I don't know how long I sit in the water, letting the heat seep into my bones, but by the time I'm done, the steam has made the room feel close and humid. I feel clean, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. The borrowed clothes from the Order's stores feel rough and ill-fitting, but at least they're clean.
Flynn is already done, of course. He's leaning against the wall near the entrance, toweling his hair with a vigor that suggests he's trying to start a fire with friction. "Took you long enough," he grins. "Thought you were gonna turn into a prune."
"Maybe I was hoping to drown myself in peace," I retort, but there's no real heat in it. The bath has worked a minor miracle.
He just laughs, a loud, booming sound that echoes off the tiled walls. "Come on. Let's get some shut-eye before we have to go play delivery boys in hellscape."
The thought of sleep, of the dream that might be waiting for me, makes my stomach clench. But he's right. We need whatever rest we can get. Dawn will be here soon enough.
We walk back to our room in silence. The crypt seems quieter now, the only sounds the distant drip of water and the soft, rhythmic hum of the ward lights. The other doors are all shut, the other students already sealed in their private grief.
Back in our small, stone-walled room, the reality of the coming day settles in. Flynn immediately sprawls out on his bunk, not even bothering to get under the blanket, and is asleep within minutes, his breathing a slow, steady rhythm. Amelia's cot is empty, she must have decided to work through the night in the library.
I sit on the edge of my own bed, the rough wool blanket draped over my shoulders. I'm exhausted, my body a dull ache of fatigue, but my mind is a wired, chaotic mess. Every shadow in the room seems to writhe, every creak of the settling stone is the footstep of a Gloom Dweller. The memory of the glyph, of that crushing wave of despair, is a cold knot in my gut.
I try to lie down, to force my body into the stillness of sleep. But the moment my eyes close, the violet-haired Dweller is there, his silver eyes boring into mine, his offer hanging in the air between us. You're not the first.
My eyes snap open.
I stare up at the stone ceiling, tracing the cracks in the gloom. Sleep is a luxury I can no longer afford. It's a trap. A vulnerability.
So I don't sleep. I just wait. I wait for the dawn that feels like an execution.
***
The sky outside the crypt entrance is a murky grey when we gather. The air is cold, carrying the scent of damp earth and impending rain. Thomson stands before us, a grim, imposing figure. Flynn is there, looking restless and energized, a coil of rope over his shoulder and a new-looking pack at his feet. Michael is with him, his face pale but set, a pair of old, leather-bound field journals clutched to his chest like a holy text. He looks like he's about to face a firing squad.
I'm the third member of this ill-fated expedition. My own pack is light, containing only the bare essentials—food, water, a change of clothes. My Exorcist Lantern, a useless ornament, hangs at my side. My only real weapon is the curse coiled in my soul.
The other students are there too, lining the corridor. They watch us with a mixture of pity and terror. They are the ones who get to stay in the crypt, in the relative safety of the old wards. We are the ones who have to walk back out into the world.
Thomson places a hand on the mechanism for the main entrance. The stone rumbles, and a sliver of pre-dawn light cuts through the gloom of the crypt, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The air that rushes in is different from the stale, ancient air of the crypt. It's wild. Uncontrolled. And it carries a faint, familiar charge.
The charge of the Gloom.
Flynn doesn't hesitate. He shoulders his pack and walks through the doorway without a backward glance, a golden spear of defiance against the encroaching darkness. Michael follows, a flickering candle of courage in the storm. He stumbles slightly, his gaze fixed on the ground ahead, as if he's afraid to look at the world outside.
I'm the last one. I pause at the threshold, turning to look back at Thomson. His face is an unreadable mask of stone.
"Survive, Caden," he says, his voice low. "And learn."
It's not a wish. It's an order.
I turn and step through the doorway, out of the tomb and into the dying world.
The stone rumbles shut behind us, the sound echoing my own finality.
The forest is quiet. Too quiet. The early morning mist hangs heavy among the trees, muffling sound, distorting shapes. The world is a watercolor painting in shades of grey and pale green. It's beautiful. And it's terrifying.
We don't speak. We just start walking, our footsteps the only sound in the oppressive silence. Flynn takes the lead, his senses on high alert, his body a coiled spring. Michael trails behind, his eyes darting from side to side, cataloging every broken branch, every muddy footprint.
And I walk between them.
The buffer.
The weapon.
The monster.
We walk for what feels like an eternity, the rising sun doing little to burn away the mist or the dread. We're heading for a small town Flynn remembers, a few hours' walk from the crypt. A place we might find fresh water, news, and perhaps... answers.
We have until sunset to get back to the crypt. Thomson won't open the doors once the sun sets. Sunrise and sunset are dangerous enough as it is, given that full daylight is the primary defense against most Gloom Dwellers, not just the dim light of the dawn.