The door shut behind him like a thought finishing.
Not loud. Not angry. Just done.
The lock clicked, and the sound traveled down the stairwell in little echoes, like the castle wanted to make sure he heard it all the way to the bottom.
Zidane stood still for half a beat with his palm hovering in the air where the handle had been, like he could rewind the world by touching the right spot.
He couldn't.
He looked down at his wrists.
One cuff still hugged him—cold metal, short chain, brass tag stamped with a number like a joke nobody laughed at. The other hand was free, and in it sat the three basement keys: thick, old, heavier than a handful of metal had any right to be.
Like each key carried a small, private consequence.
Quina waddled beside him, hat crooked, unbothered.
"Basement," Quina said, pleased. "Hungry place."
"Everything is hungry in this city," Zidane muttered, and forced his mouth into a grin because that was what you did when the world wanted you quiet. "Congrats. You found your people."
He started down.
The stairwell spiraled tight and narrow. Lantern niches were cut into the stone at perfect intervals, each flame steady like even fire had signed a contract. The air got colder with every step, damp crawling into Zidane's hair and clothes. Stone sweat. Old water. Crystal dust. A smell like someone had washed the world with pennies and forgot to rinse.
And underneath it all—
A thin, faint odor that made the back of his throat itch.
Mist.
Not the harbor Mist, not the pretty roiling stuff you saw from far away like a myth. This was Mist that had been trapped. Stale. Concentrated. The kind that stuck to your lungs like a hand.
Zidane took a slow breath through his nose and immediately regretted it.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. Deliver keys. Wait. Don't die. Easy."
Quina nodded solemnly. "Easy."
"You don't know what that word means," Zidane said.
Quina blinked. "Hungry means hungry."
He hated how comforting that was.
At the bottom of the spiral, the stairwell coughed him into a corridor that didn't feel like part of the castle so much as the castle's throat.
Low ceiling. Rough stone. Wooden doors banded with iron. Drips of water that landed in the same spots like they'd been dripping there since the day Alexandria learned how to pretend to be clean.
The lanterns down here weren't warm. They were white. A little too bright, a little too steady. Light that didn't forgive.
Zidane's footsteps echoed. His cuff chain made a small, stupid jingle like it was proud to exist.
He hated it.
He moved faster.
Not running—running made you prey—but fast enough to feel like he was choosing the pace.
The corridor forked. A sign plaque, carved and neat, pointed left:
LOWER STEWARDSHIP — KEY CONTROL
Key control.
Of course.
Zidane followed it.
The hallway narrowed further and the air changed—thicker, colder, with a faint metallic tang like blood that had been cleaned up too many times and never fully left.
Quina's head tilted.
"Bones," Quina said softly.
Zidane's grin tightened. "Please stop saying that."
Quina blinked. "Why bones bad."
"Because," Zidane said, and tried to make it a joke and failed halfway, "because bones are supposed to stay… inside."
Quina considered this. "Sometimes bones outside. Still hungry."
"Great. Love that."
They reached a door with a larger iron latch and a little crystal stud set into the frame—dim, as if it had been tired for a long time.
A brass plate read:
LOWER STEWARD
Zidane stared at it, then lifted the keys.
He hesitated, because knocking felt polite, and down here politeness felt like offering your throat.
He knocked anyway.
One rap.
Then another.
Nothing.
He knocked a third time because he was apparently committed to being a clown.
Silence.
Quina leaned closer, sniffed the crack under the door like it was checking a pantry.
"Smell…" Quina said, and paused as if searching for the right word. "Old."
Zidane swallowed.
"Okay," he said brightly to the door. "I have your keys. If you're dead, please let me know so I can… not be responsible for this."
No response.
He glanced over his shoulder. The corridor behind them was empty. Long. Too straight. The kind of straight that made you feel watched.
Zidane turned back to the lock.
"Alright," he muttered. "No more waiting. I'm already in trouble. What's a little more—"
He tried the first key.
