The darkness did not take him.
Not yet.
Kael's breath returned in ragged, shallow bursts as sensation crept back into his body. His shoulder screamed with every movement, and the shackle dug into raw skin, but he forced his fingers to tighten around the chain. The obsidian orb's fading echo pulsed weakly in his chest — no warmth, no guidance, just a lingering pressure that made the world feel slightly less distant.
That was enough.
Gritting his teeth, Kael braced his legs against nothing but empty air and began to haul himself upward. Each pull sent fire lancing up his arm, each inch gained threatening to slip away, but he climbed anyway — slow, uneven, shaking, but moving.
The beam above creaked. Dust rained down. The metal groaned with his weight, but it held.
It had to.
Kael reached the lower support strut first, slamming his elbow against it as he caught himself. The impact stole his breath, but he didn't stop. He clung to the cold steel, repositioned, and climbed to the next one. Then the next. The ascent felt endless, every movement was another chance for the chasm to reclaim him.
By the time he reached the ledge of the opposite platform, Kael's vision blurred at the edges. His fingers found stone — rough, stable, blessedly solid. He dug his nails in, pulled, kicked, and heaved himself upward until his chest cleared the ledge.
The old man and the boy were already kneeling there, both panting like runners who had barely escaped a collapsing tunnel.
The old man's eyes widened. Then he laughed.
A loud and relieved bark of a laugh that echoed through the chamber.
"Well, I'll be damned! You really are a miracle worker, huh?" he said, wiping sweat from his brow.
"And stubborn too."
Kael blinked at him, unsure whether that was praise or an accusation. Probably both.
He dragged himself the rest of the way up and collapsed onto his back, arms splayed out, chest rising and falling in uneven waves. For a moment, the cold stone felt like the softest bed he had ever touched.
The old man pushed himself upright, walked toward the edge of the platform, and peered down into the chasm they had escaped.
"Do you think it's finally down for good?" he asked.
Kael lay still, staring up at the ceiling that felt painfully far away. He let a breath slip out. "…Maybe."
"Liar."
The word cut through their exhaustion. Kael's eyes flicked toward the boy, who stood beside him with an unreadable expression — calm, almost detached, but sharp in a way that made Kael's skin prickle.
The boy tilted his head, studying him.
"I don't know how," he said quietly, "but I know that you can tell what happened to that abjection."
Kael's breath snagged. Just a fraction — but enough.
The boy noticed. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if confirming something only he could sense.
Before Kael could form a response, a sudden pressure forced him still. A blade was pressed cold and unforgiving against his throat.
His body went rigid.
The old man crouched over him, one knee on the stone, and his expression was hardening into something far less amused than a moment ago. The knife dug into Kael's skin just enough to promise something unpleasant.
"Is it dead?" the old man asked.
Kael swallowed, the movement scraping against the blade.
"It's… dead already."
The old man didn't blink, he didn't even move the knife.
"Good," he said finally.
"Because while I might be grateful to you right now…" His voice dropped low and dangerous.
"Keep hiding things from me, and I'll open your throat right here."
Kael's pulse thudded painfully against the blade still hovering at his throat. He tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry. Given the old man's history, Kael knew immediately that wasn't a threat.
It was a promise.
A very real one.
He forced a small, tense nod, careful not to graze the edge of the knife. The old man held his gaze a moment longer, making sure the message had sunk deep, before finally dragging the blade away and standing.
Kael exhaled shakily.
But his unease didn't fade.
His eyes slid toward the boy — quiet, steady, unreadable. And suddenly the pieces clicked with an uncomfortable realization. The hidden vial of oil, the silent nod back in the abjection's chamber, and now... calling him out on the Brayhound's fate before Kael even said anything.
This boy…
Did he have some kind of ability to sense truth? Or lies?
'That had to be it...'
***
They walked for what felt like hours.
The fractured corridors had long since narrowed into a single winding passage, its air colder and heavier than before. Kael kept his eyes forward, trying not to think about how close they had come to dying — how close he had come to joining the guard in the abyss.
The old man said little. The boy said nothing.
Eventually, the passage widened again, just until an old rusted lamp flickered against the far wall. Beneath its glow, carved deep and violently into the stone, were the words:
Mors Vincit Omnia
Kael slowed.
He had seen that phrase on tombstones all his life — etched in crumbling cemeteries, carved into slate markers, whispered by mourners who barely understood the Latin but used it anyway.
"Death... conquers all," he murmured under his breath.
Neither the old man nor the boy reacted. They simply walked past it, as if blind to the message carved deep enough to outlast centuries. Kael forced himself to move again, the air tightening around his chest.
After a final bend in the stone corridor, the passage opened into a large chamber.
And this one was different.
Torch sconces lined the walls, some still holding the dying glow of flames last tended decades ago. The ceiling arched high above them, dust drifting like pale snow from unseen cracks overhead.
At the far end stood an enormous stone sarcophagus, sealed shut with thick iron bands and carved symbols Kael didn't recognize. Its surface was scratched by time, yet somehow imposing — an artifact buried and forgotten, like its waiting for someone foolish or desperate enough to disturb it.
The old man stepped forward slowly.
He stared at the sarcophagus with something like awe—something between reverence and greed. His breath hitched, and Kael had never seen him look so human, so disarmed. For once, the old man's knife remained lowered at his side, forgotten completely.
"...Finally." He breathed, more to himself than to anyone else.
Kael watched him approach, cautious but curious.
The old man took another step.
And another.
Until his guard was completely down.
That was when the boy moved.
Kael almost didn't notice it — only a shift of shadow in the corner of his eye, soft and silent. The boy stepped forward, rising his hand with something glinting red between his fingers.
The old man didn't turn.
He didn't sense danger.
Not until it was too late.
The boy stabbed him cleanly in the side of the neck.
A red crystallis sank in with a wet, sickening sound.
The old man froze mid-breath, eyes widening in disbelief. He tried to speak — a gasp, a curse, a question — but only blood bubbled against his lips. His hands clawed weakly at the shard buried in his throat.
"You—ghk—… why—!"
The boy stepped back just far enough to avoid the old man's wild, collapsing grasp. No emotion. No hesitation. His face remained unreadable, almost serene.
The old man staggered toward the sarcophagus, as if trying to hold onto it for support. His blood smeared across the ancient carving before his knees gave out. He fell forward, collapsing at the foot of the stone coffin.
Still.
Kael's breath caught.
"No — no, wait—" he whispered, even though it was already over. "Why? Why would you—"
The boy ignored him.
He crouched beside the body, gripping the crystallis and pulling it free with a soft, thick sound. He examined the shard carefully, tilting it in the dying torchlight. Blood ran down its edges, dripping onto the stone floor.
His face never changed. No remorse nor triumph was showing on it either.
Then, in a quiet, almost thoughtful murmur, he whispered to himself:
"May your soul find its way back..."