The path narrowed until it was little more than a seam in the stone, winding through a forest of ancient pines. Their trunks twisted skyward, bark split and weeping resin, branches tangled like the fingers of the dead. The air was colder here, thinner still, and every breath tasted of old secrets and the iron tang of blood long dried.
The chapel revealed itself not as a building, but as a wound in the mountain—a black spire rising from a shelf of stone, its surface slick with rain and streaked with veins of silver ore. The doors, if they could be called that, were slabs of basalt carved with symbols that seemed to shift when Ira tried to focus on them. Moss grew in the cracks, thick and dark as bruises, and the steps leading up were worn smooth by centuries of feet—pilgrims, supplicants, or something else entirely.
Mist clung to the ground, swirling around their ankles as they approached. Zadie's hand hovered near her sword, but Ira's eyes were wide, hungry. He ran his fingers over the carvings, tracing the lines with reverence and a scholar's hunger. "These aren't just warnings," he murmured, voice low. "They're instructions. Rituals. See here—" He pointed to a spiral etched deep into the stone, its center marked by a single drop of what looked like rusted iron. "A map, of sorts. Or a lock."
Rust grunted, keeping his distance. "You planning to open it?"
Ira didn't answer. He was already circling the chapel, boots crunching over gravel and bone. The walls were studded with niches, each holding a relic: a broken blade, a child's shoe, a ring of braided hair. Offerings, or trophies. He catalogued them silently, mind racing with possibilities. Every detail mattered—the angle of the spire, the way the wind howled through a crack above the lintel, the faint shimmer of quartz embedded in the threshold.
Inside, the chapel was colder still. The ceiling arched high overhead, lost in shadow. Candles guttered in iron sconces, their flames blue and trembling. The floor was a mosaic of shattered tile, each piece painted with a fragment of a story: a hand reaching from the earth, a crown split in two, a serpent devouring its own tail. Ira knelt, brushing dust from a tile, lips moving as he pieced together the tale.
Zadie lingered near the entrance, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. Rust prowled the perimeter, knives drawn, every muscle taut. But Ira was lost to the world, absorbed by the chapel's secrets. He moved from tile to tile, from relic to relic, his hands gentle, almost loving. He whispered to the stones, coaxing meaning from silence.
A hush fell, deeper than before. The candle flames stilled, as if the air itself held its breath.
From the darkness behind the altar, a figure emerged—cloaked in rags, face hidden behind a mask of hammered copper. Its voice was neither male nor female, but something in between, echoing with the weight of centuries.
"You seek the Keeper's trial," it intoned, words heavy as stone. "But the mountain has judged you, Ira of the Map. You are found wanting."
Ira rose slowly, heart pounding. "I came to learn. To honor what was lost."
The servant's head tilted, the mask catching the candlelight. "Curiosity is not the same as worth. The Keeper's trial is not for those who would unearth secrets only to bury them again. You are unworthy."
The words struck like a blow. Zadie stepped forward, protest on her lips, but the servant raised a hand. "The mountain's will is not yours to challenge. Leave now, or be swallowed by the hollow."
The candles guttered out, plunging the chapel into darkness. Ira stood frozen, the map beneath his tunic burning against his skin, the weight of failure settling on his shoulders.
Outside, the mist thickened, swirling with shapes that might have been wind—or something far worse.
As they retreated from the chapel, Ira glanced back, eyes searching the shadows for answers. The mountain watched, silent and implacable. The trial was denied, but the story was far from over.
What would the Keeper demand next? And what price would Ira pay to learn the truth?