The abomination lunged with a roar that split the chamber like a blade tearing through the air. The sound shook loose flakes of dust from the vaulted ceiling and sent a cold ripple through every bone in the room. Its body of fused bone and corroded steel crashed forward, a grotesque monument of twisted flesh and armor.

  Each limb flexed wrong, as though forced to obey commands meant for another life. When it moved, the clang of warped metal and the wet crack of straining sinew echoed together, creating a sound that sickened their stomachs.

  Every movement cracked and groaned, the sound of joints grinding against riveted plates. When its feet struck the floor, the ground quaked, scattering chunks of broken stone and shards of old relics.

  The cultists’ chanting surged into a fevered pitch. Their cries bounced across the hollow chamber, merging into an unholy hymn. They thrust their arms toward the altar, veins standing black beneath their skin, eyes rolling back until only white showed.

  Power crackled through them like lightning through dry wood. The shattered altar pulsed violently, unstable energy bleeding through its cracks. Necrotic surges rippled outward, crawling across the floor in branching, jagged lines that burned into the stone.

  The air thickened. Each breath tasted of copper and ash. The smell of charred incense mingled with something fouler, the scent of old death stirred from its resting place. Sickly green veins of light throbbed through the walls like infected arteries.

  Horren answered the chaos with the storm that lived in his veins. Rage and grief boiled into one indistinguishable force. He tore his blade across his arm again, adding to the growing wounds. Enjoying the sting, and the warmth of his own blood.

  Again it did not fall. It hung suspended, trembling in midair, then began to move, writhing like serpents, coiling in luminous ribbons that burned red as molten glass. When he swung his sword, they followed, lashing outward in arcs that left glowing trails in the dark.

  The blood struck undead ranks and exploded like liquid fire. Flesh evaporated. Bone cracked apart. Cultists screamed as they were thrown backward, limbs severed by blades of living crimson.

  Horren’s laughter was gone, replaced by rage that broke through the chaos, jagged and desperate, the sound of a man burning from the inside out. He felt his brother’s gaze even in death, through the abomination’s hollow eyes. Every strike was vengeance and mourning intertwined.

  Alkibiades moved beside him, his blade flashing like lightning. He fought with the rhythm of someone who had lived too long in war. Measured, efficient, never wasting motion. Each parry turned the enemy’s force against itself, each riposte cut through the fog of necrotic light.

  He caught sight of the sigils on the altar, templar work, familiar lines and holy script now warped into mockery. His gut twisted. The Order he had once bled for, that he had believed righteous, had a hand in this desecration.

  The revelation froze him for a breath too long. A hammer of bone crashed into his side and sent him staggering. Pain bloomed through his ribs. He forced air back into his lungs and lifted his blade again. Doubt would have to wait.

  Aeyona stood near the edge of the altar’s shadow, her eyes darting between the chaos and the collapsing ceiling. Every spell she tried came apart mid-gesture. Fire dissolved into smoke, light fractured into shards that spun out of control, air condensed and burst with a screech. She cursed under her breath, heart hammering. The corruption was breaking her magic apart piece by piece.

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  She reached deeper, clawing at something raw and buried. For an instant, she felt it, a vast and cold presence that wasn’t hers. The spell formed on instinct.

  A sphere of utter darkness bloomed around her, swallowing everything. Color drained. Sound vanished. In that moment there was no world, no sound, no life, only the void she had created.

  Then it collapsed.

  The air slammed back with a thunderclap. The floor split where she stood, fissures glowing white-hot before fading to black. The visage above the altar flickered, pulled inward by her spell’s gravity before tearing free.

  Aeyona gasped and fell to one knee, her hands shaking violently, her eyes wide and hollow. She had felt something that had seen her in return.

  Marvel tore through the melee with a predator’s focus. Her body, sleek and powerful in panther form, became a living shadow between the flashes of green light. She moved faster than thought, spring, slash, vanish, land.

  Her claws raked through undead flesh, scattering fragments of bone across the floor. Her fangs crushed vertebrae, tearing the necrotic connection that animated the corpses.

