Ashborn Hold smelled of iron and burnt resin. The courtyard that only hours ago had been a battlefield now lay in eerie quiet. Torches guttered in their brackets; blood darkened the cobblestones where the Hollow Crown's vanguard had been broken. The mountain wind whispered over the walls like a sigh.
Kaelen stood at the edge of the infirmary tents, watching healers work in silence. Lira's hands glowed faintly silver as she pressed them to a soldier's chest, drawing out a spear splinter without breaking skin. Serenya stalked from row to row, barking orders, her axe still streaked with black ichor. For the first time since the siege began, the stronghold held its ground — but Kaelen felt no victory in it. The shard under his ribs pulsed with a rhythm not his own, like a second heart listening for something deeper.
He crossed the yard to the inner keep. The great doors had been sealed since dawn, yet frost rimed the seams as if something cold pressed against them from the other side. The Warden's mark on his forearm burned faintly, a reminder of the pact he'd sworn in the cavern. He rubbed at it, but the ache only deepened.
"You're bleeding again," Lira said softly behind him. She had moved without sound, her cloak trailing ash and snow. "Every time you use the shard like you did today, it takes more."
"It's not just the shard," Kaelen murmured. "Something is moving below us. I can feel it… as if the mountain's hollowing out beneath our feet."
Lira's silver eyes narrowed. "The deep tunnels. My people sealed them after the War of Flames. Nothing should survive down there."
"Nothing," Kaelen echoed, but the word rang hollow. The pulse in his arm quickened; in his mind's eye he saw a flicker — a door opening in darkness, teeth of stone, and a voice too old to belong to any man.
Behind them, Serenya approached, wiping her blade. "Scouts report strange echoes in the lower shafts. No sign of the Crown's main force. They've pulled back. That means a trap, or something worse."
Kaelen looked at both women. "We can't wait for it to come up. We go down first."
The silence that followed was heavy. Lira finally said, "Then we go prepared. The lower tunnels aren't mapped, and they weren't built for us. They're older than Ashborn stone."
Kaelen nodded. "Choose those you trust. Small team. No torches — only mage-light and shadow."
Serenya smirked grimly. "About time we stopped playing defense."
An hour later, they gathered in the lowest gallery of the keep. The entrance to the sealed tunnels yawned like a throat of stone, its archway carved with runes so weathered they seemed like scars. Frost clung to the lintel; the air tasted of iron and damp.
Serenya arrived first with two of her veterans — lean warriors named Ralk and Jessa. Both bore axes etched with warding sigils. Lira followed with a younger scribe named Neren whose gift was cartography and quiet wards. Kaelen brought only his own shadow and the shard's steady hunger.
"Last chance to change your minds," Kaelen said, but no one moved. Even Neren's pale face held resolve.
"Then let's not waste time." He touched the rune-lock with his marked hand. The stone shuddered and split with a sound like cracking ice. Cold air poured out, carrying the scent of old earth and something faintly sweet, like rotting flowers.
They descended.
The first stair wound down in a spiral, cut from the living rock. The only light came from Lira's silver mage-glow and the faint ink-black sheen of Kaelen's shadow. Walls pressed close; moisture beaded on the stone and dripped onto their boots. Somewhere below, a constant murmur rose and fell — not water, not wind, but whispers too faint to catch.
Ralk muttered a prayer. "Feels like walking into a throat."
"Quiet," Serenya hissed. "We don't know what can hear."
After several turns the stair opened into a vast cavern. Columns of stalagmite and stalactite joined like ribs, and in the center yawned a chasm whose bottom was lost in mist. Faded murals scarred the walls: figures of ash and fire kneeling before a crowned shadow. Neren raised his ward-staff; the glow painted more shapes — chains, and a figure breaking them.
"These are pre-Ashborn," Lira whispered. "Older than our oldest myths."
Kaelen stepped closer to the edge. The shard in his chest thrummed louder, resonating with something below. His shadow stretched down into the mist as if reaching for its twin.
Then the whispering stopped.
A single low tone rose from the depths — like a horn sounded under water. The mist shifted, coiling upward. Shapes moved within it: not bodies, but impressions — hands, masks, wings. The veterans tightened their grips on their weapons. Serenya shifted to stand between Kaelen and the chasm.
"Back," she ordered. "Slowly."
Too late. The mist convulsed and a spear of black stone shot up, striking the ledge where they'd stood a heartbeat before. It shattered into shards that hissed like snakes, each piece wriggling toward the team. Neren slammed his staff down, wards flaring. The fragments recoiled but did not vanish.
Kaelen drew his blade. The shard's hunger flooded his veins, offering him power, promising to sweep the mist away. He forced a breath, clamped down on it. "Form a circle. Stay behind my shadow."
He stepped forward. His shadow rose with him, a dark banner unfurling. The wriggling fragments paused, sensing something older than themselves. Kaelen lowered his voice, speaking words he didn't know he knew — syllables etched in the shard's memory. The mist quivered.
For a moment, silence. Then a voice spoke from the chasm, deep and slow, echoing through bone and stone:
"Bearer… at last…"
The mist withdrew, curling like a serpent into the depths, leaving only the cold and the echo of that voice.
Kaelen staggered, sweat slicking his palms. He felt the mark on his arm burn and then fade.
Lira caught his shoulder. "What was that?"
"An invitation," he said hoarsely. "Or a warning."
Serenya spat into the chasm. "Either way, we go down there?"
Kaelen looked into the mist and felt the mountain's heartbeat under his boots. "We have to. Whatever's below… it's waiting for me."
They retreated a few paces into the cavern's shadow, catching their breath. Neren began sketching the murals, hands trembling. Lira whispered new wards. Kaelen stood at the edge, staring into the mist where the voice had been. In the silence he heard his sister's laughter, then her scream — a memory twisted by the shard.
He clenched his fist. "Next time it calls, we answer."
Behind him the others exchanged uneasy glances. None of them said aloud what they all felt: that the mountain had just looked back at them.
And deep below, something smiled.