It slid in.
It turned.
The lock clicked with a sound like a tooth snapping into place.
Zidane's stomach dipped.
He pushed the door open.
The room beyond was small and dry compared to the corridor—an office, sort of. A desk. A chair tipped slightly like someone had stood up too fast. Shelves lined with ledgers. A ring hook on the wall where keys probably lived like obedient metal birds.
A lantern burned on the desk, flame steady, white.
No steward.
Just paperwork and the smell of crystal dust and… something else.
Something faintly sour.
Zidane stepped inside, careful. Quina waddled after him.
"Hello?" Zidane called, voice light. "Lower Steward? I'm your… delivery boy slash stray slash punishment."
His eyes swept the room.
No movement.
No breathing.
No anything.
He took one step toward the desk—
—and the chair creaked.
Zidane froze.
Quina froze.
The creak wasn't from weight settling.
It was from something touching it.
Zidane's gaze snapped to the floor near the chair.
A pile of something lay half-hidden in shadow.
At first it looked like rags.
Then the lantern light caught it and showed him the curve of a rib.
A spine.
A skull turned on its side like a dropped mask.
Zidane's blood went cold so fast it felt like the air had punched through his skin.
"Oh," he breathed. "Okay. So. He's—"
The bones moved.
Not like a person standing up.
Like something remembering how to be upright.
The ribcage lifted first, pieces clicking together with wet, glassy precision. The skull rolled, then snapped into alignment. Vertebrae stacked like someone building a tower out of teeth. The whole thing stood in jerks and wrong angles, Mist seeping around it like smoke that wanted a body.
Its empty sockets filled with a dull, pale glow.
It looked at Zidane.
Zidane's mouth produced a grin by reflex, because his face was a liar. "Hey," he said, as if greeting a neighbor. "Sorry to bother you, sir, but your steward seems—"
The skeleton lunged.
No warning. No ceremony. No knock.
Just motion—fast and hungry—closing the distance in a blink.
Zidane didn't think.
He moved.
He twisted sideways, shoulder slamming the doorframe, and the skeleton's bony hand sliced through the air where Zidane's throat had been.
The nails weren't nails.
They were sharpened bone.
Zidane's heart detonated in his chest.
"NOPE," he barked, and shoved forward—
—driving his free hand into the skeleton's sternum with the keys clenched like a fistful of spikes.
Metal punched bone.
The skeleton staggered half a step.
Quina made a small, delighted sound.
"Eat?" Quina asked, hopeful.
"NOT NOW," Zidane snapped, voice cracking, and kicked the skeleton's knee.
Bone snapped wrong.
The skeleton didn't fall like a person.
It folded and re-sorted itself like a puppet whose strings didn't care about anatomy.
It swiped again—
—and this time the edge of something hard and sharp caught Zidane's forearm.
Not deep.
Just enough to split skin and make blood bead instantly.
Zidane hissed.
Ugly, real pain.
Not dramatic stage pain.
The kind that made your stomach flip because your body knew what bleeding meant.
He stumbled back into the corridor, slamming the office door behind him.
He jammed a key into the lock with shaking fingers and turned it hard.
The lock clicked.
He held the handle for half a second like a prayer.
Silence.
Then—
A thud from the other side.
Then another.
The door shuddered.
Zidane's grin was gone now. There was nothing left to perform for.
"Okay," he panted. "Okay. Skeleton. Cool. Coolcoolcool. We can—"
The door behind him buckled inward.
Wood cracked.
A bony hand punched through the splintered panel like it was paper, fingers clawing for air.
Zidane's brain went blank.
His body didn't.
He ran.
Not graceful. Not clever. Just go.
Quina sprint-waddled after him, surprisingly fast when it wanted to be, hat bobbing like a little flag of doom.
The corridor swallowed them.
As Zidane sprinted, doors along the hall began to open.
Not all at once.
One… then another… then another…
Old iron latches lifting by themselves. Hinges squealing softly like something shy.
