His words hang in the still, dusty air. Two hundred years.
This place is a museum. A tomb. And now, it's our home.
The sheer scale of our loss crashes down on me all over again. Not just the people, but the continuity. The knowledge. The living, breathing institution that had survived for a millennium, brought to its knees and forced to hide in its own graveyard.
The other students stand in a loose, dazed cluster, their faces illuminated by the ethereal glow of Thomson's candle. They look like a collection of lost spirits, wandered into the wrong afterlife. The initial awe of the place has given way to a grim, hollow-eyed acceptance.
Leah and Archie huddle together near a sarcophagus carved with the likeness of a stern-faced woman with a sword. Michael is already running a trembling hand over a scroll on the central table, his scholar's curiosity temporarily overriding his grief. Thomas and the others stand apart, their expressions sullen and resentful, their gazes darting toward me with the same fearful suspicion as before. The crypt might be hallowed ground, but to them, I'm still a desecration.
"Welcome to your new home," Thomson says, his voice heavy with a sorrow so profound it feels like a physical weight. "For now." He walks over to the massive stone table in the center of the room, setting his Exorcist Candle down. Its flame casts long, dancing shadows that make the stone faces on the sarcophagi seem to shift and writhe.
"These are the records of the Order," he continues, gesturing to the scrolls and artifacts. "Histories. Lineages. Arcane schematics. Everything that was deemed too precious to risk losing in an attack. Everything we need to rebuild. It is not the atmosphere you may be used to, but it is designed above all else to repel any possible Gloom attack." He looks from face to face, his gaze lingering on me for a fraction of a second too long.
"Everyone, find a place to rest. We are safe here. The old wards are still strong, layered into the very stone. The entrance is sealed by mechanisms that cannot be breached from the outside, and there are other exits... should we ever need them. For now, you must rest. You must eat. You must mourn. There will be no training today. There will be no lectures. Only survival."
His words are a dismissal, but no one moves. There's nowhere to go. The grand, solemn chamber is both sanctuary and prison. The idea of resting feels absurd. How can you rest when the world has ended? How can you sleep in a room filled with the dead, when you should be among them?
Flynn is the one who breaks the paralysis. He lets out a long, echoing yawn that sounds...
Almost offensive.
"...I'm exhausted. Are there beds?" He asks Thomson.
The question is so normal, so mundane, that it shatters the funereal atmosphere. A few of the others flinch, but Michael looks up from the scroll, a flicker of interest in his eyes.
"Living quarters are through the archway," Thomson says, indicating the massive doorway carved into the back wall. "They have not been used in two centuries. They will be dusty. But this place was a home for the Order before it became a mausoleum. You will find what you need."
With that, he turns his attention back to the table, to the glyph he recovered from Maxwell's body. He holds it up, examining it in the candlelight, his entire being focused on that small piece of obsidian. He has dismissed us not just from the task, but from his mind.
The others hesitate for a moment, then, as a single, shuffling unit, they move toward the archway. A procession of the lost, filing into the past. They give me a wide berth, a current of fear and suspicion eddying around me as they pass. I don't move. I just stand there, watching them go.
Amelia is the last one. She stops at the archway, looking back at me, her green eyes filled with a tangled mess of emotions—pity, worry, a desperate plea for me to follow. She opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it. What can she say? That it will be alright? That's a lie, and we both know it. She gives me a small, sad shake of her head, then turns and disappears into the darkness beyond the arch.
Flynn doesn't go with them. He lingers, stuffing his hands into his pockets and kicking at a loose stone on the floor. "You coming, Stick?"
I shake my head. "Best to wait until everyone settles down so I can pick a room away from everyone else." My voice is flat. A statement of fact.
He frowns, a deep crease forming between his brows. "Don't think that'll work."
"What?" I ask, genuinely confused.
"Can't get away from everyone if I'm bunking with you." He shrugs, a lopsided, almost defiant grin on his face. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Figured you could use someone to make sure you don't accidentally turn into a giant spider in the middle of the night. You know. For safety."
I don't know whether to laugh or punch him. The sheer, stupid gall of it is so utterly, infuriatingly Flynn that it momentarily cuts through the suffocating blanket of dread. "You're an idiot."
"So you've been telling me for years. Doesn't seem to stick." He jerks his head toward the archway. "Come on. Let's go see if they left behind any beds that can actually support someone with my muscle mass."
Reluctantly, I follow him.
The passage beyond the archway is wide and lined with doors, all made of the same dark, heavy wood. It's a barracks. A ghost barracks. The air is even thicker here, heavy with the dust of centuries. Flynn pushes open the first door he comes to. It groans in protest, revealing a small, spartan room. A single cot, a simple wooden chest, and a small, barred window that looks out onto nothing but solid rock.
He looks inside, then at the next door, then the next. "It's like this whole place is frozen in time," he murmurs, running a finger through a thick layer of dust on a doorframe. "Creepy."
"You're the one who wanted to stay," I point out.
"Yeah, well, I'm also the one who doesn't want to get eaten by whatever is crawling around out there. Cautious bravery. It's my specialty."
We walk down the corridor, our footsteps echoing in the unnerving silence. Most of the doors are open, revealing identical rooms. We can hear the others settling in, the muffled sounds of coughing, quiet sobs, and the scrape of furniture being moved. As expected, they've clustered together, taking rooms near the entrance to the main chamber. They're seeking the safety of the group, the comfort of the candle's light.
Which means the rooms at the far end of the hall are empty.
Flynn picks the last door on the left. It's a little bigger than others and has three cots - two set as bunk beds and another separate one on the other side of the wall. It's...strange.
My first thought is that at some time this place was so full they had to start bunking multiple people in rooms with no regard for uniformity. The double cot seems to be built into the wall, while the extra cot is just a normal one they shoved in the corner. The bedframes are all made of some dark metal, and the mattresses are surprisingly not a mess of dust and mold.
A perk of Exorcist magic, I guess. Or just...good craftsmanship. I'm not sure which would be more surprising.
"This one," Flynn declares, throwing his bag onto one of the bunks. It hits the thin mattress with a puff of dust. "You get the single. Less likely you'll infect me with your gloom-and-doom attitude in the middle of the night."
I don't argue. I was about to insist on it anyway. I drop my own meager bag onto the single cot against the far wall. The room is cramped, but the privacy of my own bed is a small mercy I'm not about to turn down.
Especially given Flynn snores. A fact I learned during a few enforced training camps. I'd rather listen to the whispers of the dead than that racket all night.