The iron doors groaned shut behind them.
The sound echoed like a verdict through the corridor—final, absolute. Cold stone pressed beneath their boots as Keiran, Selara, and the other chosen descended, herded silently by robed guards with blank expressions. No torches lined the path. Only dim electric sconces blinked irregularly on the walls, their flickering light casting jerking shadows that made the world seem stitched together by broken fragments of time.
The factory's scent faded with every step, replaced by something older. The air grew damp, thick with the metallic tang of rust—or blood. Water dripped steadily from pipes overhead, a slow rhythm that sounded far too much like a clock ticking toward something inevitable.
Keiran said nothing. Neither did Selara. Words didn't belong here.
But he could feel her beside him—tense, her fingers twitching slightly near the edge of her sleeve. She had smuggled a blade. That much was clear. He hoped she wouldn't need to use it.
They turned a corner, and then—
The corridor opened into a vast underground chamber.
It didn't belong to the factory.
It didn't belong to anything made by modern hands.
Carved stone columns rose on either side, etched with symbols half-eroded by time. At the far end loomed a semi-circular platform, above which hung a warped metal sigil—its design eerily similar to the crest of the factory, but older, wilder. Beneath it sat a crumbling throne, blackened by age and surrounded by melted candles and discarded bones.
Dust clung to the walls like skin. The silence felt alive.
Keiran's throat tightened.
Selara leaned close. "This place… it was buried."
Before he could answer, a figure stepped forward from the shadows near the throne.
Armon.
Gone was his usual uniform. He wore a robe the color of dried blood over dark leather, and his face was shadowed beneath a hood. Flanking him were two guards in similar robes, their eyes hidden, their presence silent and unnerving.
Armon spread his arms wide, his voice amplified by something unnatural.
"Welcome, chosen."
The word stung like a brand.
"You have been brought here not as punishment—but as tradition. A rite of endurance. A cleansing. For decades, the lifeblood of this town has flowed through sacrifice. Through offering."
He paced slowly along the edge of the platform.
"This factory, your homes, the very roofs over your heads—they stand because we burn away weakness. Because we feed what must be fed."
He stopped in front of them, eyes scanning every face.
"Some of you will rise from this night reborn. Others…" He smiled faintly. "Will be remembered."
A robed guard barked an order. The selected were forced to their knees in rows, their hands behind their heads.
Keiran clenched his jaw.
This was no ritual. This was slaughter.
He felt the walls pressing in, the air becoming sharper. He looked at Selara—she had her head bowed, but he saw her fingers twitch. Still watching. Still ready.
Armon stepped down from the platform, slow and ceremonial. He held a blade—not metal, but black bone carved into a cruel curve. Symbols glowed faintly along its edge, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He knelt in front of the first worker.
Keiran could feel something stirring inside him. Rage. Helplessness. A pressure behind his eyes, like something watching through him. Not yet power—but the faintest murmur. A whisper beneath his thoughts.
Armon raised the blade.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Then—chaos.
A scream rang out from the far side of the chamber.
One of the robed guards collapsed, clutching at his throat. Blood spilled across the stone, steaming in the cold air.
Shouts erupted. Another guard went down.
And in the confusion, a shadow moved.
Someone—a hooded figure—darted toward one of the side tunnels, disappearing before anyone could stop them.
Armon's composure shattered.
"SEIZE HIM!" he roared, his voice cracking with fury. "Lock down every exit! NOW!"
The ritual was broken. The spell of control shattered.
Guards surged forward, herding the selected back into formation, shackling their wrists. The ceremonial tone was gone. This was now a military response.
Armon turned, eyes wild. "The ritual is tainted. The corruption spreads."
He pointed to Keiran's group. "Take them. Lock them down until the rot is cleansed."
Keiran tried to speak, but Selara shook her head sharply. Not now.
They were shoved roughly through another passage—down a spiral staircase slick with moss, into tunnels that hadn't seen light in decades.
