Before Lucien's eyes lay a single, simple sentence, written in elegant calligraphy and darkened with black ink.
His hands tightened around the edges of the book as a loose lock of red hair slipped free from behind his ear, brushing softly against his freckled cheek.
"I speak, you come."
The words left his lips in a whisper. He didn't know why he felt compelled to say them aloud; perhaps to feel less alone in that dark, timeless place. Perhaps to let the sentence exist not only within the yellowed pages, but within the very walls of the monastery.
For a brief moment, Lucien had the distinct impression that something in the room had changed. The lantern's flame wavered, as if it had dodged a breath of wind that might have snuffed it out.
Then Lucien felt it.
A breath against the back of his neck.
It lasted only an instant, almost imperceptible, and if not for the shiver that ran down his spine beneath the rough wool of his tunic, he might have dismissed it entirely.
But what truly made the fine red hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end was not the strange breeze, but the words it carried; softly, directly into his ear.
"…At last."
Two words, spoken clearly enough to be unmistakable.
Lucien's heart slammed against his ribs, his chest rising and falling too fast beneath his tunic. The book slipped from his grasp and struck the stone floor with a dull thud, the sound echoing through the monastery's bowels.
He turned sharply.
There was no one behind him.
Lucien knew he was alone. If anyone had come looking for him, he would have heard the echo of footsteps on the stairs; the only way in or out of that place.
And yet he had heard those words. He was certain of it.
Oh Gods… Had he truly been down there for so long that his mind was beginning to betray him?
Slowly, he bent down to retrieve the fallen tome, exhaling a quiet sigh at his own unfounded fear. He had searched long enough for one day. He would return to the dungeon tomorrow.
As Lucien slid the book back into its place on the shelf, he imagined what Brother Rowan would say if he told him about this. The older monk's warm, amused laughter filled his thoughts; gentle teasing, followed by calm reassurance.
Lucien felt heat rise to his cheeks, a faint smile tugging at his lips. How foolish. Ghosts did not exist, and no one could have whispered into his ear.
Then the air changed.
A heavy, pungent scent flooded the room, thick and unmistakable. Sulfur.
Lucien spun around, his heart lurching violently in his chest.
A black puddle had spread across the center of the stone floor; a viscous, tar-like substance that crept outward until Lucien was forced to press his heels back against the bookcase. Then it stopped.
Slowly, impossibly, the liquid began to move again. It flowed inward, gathering itself, rising against gravity like the reverse of a waterfall.
Lucien's mouth fell open, his hands gripping the shelf behind him as though the world itself were tilting beneath his feet.
The stench of sulfur grew stronger as the dark mass took shape. The lantern's flame wavered, threatening to die, yet stubbornly continued to cast light over the terrible spectacle unfolding before him.
A tall body emerged. Enormous. Solid.
The features of a man began to form-
No.
Not a man.
A creature whose presence alone seemed to fill the room, pressing against the stone walls, against Lucien's very breath.
"Wrong ritual, little monk?"
The voice was low and warm, shaped by a smile that revealed pointed white teeth.
Lucien's knees trembled. His fingers dug painfully into the wood behind him, his mouth open in terror, utterly unable to speak.
What the hell was that?