Zidane's breath hitched. "Nope."
A skull rolled out of one doorway and stopped in the lantern light.
Then the rest of the bones followed.
Another skeleton stood up.
Then another.
Then another.
They were different sizes. Different shapes. Some wore scraps of old armor fused to bone. One had a cracked breastplate etched with a faded crest. One dragged a rusted blade that sparked lightly on stone.
All of them moved like they were being pulled by hunger.
All of them turned their glowing eyes toward Zidane at the exact same time.
Skeletons don't knock.
They just show up.
Zidane's legs almost gave out from pure, stupid panic.
He forced them to keep moving.
He veered hard into a side corridor, then another, ducking under a low beam, shoulder clipping stone. He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he couldn't stay in a straight line.
Thief instinct.
Maze instinct.
Survive instinct.
Behind him, bone clicked on stone like rain made of teeth.
Quina puffed beside him, calm as a tiny monster at a picnic.
"Many bones," Quina said, impressed.
"Yeah," Zidane gasped. "Yeah, great. We're popular."
A skeleton burst from a doorway ahead, blocking the hall, blade raised.
Zidane didn't slow.
He threw himself sideways, planted a boot on the wall, and kicked off—a cheap street trick that turned his body into a spinning shove.
He slammed into the skeleton's ribs like a tackling animal.
Bone exploded outward with a dry, horrible crunch.
He hit the ground hard, rolled, came up on one knee—
—and a bony hand grabbed his cuff chain.
The jerk yanked his bad wrist forward, pain flaring up his arm like lightning.
Zidane snarled.
Not a joke.
Not a quip.
A sound from his throat that belonged to something cornered.
He drove the keys down like a dagger.
Metal punched through bone at the wrist joint.
The skeleton's hand shattered and fell away still clutching a piece of chain.
Zidane yanked his arm back, shaking, and stumbled upright.
Quina trotted up and bit the fallen hand.
Crunch.
Quina chewed thoughtfully.
"Salty," Quina said.
"PLEASE STOP EATING THE EVIDENCE," Zidane wheezed, and kept running.
The hallway ahead ended in a junction with three doors.
No plaques. No signs. Just choices.
Zidane skidded, chest heaving, and listened—
Clicks behind him. Too close.
He grabbed the middle door handle.
Locked.
He jammed a key in.
Wrong.
He tried another.
Wrong.
The bone-clicking got louder.
The lanterns flickered for the first time, as if even the magic light was scared.
Zidane's fingers shook so hard the key scraped the lock and rang like a bell.
A skeleton rounded the corner behind them.
Then another.
Then three more, flooding the corridor like a wave of sharp edges.
Zidane tried the last key.
It turned.
The lock clicked.
He shoved the door open and threw himself through, dragging Quina by the hat brim because there was no time for politeness.
They tumbled into a storage room stacked with crates and barrels that smelled like old flour and older mold.
Zidane slammed the door and shoved a barrel in front of it with his shoulder.
The barrel rolled into place with a heavy thunk.
He stood there panting, back against the door, keys clenched, cuff chain rattling.
For half a second, there was silence.
Zidane tried to laugh. It came out as a broken bark.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. We're fine. We're—"
The door shook as something hit it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The barrel jumped.
Zidane's stomach dropped.
Quina stared at the door, eyes bright.
"Eat?" Quina asked again, like this was just a buffet with bad manners.
Zidane grabbed a crate lid off the nearest stack—thin wood—and ripped it free, splinters biting his palms.
He held it like a shield.
"This is stupid," he panted. "This is… so stupid."
The door bowed inward.
Wood cracked.
A blade tip stabbed through, then withdrew.
Then stabbed again.
The barrel split where the blade had pierced it, spilling a slow puff of dusty grain.
Zidane's throat tightened.
His eyes darted.
The storage room had one other exit: a narrow service hatch on the far wall, half-hidden behind stacked sacks.