The cells were worse than cages. Rusted bars. A floor slick with filth and cold stone. No windows. No torches. Just a single broken light overhead, flickering in and out like a dying breath.
The guards threw Keiran and Selara into the same cell. The door slammed shut behind them with a metallic shriek.
Silence settled.
Keiran sat slowly against the wall, head falling back against the stone.
Selara stood at the bars, staring into the darkness.
"They'll try again," she whispered.
Keiran nodded, his throat raw. "I know."
He could feel it now, more than ever. The hum behind his thoughts. A pulse beneath his skin. The storm hadn't arrived—but it was near.
From somewhere deep in the tunnels, a sound echoed.
Not footsteps.
Not water.
Whispers.
Indistinct. Inhuman. Words spoken without breath.
Selara slowly stepped back from the bars.
"We're running out of time."
The cell door slammed shut behind them with a metallic finality. Rust flaked from the bars, falling like bitter snow.
Keiran stood in the silence that followed, breath ragged. The damp air bit into his lungs, heavy with mold and iron. Selara moved first, her boots scuffing against the cracked stone as she tested the bars. They didn't budge. Not even a creak.
Beyond their cell, the corridor stretched into darkness—no torches, no lanterns, just the faintest glow seeping in from the chamber they had been dragged through. Somewhere distant, the sound of water dripping echoed, slow and maddening.
Selara exhaled sharply. "He was going to kill them."
Keiran leaned against the wall, fingers still tingling from how tightly he'd clenched his fists during the ceremony. "He still might."
They were deep beneath the factory now, in the forgotten veins of the world. This place didn't feel like stone and mortar—it felt like a wound in the earth. And it pulsed.
"He called it a tradition." Selara's voice was barely above a whisper. "That wasn't tradition. That was sacrifice."
Keiran didn't answer. He could still see the ceremonial blade in Armon's hand, the way the robed guards circled like vultures. And he could still hear the moment the disruption tore through it all—that fleeting glimpse of the hooded figure vanishing into the side tunnel, Armon's fury shattering the ritual into chaos.
They were supposed to be dead. Kneeling like cattle. Offering.
Instead, they were prisoners.
The stone behind Keiran was damp, seeping cold through his coat. He slumped down against it, the tension finally forcing his legs to give way. Selara stayed standing, pacing the length of their tiny cell like a caged beast. Her blade had been taken from her. So had Keiran's coat. But not his resolve.
He looked up at her. "Do you think Vael got away?"
"I hope he didn't try to do something stupid," she muttered, then added with a dry chuckle, "...so yes. He probably did."
Silence again. Not the calm kind, but the kind that tightened the skin behind your ears.
Keiran rubbed his temples. He hadn't realized how exhausted he was. His thoughts blurred. His fingers still ached from where the guards had wrenched his arms. And yet—
There was something else. Something not entirely pain.
It had started during the ceremony. A pressure behind his thoughts. A weight that wasn't physical. Like a word trying to form on the tip of his tongue. A memory that wasn't his. Or... a whisper.
He blinked. "Do you hear that?"
Selara froze mid-step. "Hear what?"
He didn't answer. The whispering was faint, like breath on glass—just at the edge of hearing. But it wasn't words. Not quite. It felt like... longing. Ancient and slow, as if something beneath this place remembered being buried.
The stone under him vibrated softly. Or maybe he imagined it.
Selara stepped to the bars again. "We have to find a way out of here. Before the next Offering."
"They said they're holding us 'til the corruption is cleared," Keiran muttered, glancing toward the corridor.
She didn't respond. Her eyes were fixed on something.
Keiran followed her gaze.
At the far end of the corridor, just past the edge of the light—movement.
A shadow shifted.
He scrambled to his feet. "Did you see that?"
"I thought—" she hesitated. "No. Could've been a guard."
But the sound wasn't boots. It was softer. Like cloth on stone. Like something watching.
Then it was gone.
The silence thickened. The dripping returned, louder now.
Keiran let out a breath. "We're not alone down here."
Selara turned back to him, voice grim. "We never were."