With a slight touch, Auren pressed his palm against the large black metallic door.
A screeching creak echoed through the silence, deep and mechanical, as the doors slowly began to part—like they had been waiting for him.
He stood still, watching them open with palpable caution. His eyes narrowed as the darkness peeled back, revealing something etched into the metal—familiar, but... far larger.
The spiked sun.
The crescent moon.
The shaded night.
Auren gulped. That uneasy wariness returned, washing over him like a cold tide. But he stepped forward anyway.
He entered the temple. His gaze sharpened as a vast space of deeper darkness unfolded before him.
Most people would shrink back when light suddenly flooded their vision. But for Auren, it was the opposite. He'd spent so long in shadow that this inky, suffocating dark—it clawed at his vision, threatened to blind him. He instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes from the overwhelming void.
The darkness felt alive.
After a moment, his senses began to adjust. His breath steadied. He lowered his hand and looked ahead, eyes slightly widening.
And then... his crimson gaze stretched across the vast hall.
Tall, enormous pillars rose like obsidian spears, vanishing into a ceiling too high—or too hidden—to be seen. The floor stretched wide in solemn grandeur, black and white marble tiles forming intricate patterns beneath his feet. The pillars shimmered faintly with a sheen of age, yet their strength felt eternal.
To his left and right, curved staircases spiraled upward, wrapping into the tower's heights like coiled serpents.
Straight ahead—directly in line with the entrance—stood a tall, narrow window, its stained glass long shattered. A lonely alcove waited beneath it, bathed in a soft gloom. Scattered across the floor were broken benches, blackened with time, their wooden frames splintered and warped.
Auren moved between them, careful, silent. He traced the layout with his eyes, piecing it together.
A cathedral.
It mirrored the sacred halls of many temples in Hope Province. The design was almost too familiar—but warped, darker, as though whatever sanctity this place once held had been devoured by something older and far more twisted.
Something born from a deeper, forgotten night.
As he approached the alcove, the symbol replayed in his thoughts—etched behind his eyes like a curse he couldn't unsee.
And there it was.
Before him stood a coffin.
But not like the wooden ones buried in the sands.
This one was carved entirely from black stone—the same stone as the tower itself. Cold. Seamless. Eternal.
On the stone coffin was the symbol, the spiked circle—the sun, the crescent—the moon, and the shaded area—the night.
Auren stood still.
Staring.
Breathing.
Something inside that stone tomb called to him—not with sound, but with weight.
He slowly reached out his hand to touch the coffin—but—
"Don't you dare touch that."
The voice was low-pitched and smooth, yet carried the edge of a blade.
Startled, Auren flinched and tried to back away—only to stumble and bump the back of his head softly into something.
No—someone.
A solid, warm pressure met the back of his skull. A chest.
His breath trembled.
He didn't need confirmation. He could feel it, like a sticky note pressed to the back of his neck—unwelcome and immediate.
Auren's eyes widened. He hadn't sensed anything. No shift in the air. No presence in the darkness. Someone had appeared behind him without even grazing his perception.
He froze in place, trembling slightly—uncertain if he was about to get backhanded into the stone wall or skewered from behind.
What happened next, however, was not what he expected.
The woman pulled him tighter into her chest, wrapping her arms around his head, covering his face with soft, slender hands.
The back of his head sank between two warm, soft mounds, and his brain momentarily short-circuited.
Something about this was very wrong. Deeply wrong.
And being an upright kid, Auren hated it.
His heart pounded—fast, frantic, laced with dread. He couldn't make sense of the situation, but every part of him screamed that the woman holding him was bad news.
Dangerous news.
Just then, a pale radiance streamed through the broken stained glass above. The moonlight bled into the cathedral, brushing across her pale face. Striking. Sharp in a way that was almost inhuman—like her features had been carved by a sculptor with a love for both beauty and cruelty.
Her lips curled into a snarl as she looked upward, speaking not to him—but to the source of the pale light itself.
"Get your cockfucked light out of my face, you pedo."
Her voice dripped venom, and her glare was aimed directly at the dark sky.
The moonlight flickered—pulsed once, as if mocking her—and then dimmed into nothingness.
Only then did she let go of Auren, pulling her hands away from his face and stepping back.
He turned slowly—almost sheepishly—and faced her. The pressure she exerted was immense, a weight on his chest that made even looking at her feel like a task.
But he stole a glance.
She was beautiful—striking in a way that unsettled rather than soothed. Her most defining feature was her asymmetrical hair: pure jet black with a bold streak of stark white falling forward. It cascaded into layered bangs that half-shrouded one of her fierce amber-gold eyes.
Her gaze was unwavering, intense, and laced with something playful... and predatory.
Auren held his breath.
Her voice came again: lazily fierce, like a blade dragged across silk, too unbothered to rise yet sharp enough to draw blood.
"What are you doing here? And why were you about to open that?"
Auren gulped, eyes cautiously tracing her form.
She wore a sleeveless, high-neck black top with elegant slits running along the sides, accentuating her toned frame. Black straps cinched around her waist, adding a militaristic edge—like an assassin dressed for elegance or war.
Her left arm bore a tattoo—distinct and curling along her bicep and shoulder—its design impossible to place. Tribal? Divine? Cursed? It whispered of meanings far older than ink.
Her attire walked the line between fluid and dangerous: long black draped panels moved with her, contrasted by form-fitting pants and solid, silent boots. At her side hung a long sword, its sheath dark and minimal, its presence anything but.
She wore earrings—long, asymmetrical, glinting with a subtle rebellion. A flourish of vanity in an otherwise lethal design.
"I'm speaking to you."
The pitch of her voice rose, not with rage—but with pressure. Urging him. Demanding.
Auren's mind stumbled, thoughts tangling into silence. Should he lie? Twist the truth, manipulate the situation to gain some edge? That would take time—time he didn't have under her gaze.
He exhaled and spoke quietly.
"I was running. From a Paladin. Kingdom of Highrise. I just kept… following something. I didn't know where it was leading. That's how I ended up here."
Her frown deepened. Those golden-amber eyes sharpened, glowing like twin lanterns fueled by suspicion.
She tilted her head slightly, slow and precise, as if she were listening not just to his words—but to his soul.
She asked coldly:
"Do I look like I care about all of that?".
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"You're not supposed to be here. A Defiled isn't supposed to be able to enter the Night Temple."
Her voice darkened, every syllable now laced with judgment.
"So how are you here? And why were you about to wake the Night from his slumber?"