He lunged for it, grabbed Quina by the collar, and hauled the little creature along.
Quina made a small offended noise. "Rude."
"LIVE FIRST, COMPLAIN LATER," Zidane snapped.
He shoved the hatch open.
Cold air rolled out, damp and Mist-laced.
A ladder descended into darkness.
Of course it did.
Because Alexandria loved a downstairs.
Zidane climbed down fast, boots slipping, hands burning.
Quina followed, less climbing and more… dropping in careful little hops.
Above them, the storage door exploded inward.
Wood and barrel fragments crashed.
Bone clicked.
Zidane didn't look up.
Looking up was how you got grabbed.
He hit the bottom of the ladder and stumbled into another corridor—wider, older, the stone darker and wet enough to shine.
This hall felt different.
Not just service.
Not just storage.
This felt like something the castle wanted hidden.
The Mist smell was stronger here.
A thin gray fog clung to the floor in lazy swirls, like it was sleeping.
Zidane's skin prickled.
Quina inhaled deeply, blissful.
"Good smell," Quina said.
"Stop liking the murder fog," Zidane muttered, and sprinted forward.
The corridor led to an open space—an old stairwell that dropped deeper, and beside it, a wide chamber with iron bars set into the stone like a cage.
Zidane skidded to a stop.
Inside the barred chamber were bones.
Not one skeleton's worth.
Piles.
Stacks.
A whole inventory of dead.
Some of the bones were small.
Zidane's stomach turned so hard he almost threw up.
"No," he whispered.
Quina peered through the bars with interest. "Many friends."
Zidane's voice went sharp. "Those aren't friends."
Quina blinked. "Bones are bones."
Zidane's hands shook around the keys.
Behind them, the ladder hatch clanged.
Something landed on the corridor floor above with a wet, bone-heavy slap.
Then another.
Then multiple.
The skeletons were coming down.
Zidane backed toward the stairwell automatically—away from the bone-cage, away from the bars, away from the implication.
His boot hit the first stair.
It was slick.
He windmilled, caught himself on the rail—
—and a bony hand lunged from the side corridor and grabbed his free wrist.
The grip was like being clamped by a cold bear trap.
Zidane screamed. It surprised him. He didn't do that.
But this wasn't a play.
The skeleton yanked him forward, pulling him off balance, dragging him toward the bone-cage.
Zidane slammed his shoulder into the stone and felt something tear in the joint.
Not a clean injury.
A ripping, nauseating pain that made his vision spark.
He snarled and stabbed with the keys again—metal punching into the skeleton's forearm.
The keys bent. One snapped.
The skeleton didn't care.
It yanked harder.
Zidane's cuff chain snagged on the stair rail and stopped him for half a second—
—and another skeleton rushed in and slashed across Zidane's thigh with a rusted blade.
Zidane's leg buckled.
Hot pain exploded.
Blood soaked his pants instantly, sticky and real.
He hit the stairs hard, not graceful, just impact. His shin banged stone. His teeth clacked.
He tried to push up.
A skeleton's foot—bone and old leather—stomped on his injured thigh.
Zidane's world went white.
He made a sound that wasn't words.
Quina lunged.
Not cute.
Not polite.
Quina bit the skeleton's ankle and ripped.
Bone cracked.
The skeleton staggered half a step.
Quina held on, shaking its head like a dog with a toy.
"EAT," Quina said, furious and thrilled.
Zidane grabbed the stair rail with his cuffed hand and yanked himself up one step, dragging his bleeding leg like dead weight.
More skeletons poured down the corridor now, clicking and clattering, blades scraping, empty eyes locked.
They moved as a group.
Not smart.
Not tactical.
Just hungry.
Zidane's breath came in ragged gasps.
His hands were slick with sweat and blood and splinters from the broken key.
He glanced at Quina.
Quina was still latched onto the ankle, chewing like it could solve the world by consuming it.
Zidane's throat tightened.
"No," he whispered.
