The tunnel curved sharply to the left, then narrowed again, forcing Evin to angle his shoulders and duck his head. The lantern scraped the wall as he passed, sending tiny flakes of old stone drifting down like gray snow.
His breathing echoed back at him in uneven layers.
1
His footsteps returned in distorted rhythms.
Only his heartbeat sounded real.
The old man's voice had gone silent.
Not gone—just waiting.
Evin swallowed and kept walking.
The remnants muttered faintly, not in pain, not in panic—just a low, rhythmic pulse of awareness, like a sleeping animal stirred by an unfamiliar scent.
Somewhere ahead, the tunnel widened.
The floor shifted from rough-cut stone to smoother, more deliberate carving.
Dust thinned.
Cold intensified.
He stepped into a chamber barely outlined by the lantern glow.
The room was smaller than the ones above—more compact, more deliberate in design. The walls curved smoothly in a perfect circle. Strange glyphs, older than the Church's doctrines, had been etched into the stone. Many had been scraped away, leaving ghosts of symbols that refused to vanish fully.
A stone bench jutted from one wall.
Fragments of pottery lay scattered near the entrance.
Faded lines of a broken ritual circle marked the floor.
It looked like a place designed for waiting.
Or for watching.
Or for being judged.
The remnants inside Evin reacted with a whisper that felt like a chill across his spine.
Older… older than the pillars… older than the rewriting…
Then they fell silent again.
Evin raised the lantern higher.
That was when he saw him.
The old man wasn't there a moment before.
But now he stood near the far wall, just within reach of the lantern's light. Lean. Bent-backed. Wrapped in a patchwork gray cloak that draped to the floor. His hair hung in thin white strands to his shoulders. His cane—a simple, polished piece of dark wood—rested lightly against the stone.
His face was half-hidden by shadow.
Only his eyes reflected the lantern glow.
They were not bright.
They were not sharp.
They were simply… awake.
The silence that followed was thick and measured.
Evin's grip tightened around the lantern's handle.
"You're real," he said, breath catching.
The old man's answer was a dry, weary exhale.
"Unfortunately."
Evin took a shaky step forward.
"Who are you?"
The old man didn't answer.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying Evin's trembling legs.
"You should sit. You are about to fall."
Evin stiffened.
He wasn't about to—
His knees buckled.
He caught himself against the wall, breath leaving him in a harsh gasp. Pain shot up his thigh. The lantern jolted and nearly slipped from his fingers.
The old man nodded as though this confirmed everything he already knew.
Evin forced himself upright again, though the world tilted briefly to the left.
The old man spoke calmly, clinically:
"Your breathing is uneven. Your arms are shaking. Your shadow lags behind you. The echoes inside you gnaw at your spine. If you keep moving like this, you will collapse."
Evin's breath hitched.
He hated how accurate it all was.
"You don't know me," he said through gritted teeth.
The old man's eyes did not blink.
"I know what burdens you. That is enough."
The remnants surged uneasily at the tone of his voice, but didn't lash out. They sounded almost… attentive.
The old man shifted his cane slightly.
"You are carrying too many pieces," he said. "They do not belong to you. And they do not wish to be carried."
Evin flinched.
"I didn't ask for any of this."
"No," the old man agreed softly. "But the Veil rarely waits for permission."
Evin felt anger flare in his chest.
"Then tell me how to stop it."
The old man's gaze didn't shift.
"If you wanted it stopped, you would not have survived the hall."
Evin's voice cracked.
"What do you want from me?"
The old man sighed, just once, a sound of bone-deep exhaustion.
"If I wanted something from you," he said gently, "you would not be standing."
Evin swallowed hard, throat thick. He took another step closer, lantern trembling in his grip.
"Why help me?" he whispered. "Why leave water? Chalk? Light? Why guide me here at all?"
The old man tapped his cane once against the floor.
"Because someone helped me once."
Evin waited.
The old man's voice lowered, almost to a whisper.
"I failed them. I do not wish to fail you."
A knot formed in Evin's chest.
Not trust.
Not relief.
Not belief.
Just something tight and painful.
He forced himself to speak.
"You said you knew everything about Rell."
The air in the room shifted—just slightly—like the old man had drawn a breath without moving.
"I know what you carry of him."
Evin's voice broke.
"You didn't know him."
"I did not," the old man said simply. "But I hear the echoes he left in you."
Evin felt his vision sting. Not with tears—he was too exhausted for that—but with a deep, sharp pressure behind his eyes.
"Then stop talking about him," he whispered. "You… you don't have the right."
The old man's face softened, barely, like a fold of cloth easing.
"I do not speak of him out of cruelty," he said quietly. "I speak because the remnant of him in you is loud. Strong. Loyal. And afraid."
Evin's breath rushed out of him.
The old man continued:
"He died before he broke. That is rare."
Evin squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the lantern handle so hard his knuckles ached.
"Stop," he whispered. "Please."
At last, the old man did.
After a long silence, Evin spoke again.
"What happens now?"
"She is coming," the old man said. "Her song is changing."
A cold ripple climbed Evin's spine.
"The Bishop?"
"Yes. When she descends to the lower sanctum, these tunnels will not protect you."
Evin's heart beat faster.
"Then what do I do?"
"You move," the old man answered. "Deeper. Before she brings the Choir with her."
Evin blinked hard.
"Why deeper?"
The old man's grip on his cane tightened slightly.
"Because the Church fears what lies beneath more than they fear you."
A long silence followed that.
Evin's mouth went dry.
"What's beneath?"
The old man did not answer the question. Instead, he turned slightly, tapping his cane against the floor again.
"Follow the cold. Not the echoes."
Evin frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"You will know when you feel it."
The old man stepped backward toward the shadowed edge of the chamber.
Lantern light didn't reach him anymore.
"Wait," Evin whispered. "Please, don't go."
The old man paused once, glanced back, and said:
"Do not linger. The longer you stay in one place, the more of them you carry."
And then he was gone—swallowed by shadow and silence.
Evin stood alone in the flickering lantern glow, remnants trembling softly inside him like leaves in a storm.
He swallowed, breathed, tightened his grip on the lantern—
And took the first step deeper into the dark.