The deeper vault beneath the manor's first vault was a tomb of stone and bone, its walls carved with skeletal runes that pulsed with a sickly red glow, as if the earth itself bled. Elara Wren descended the spiral stair revealed in the first vault, her boots slipping on damp stone, her breath ragged, her hands clutching Seraphine's confession letter, its words—Forgive me—seared into her mind. The Wraith's requiem wailed, a deafening scream that had trapped Lady Seraphine Veyle in a web of shadow above, her silver eyes wide with panic as Elara fled. The Mira ring burned in her pocket, its silver a cold weight, and the shattered remains of her crescent pendant hung useless at her neck, its fragments cutting her skin. The undercroft's relic, etched with Vessel's Blood, pulsed in her cloak, a reminder: she was the Wraith's vessel, bound by the order's curse.
Torin Hale followed close, his blacksmith's frame hunched in the narrow stair, his hammer gripped tight, its iron head dull in the vault's faint light. His scar—a jagged burn across his cheek—stood stark, his gray eyes wild with fear and fury. "She's gone, Elara," he growled, his voice rough, frayed by the Wraith's attack. "Seraphine's trapped up there. We can't fight that thing." His hand grazed her shoulder, a desperate anchor, but his doubt was a blade. Elara's throat tightened—Torin's strength was her rock, but the letter's truth, Seraphine's vow to shield her, drove her deeper. "She's fighting for me," she said, her voice low but fierce. "I have to end this."
Lira trailed behind, her blonde curls matted with sweat, her blue eyes hollow with guilt and shattered faith. She clutched Seraphine's herb vial, now empty, her hands trembling. "Lady Veyle tried to save us," she whispered, her voice barely audible, her belief in Seraphine's charity broken by the first vault's collapse. Torin's jaw clenched, his voice sharp. "Tried? She's part of this curse, Lira. She's why we're here." Elara's stomach twisted—Lira's fading trust mirrored her own doubt, but Seraphine's letter burned in her hand, its plea a tether. Seraphine's cry—Run!—echoed in her mind, a mix of protection and despair.
The vault opened into a vast chamber, its ceiling lost in shadow, its floor littered with ash and bone fragments that crunched underfoot. The air was thick with the stench of decay and brimstone, and the requiem's wail surged, a pulse that shook the walls. Skeletal runes spiraled across the stone, their red glow casting jagged shadows that writhed like specters. At the chamber's heart stood a bone altar, its surface etched with a crescent moon, its edges stained with old blood—Mira's, or another's? Elara's heart pounded, the relic in her pocket flaring, its runes syncing with the altar's. The journal, tucked in her cloak, held a final sketch—a bone altar, labeled The Vessel's Rite, with a chant to bind the Wraith. Her mother's name was scratched beside it, a scar tying her to the order's sin.
Seraphine stumbled into the chamber, her velvet gown torn, her raven-black hair loose, her silver eyes dim with exhaustion. The Wraith's shadow clung to her, a writhing void that bound her arms, its red eyes blazing, now fixed on her alone. Her hands sparked with dark energy, a faltering shield, but her face was ashen, her breath uneven. "You shouldn't have come," she rasped, her voice brittle, cracking under the Wraith's weight. Elara stepped forward, her voice raw, trembling with resolve. "Your letter said you'd bind it. How, Seraphine?" Her hand gripped the Mira ring, its silver a silent plea. Seraphine's eyes flickered, her overconfidence shattered. "With my blood," she whispered, her voice breaking, her emotional volatility spilling over. "Mira's sacrifice wasn't enough."
Torin's hammer rose, his voice a roar. "Then do it! End this!" The requiem's scream sharpened, the runes blazing, and the Wraith's void swelled, its eyes shifting to Elara, its hunger a pressure in her chest. Lira sobbed, her hands covering her face, her voice small. "She's dying for us," she said, her guilt overwhelming, her faith in Seraphine a ghost. Seraphine's shield flickered, her paranoia flaring—her eyes darted to the shadows, as if the order's priests lurked. "They're watching," she hissed, her voice raw, her magic fading.
Elara approached the altar, her heart racing, the journal's chant burning in her mind: Blood of the vessel, bind the void. She clutched the relic, its runes searing her palm, and began to chant, her voice trembling but steady. "By blood and bone, I bind thee," she intoned, the words ancient, heavy with power. The altar's runes flared, a red pulse that shook the vault, and the Wraith's shadow recoiled, its eyes blazing with rage. Seraphine's body trembled, the void tightening around her, her silver eyes wide with pain. "Keep going!" she screamed, her voice fracturing, her hands clawing at the shadow. Her magic surged, a desperate flare, and she staggered to the altar, her blood dripping from a cut on her hand, staining the bone.
The vault quaked, stones cracking, ash rising like a storm. Torin swung his hammer at a rune-covered wall, its surface splintering, and the requiem's scream became a deafening roar. "It's not working!" he shouted, his voice raw, his eyes wild. Elara's chant grew louder, her voice breaking, her hands shaking as she pressed the relic to the altar. "By oath and shadow, I bind thee!" The Wraith's void writhed, its eyes locked on Seraphine, and she fell to her knees, her blood pooling on the altar, her shield gone. "For Mira," she whispered, her voice a ghost, her body slumping. The runes blazed, a blinding light, and the Wraith's shadow surged, then shrank, its scream faltering.
Elara's voice cracked, her chant faltering as Seraphine's eyes dimmed, her face gray, her breath shallow. "No!" Elara cried, her hands gripping the altar, her resolve a fire. The journal fell, its pages scattering, and the relic burned, its runes fading. The Wraith's void pulsed, weaker but alive, its red eyes flickering. Torin pulled Elara back, his hammer raised, his voice desperate. "She's gone, Elara! We have to go!" Lira collapsed, her sobs echoing, her guilt a weight. The vault's ceiling groaned, stones tumbling, and the altar's runes flickered, a final pulse that dimmed. Had Seraphine's sacrifice bound the Wraith, or had the rite failed, leaving its requiem to consume them all?