He grabbed Quina with his free hand—around the middle, firm but gentle—and yanked it off the skeleton.
Quina protested, arms flailing. "Hungry! Hungry!"
Zidane's voice cracked. "Not you."
The skeletons surged forward.
Zidane staggered backward up the stairs, but his injured leg failed him.
He slipped.
His back slammed into the rail.
The cuff chain bit his wrist.
He started to fall.
Time stretched, mean and slow.
Zidane looked at the skeletons coming up after him—blades raised, claws open, all of them moving like a single appetite.
He looked at Quina in his hand.
Small. Round. Stubborn.
Too calm.
Too loyal.
Zidane's grin tried to appear out of habit and died before it was born.
He did the only thing he could do with the last second he owned.
He threw Quina.
Not hard to hurt it on purpose.
Hard enough to send it away.
Quina sailed through the air, hat spinning, eyes wide in surprised betrayal.
"RUN AWAY, QUINA!" Zidane screamed, voice raw.
Quina hit the doorway across the landing with a sickening thump, bounced, rolled—
—and disappeared down a narrow flight of stairs beyond, tumbling end over end like a little white-and-pink bullet.
Zidane's chest seized.
Then gravity finished its job.
He fell backward down the stairs.
Not a cool fall.
Not a stylish tumble.
He hit step after step with his shoulder, his hip, his bleeding thigh.
Pain came in big, ugly bursts.
His cuffed wrist got caught under him and twisted.
Something in his forearm popped.
He bit his own tongue hard enough to taste iron.
He landed at the bottom in a heap, breath knocked out, vision strobing.
The skeletons descended after him.
One jumped the last few steps and landed wrong—bones splaying—then snapped itself back together like it didn't care about physics.
Zidane tried to crawl.
His injured leg screamed.
His shoulder refused.
His free hand clawed at wet stone like he could grip the world and pull himself out of it.
A blade came down and caught his upper arm.
Not deep enough to take it off.
Deep enough to make the muscle open like a mouth.
Zidane howled.
Another slash raked his back.
The fabric tore. Skin tore. Heat bloomed.
He rolled, frantic, and drove the broken key shard into a ribcage.
The skeleton didn't die.
It just… paused, like the sensation was inconvenient.
Then it swiped again.
A bony claw caught Zidane's cheek and ripped a shallow line from cheekbone toward lip.
Not dramatic.
Just ugly.
Blood ran warm into his mouth.
He spat and it came out pink.
He tried to laugh.
It turned into a wet cough.
"Okay," he rasped, voice shaking. "Okay, I get it. I'm—"
Useful.
The word slammed into him like a punch.
Useful stray.
Work detail.
Basement access.
Inventory.
Bones behind bars.
His eyes flicked once toward the stairwell where Quina had vanished.
Please be alive.
Please be fast.
Please be hungry somewhere else.
A skeleton dropped onto his chest, weight cold and wrong, ribs pressing into his sternum.
Then another.
Then another.
They piled on top of him like debris.
Like a collapse.
Like he was just something in the way.
Zidane thrashed, but his body was failing now—too much pain, too much blood, too many sharp points finding new places to open.
Blades flashed.
Scrapes of bone.
A slicing sound too close to his ear.
Zidane's vision narrowed to a tunnel of white lantern light and glowing empty eyes.
He couldn't breathe right.
He couldn't move right.
His cuff chain rattled uselessly against stone like it wanted to apologize.
Somewhere above the pile, the Mist thickened, curling around bone like a blanket.
Zidane's thoughts started slipping.
Not like falling asleep.
Like being pulled under water.
His last clear image was Quina rolling out of sight, hat spinning, stubborn little body refusing to stop.
His last clear feeling was panic shaped like love.
"Quina," he tried to say.
It came out as air.
The skeletons kept slashing, a storm of small, hungry cuts.
And then—
The light blinked.
The sound went far away.
Zidane's eyes closed.
Black swallowed the basement whole.