  Every kill cost her more energy. Her breath came harsh and fast, fur slick with blood and ichor until it glistened black under the flickering glow. She could taste iron and rot. Every sense screamed overload, too much blood, too much noise, too much death.

  But she pushed through. Somewhere in the chaos, she caught sight of Lillyth’s trembling figure, of Aeyona kneeling, of Horren screaming his brother’s name. She fought harder.

  The abomination pressed hardest of all. Each of its strikes carried the weight of a siege engine. It smashed through stone pillars, tore gouges from the floor, and shattered shields on impact. Its roar carried pain that was not its own. Through the broken slits of its helm, faint traces of once-blue eyes burned with cruel artificial light.

  Horren faced it alone while the others faltered against the swarming dead. His muscles trembled, his blood magic fraying under strain. Still, he stood. He met its charge with his blade raised high, blood swirling around him in a crimson storm.

  The abomination’s hammer came down. Stopping an inch from Horren's face, his blood had condensed into a small thick shield, the impact splintering the floor where he stood. He countered, carving a diagonal strike that split armor open, revealing the pulsing corruption beneath.

  The abomination staggered but did not fall. Its gauntlet clamped around Horren’s arm, crushing metal and flesh. He screamed and drove his blade upward, through the gap in the creature’s chestplate, deep into what had once been a heart. Sparks and blood sprayed in equal measure.

  They locked eyes, one man, one remnant of what had been family. For an instant, Horren saw his brother again, proud and kind. Then the light faded.

  The abomination let out one final sound, a roar like tearing steel, before collapsing in ruin. Scraps of armor and charred flesh scattered across the stone, the remnants of a bond severed twice.

  Silence didn’t last.

  Saralyn stood beyond the wreckage, untouched by dust or ash. Her hood had fallen back, revealing pale skin and a smile curved sharp as a blade. She had not raised a hand throughout the battle. She had only watched, eyes bright with amusement, savoring every scream.

  When Horren turned toward her, she didn’t retreat. His steps were slow, unsteady, rage hollowing him out. He swung. His blade cut through her wards with a burst of crimson light and found flesh.

  She gasped, blood spilling across her robes. Still, she laughed, quiet, lilting, triumphant.

  “Do not fool yourselves,” she whispered, voice frayed with pain. “I am only the beginning.”

  Her laughter lingered even after her body fell still.

  The necrotic glow dimmed, flickering out one vein at a time. The wards sputtered, then collapsed. Dust began to fall in lazy spirals as the air stilled. The altar sagged under its own weight, smoke rising from its cracks.

  Above, the Visage that had haunted the ritual flickered one last time. Its voice was soft, almost tender.

  “The next phase is already in motion. Saralyn was only a pawn.”

  Then it vanished, dissolving like mist.

  The party stood in the aftermath of ruin. Their breaths came uneven and ragged. Alkibiades lowered his blade, its edge notched and blackened. Lillyth’s aura faded to a faint shimmer, the last of her strength spent.

  Aeyona stared at the floor, still shaking, her mind echoing with the void’s cold silence. Marvel shifted back to human form, blood-streaked and trembling, clutching her side where a claw mark had torn deep.

  Horren dropped to his knees beside the corpse that had once been his brother. He reached out, hand trembling, resting it on what remained of the armor. For a moment, he said nothing. His eyes burned, but no tears came.

  The stench of blood and burned stone filled the air. They gathered near the altar’s remains, where the heart of it still glowed faintly beneath the rubble. Carved deep into the foundation was a sigil that should have been holy, now blackened, fouled, rewritten with necromantic geometry.

  Alkibiades traced the lines with his gauntlet, voice breaking in a whisper. “These markings… they’re templar. My order helped build this place.”

  The realization struck him like a blade through the chest. The corruption had not come from outside. It had been born here, nurtured from within, fed by those sworn to protect.

  The chamber reeked of blood and betrayal as silence reclaimed the dead temple.

  Then the ceiling cracked. The battle had been too much for its ancient walls. The first stone fell to the floor with a crash.