Out of nowhere a laugh reached them like a phantom, low and drawn out, echoing through the ruins as if the entire city itself had found a voice. It came from somewhere deep within the heart of the metropolis, but its vibrations traveled along the broken towers and shattered glass until it seemed to be everywhere at once.
Ashfall stopped dead in his tracks, the sound settling in his bones like a sickness. Calethia turned to him immediately, her eyes wide but steady, waiting for him to say something.
"You heard it too," she whispered.
"Hard not to," he muttered, his gaze sweeping across the skyscrapers looming over them, their shattered windows dark and watching. For a brief moment, the silence returned, but now it carried the weight of that laugh, as if the sound had been left behind, lingering in the corners of every ruin.
They exchanged a look; an unspoken agreement that retreat was not an option. Whatever it was, whatever had mocked them from the shadows, it waited at the center.
Ashfall hated himself for it. Why do I always do this? The thought gnawed at him, bitter and sharp. Run toward the noise, toward the danger, like some idiot moth flying straight into the fire. I should walk away. I should drag her back with me. But no... no, my cursed curiosity just won't shut up. Maybe I deserve whatever's waiting.
"Deeper?" Calethia asked, her voice quiet but firm.
He forced a smirk, though his stomach felt hollow. "Of course. Wouldn't want to miss the party."
So they moved forward, boots crunching against snow that grew more uneven the closer they came to the city's core. The further they walked, the more bodies they began to see: first scattered skeletons, stripped bare and brittle, then clusters of them huddled together as though they had collapsed in fear. Soon, their positions began to shift into something stranger.
"Look at them," he said, his voice tight. "They're… praying."
Calethia stopped and crouched by a cluster of bones, her hand hovering above them but never touching. The skeletons were arranged on their knees, spines arched, arms raised toward the center of the city as though frozen in the middle of worship.
Her throat worked as she swallowed. "They're all facing the same way... toward the center."
The buildings around them grew more fractured, their lower levels sealed shut in a way that made Ashfall's skin crawl. At first he thought the walls were covered with strange growths or ice formations, but as they drew nearer, the truth made his breath catch.
Minor Mythbornes. Thousands of them clung together, layer upon layer, fused in twisted positions that sealed entire entrances shut. Some pressed their clawed limbs against the glass as though in eternal defense, others curled into grotesque poses of reverence. Together, they formed walls of living stone, silent yet somehow breathing.
Calethia stepped closer, her hand gripping the hilt of her weapon but not drawing it. "They're… not moving."
"Doesn't mean they won't," Ashfall muttered, pulling her back. "Stay clear. Whatever this is, they're guarding it."
Guarding. Worshipping. Protecting something I should have turned away from the second I heard that damn laugh. His jaw tightened, but his feet still carried him forward.
Soon the snow beneath their boots began to change.
At first, it was bones. Countless skeletons pressed into the ground, creating a pathway of ivory that cracked under their steps. The praying poses continued, a tide of worshippers stretching toward some unseen altar. Then came the corpses.
Not ancient skeletons, but bodies with flesh still clinging to them, frozen mid-motion. Faces locked in expressions of devotion or terror, lips still cracked, hands still reaching. The sight forced even Ashfall to pause, his stomach turning.
"Not all of these are old," Calethia whispered.
He nodded stiffly, though his eyes burned as he scanned the road ahead. Some bodies still wore fine suits, as though they had left their offices moments before. Others were dressed in thick coats, scarves frozen stiff around their necks. One corpse even bore the uniform of a Timer Agent.
Ashfall's chest tightened. Timer Agents. Even they didn't make it through this place. What the hell are we walking into?
The silence deepened as the ruins widened into a vast circle. A six-lane roundabout stretched before them, clogged with heaps of bodies, all piled together as though they had swarmed forward in desperation. At the center of it all rose the statue: The Red Angel.
It was massive, towering above the ruins, carved from stone that seemed to bleed with a faint crimson glow under the gray sky. Wings stretched upward, chipped and fractured, but still commanding. In one hand, the angel held a great pocket watch, raised high as though presenting it to the heavens. In the other, a scale. Its balance was uneven, one side weighed down by a withered rose, the other left bare.
Ashfall stopped in his tracks, his throat dry. Behind him, the massive wall of the city was a distant memory now, shrinking against the horizon.
Calethia shivered, her eyes locked on the statue. "This is it. This is what they all came for."
"Looks more like what they died for," Ashfall muttered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the piles of corpses stretching up to the statue's feet. They were stacked upon one another, clawing, scrambling, their frozen fingers all outstretched toward the angel's robes.
His gut twisted. "Hell of a way to build a monument."
Calethia placed a hand on his arm. "Don't."
But he was already moving. Climbing the frozen mound was harder than he expected. Each body cracked and shifted under his weight, threatening to give way. He felt their faces watching him, hollow eyes staring, mouths still parted in silent pleas.
Halfway up, he paused to catch his breath, forcing his gaze upward. The statue's face loomed above him, its stone eyes carved in such detail that they seemed to sparkle. For the first time, he thought he saw something strange there; wet streaks along its cheeks, like tears frozen in mid-fall.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, his chest tight. "What the hell are you crying for?"
When he reached the peak, he froze. Among the countless corpses, one stood apart. A man, dressed in a fine suit, his body otherwise perfectly preserved, except for his hand. The hand that reached toward the angel was nothing but bone, stripped bare, a skeletal claw extended in desperation.
Ashfall's breath caught, and for once he hesitated.
Something about that sight dug into him, sharp and merciless. If even the best-preserved one still rots at the touch of your god, what happens to me if I get closer?
Slowly, he turned away. He descended, each step heavier, until he finally reached Calethia again.
She studied him with sharp eyes. "Well?"
He shook his head, his voice low. "A man. Dressed sharp, like he never should've been here. Whole body intact… except the hand reaching for the statue. Just bone."
Calethia paled. "As if the statue… took it."
Ashfall didn't answer. His gaze lifted once more to the angel towering above them, its watch raised high, its scales uneven, its eyes wet with stone tears.
The great pocket watch pointed to three. The second hand and the minute hand were missing, leaving only the heavy hour hand frozen in place.
On the scale, the withered rose sagged, petals curling inward, its color already fading. The opposite plate was empty, leaving the balance tilted and broken.
Ashfall clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he studied it. A broken clock, an uneven scale, and a rose that's already dead. What the hell is this place trying to tell me?
The silence pressed in around him, as heavy as the corpses piled at their feet.