The shrine moaned beneath Royce's feet, a sound so deep it rattled the marrow of his bones.
Every breath he took was poisoned with the stench of decay, sorrow, and something far worse—hope long since butchered.
He staggered to his feet, the woman—Eryndra—clutching weakly at his cloak. Her eyes were open now, but empty, as if she had left too much of herself behind on that altar. She was alive, yes, but barely tethered to the world.
Royce turned toward the corridor ahead.
Something was waiting.
Something that had felt his sacrifice.
Something that had awakened.
Dragging his battered body forward, Royce moved deeper into the shrine's heart.
The walls grew narrower, forcing him to scrape his shoulders along cold, pulsing stone. Veins of black ichor crisscrossed the surfaces, pulsing with an unnatural heartbeat that was not his own.
At the end of the passageway stood a colossal door, cracked and barely hanging on its hinges. Ancient runes, jagged and cruel, were carved deep into the wood—words of sealing, long forgotten by the living.
Royce hesitated.
Behind that door was the Ashen Ones—
the twisted remnants of souls that once sought salvation but found only endless torment.
"Turn back."
The whisper came not from Eryndra, but from within Royce himself—
his last fragment of self-preservation, begging him.
But it was too late.
The shrine demanded a toll, and he was already knee-deep in its demands.
With a shove, he forced the door open.
---
Inside the chamber, the air was thicker than tar.
The ceiling was lost to darkness. The floor was a broken mosaic of bones, shattered relics, and discarded hopes.
And standing there, motionless, were the Ashen Ones.
Figures of immense height and unnatural thinness, draped in cloaks of soot and charred skin. Their faces were featureless, melted smooth like wax left too long in the sun. Each carried a blade of black stone, humming with a low, keening sound that grated against Royce's mind.
They did not breathe.
They did not speak.
But they knew he was there.
One of them moved.
Not a step—a shiver, a ripple through the veil of ash, as if reality itself buckled around it.
Royce raised his hand defensively, but the sigils burned hotter, warning him:
Fight, and you will lose.
Submit, and you may endure.
Eryndra whimpered softly behind him, and the nearest Ashen One responded—its head tilting unnaturally, like a corpse jerked by unseen strings.
From the darkness beyond, something else stirred: a colossal shape, unseen but palpable, dragging chains across the floor.
Royce gritted his teeth.
He could not fight them.
Not yet.
Instead, he knelt.
The Ashen Ones began to chant—a soundless vibration that filled the room with dread. The walls bled shadows, twisting into grotesque shapes: memories, fears, failures.
And then, from the void, she emerged.
The First Ashen.
Taller than the rest, her body wrapped in bandages slick with blood and tar. Her hair, a cascade of silver threads, dragged along the ground behind her. Where her eyes should have been, there were only cavernous pits leaking black tears.
She approached Royce with the grace of a queen and the malice of a butcher.
One skeletal hand extended toward him.
Without a word, she pressed a dagger—ancient, rusted, humming with sorrow—into his palm.
A command.
An ultimatum.
Blood must answer blood.
Royce understood.
A price must be paid for safe passage—or he would become one of them.
His hand trembled.
Beside him, Eryndra lay helpless.
The dagger grew heavier, whispering to him, urging him to make the sacrifice.
"Choose," the First Ashen whispered inside his mind. "Choose whom you love least."
Tears blurred Royce's vision.
But before he could move, before he could damn or save himself, a new presence invaded the room.
A boy.
No older than twelve.
Pale, with hair as black as a crow's wing and eyes the color of broken glass.
He wore a crown of splinters, and at his side, a severed hand dangled from a rope like a trophy.
The Ashen Ones shrank away from him.
Even the First Ashen lowered her head in respect—or was it fear?
The boy smiled at Royce, and in that smile, Royce saw the ruin of a thousand worlds.
"Come," the boy said, voice high and sweet, "you are not ready to pay their price yet. Come with me... if you wish to tear down this wretched shrine piece by piece."
Royce had no choice.
He lifted Eryndra into his arms once more and followed the boy into the endless dark.
The Ashen Ones watched him go—not with anger, but with hunger.
They knew he would return.
No one escaped the Shrine of the Shattered Echoes.
Not forever.
---