The stairwell ended in silence.
Draven stepped into a vast chamber, the air so heavy it pressed against his skin. The ceiling arched high above, ribs of black stone veined with emerald light, like the bones of a giant beast fossilized in flame. The walls were lined with shapes — and when his eyes adjusted, he saw them clearly.
Men and beasts.
Skeletons fused into the rock, arms and muzzles chained, mouths locked in screams that had outlived flesh. Iron links jutted from stone like roots, their ends lost in bone. The whole hall was a mausoleum of suffering, built not by hand but by memory itself.
Feyra whimpered, pressing close. Stonehide's tail scraped low, its scales rattling.
Draven tightened his grip on the knife. He wanted to look away, but the chamber would not let him.
The door behind sealed with a rumble.
Glyphs flared across the floor, lines racing in green fire. The walls shuddered, and the air filled with sound — chains rattling, hundreds at once, clinking, snapping taut.
The dead began to move.
Shadows spilled from bone. Men hunched forward, phantoms made of ash and glyph-light, brands glowing across their hands. At their sides rose beasts — Nobles once, but twisted now, their forms straining against invisible chains. Their bodies warped, antlers broken, wings shredded, eyes blazing emerald fire.
They looked at Draven.
Not alive, not truly — but echoes of the past.
The first Dominion. The first chains.
The nearest phantom lurched forward, dragging a beast with it. The chain between them burned bright, binding handler to creature.
Draven's throat tightened. This is what they want me to become.
The beast lunged. Stonehide surged in front, scales flaring green as it braced against the impact. The blow thundered, sparks flying as claws scraped across plates.
Feyra darted, her aura blooming outward. A pulse of warmth rippled through the chamber — the chained beast faltered, its steps stumbling as the chain across its chest dimmed for an instant.
Draven moved. He slashed with his knife, striking not at flesh but at the glowing chain etched across the beast's body. The blade cut through glyph-light.
The phantom screamed. Chains snapped with a sound like thunder. The beast convulsed — then dissolved into ash, vanishing as if never born.
The handler-shadow crumbled after it, shrieking as its chain fell slack.
Another pair closed in.
Draven grabbed a rusted sword from near a skeleton, swinging wide. The blade shattered against phantom hide, fragments spinning into dust. He cursed, dropped the hilt, switched back to his knife.
"Don't fight the flesh," he muttered, teeth clenched. "Cut the chain."
Stonehide slammed one phantom back, vines of light searing across its plates. Feyra leapt at another, teeth snapping on its glowing glyph-mark. Draven drove his knife down, severing the link across its chest. The beast shuddered, green fire spilling like ash before it vanished.
Only one remained.
It lunged straight for him, chains whipping like serpents. They coiled around his arms, dragging him down. The phantom loomed over him, handler's brand burning, demanding submission.
Whisper: "Mark them. Command them. Only then will you stand."
Draven clenched his teeth, vision burning. His knife hovered at his side. If he pressed it against the chain, he could invert it — claim control. Power surged at the edge of his reach, promising strength.
He spat into the phantom's face.
"No chains."
He wrenched his arm, drove the blade into the glowing link binding handler to beast. Light burst, a roar shaking the chamber. The phantom dissolved, its scream carried into silence.
The chamber fell still.
Draven knelt, chest heaving, sweat slick down his face. Feyra pressed against him, her aura washing over burns on his arms. Stonehide lowered its head, scales cracked but glowing faint emerald, sturdier than before.
Around them, glyphs pulsed brighter than ever. The chamber glowed as though in applause, every vein in the stone alive with green fire.
And for a moment, in the blaze, Draven saw something vast watching him.
Eyes like twin emerald suns. A shadow of wings and antlers unfurling in silence, too great to fit the hall.
It did not move. Did not speak. Only watched.
Draven's breath caught, heart hammering. Then the light dimmed, and the shadow was gone.
At the far end, stone parted with a deep groan. A door opened, emerald glow spilling down a spiral stair.
Draven rose, gripping Feyra and Stonehide both. His voice was hoarse, but unbroken.
"The heart of this place calls."
And together, they walked deeper.