chamber seemed brighter.
But then, in an instant, everything shifted.
The warmth fled. The ghosts flickered, vanished—then returned in a wave of terror. The congregation poured in from the very corridor Felix had entered, faces pale with dread. They slammed the stone doors shut, spectral hands straining against the weight, the sound echoing like a thunderclap through the chamber.
The child was gone from Felix's side. He spotted him again—this time clutched tight in his mother's arms as she stumbled to the floor. She wept into the boy's hair, rocking him while her lips moved in broken prayer. The chamber was alive with sobs and screams, the voices of the desperate crying out as one.
Then came the sound.
From beyond the sealed doors, something struck. A heavy, bone-shaking impact that rattled the air itself. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. Another blow followed, louder, closer. The doors groaned, their frames shuddering with each strike. Whatever was outside, it wanted in.
The prayers rose into wails. Mothers clutched their children. Men pressed their foreheads to the stone floor. The boy buried his face against his mother's chest, his tiny hands gripping her clothes as if the act alone could keep the darkness at bay.
Felix's heart pounded so hard it hurt. He wanted to move, to look away, but the vision held him captive.
And then—silence.
The chamber emptied in an instant, the apparitions unraveling like smoke caught in a breeze. The warmth, the voices, the terror—gone. Only the dead remained, the air heavy once more with stillness.
Felix's gaze drifted back to where he had last seen the mother and child. His breath caught in his throat.
There, in the exact spot, lay two skeletons locked in an eternal embrace. One small, fragile frame cradled protectively in the arms of another.
The lantern shook faintly in his grip. Felix lowered his eyes, swallowing against the tightness in his chest.
For once, he said nothing.
He simply stood in silence, mourning strangers long gone.
Felix's eyes lingered on the tiny horn budding from the child's skull. He caught himself wondering about himself. What kind of face am I making right now? Was it grief? Anger? Or just nothing…
The thought weighed on him, dragging a heavy sigh from his chest. "It's… time to go," he muttered, the words hushed, as if afraid to disturb the silence of the dead.