They entered. A tall stone arch floated above their heads, and what lay beyond it should have been out of reach of human sight, but the elixir solved that problem perfectly. Petros gasped, tilting his head back, because the ceiling of the immense grotto they had entered rose far upwards, forming a natural stone dome. Some powerful spell, still unbroken after two thousand years, was clearly holding it from collapse. Otherwise, this cave bore no mark of human hands. The forces of nature themselves had provided a reliable shelter for the sacred temple.

  A winding path led forward among tall cliffs, earthen ramparts, and massive boulders. The travelers moved slowly, watching the dim glow of the torch in the druid’s hand as he went ahead, glancing about warily and straining to hear the slightest rustle. Their footsteps echoed hollow and ominous, but Petros had grown used to the sounds and paid them no mind.

  "Careful, Aok," Vergilius said quietly. "There may be traps here."

  "I can guess as much," the druid muttered. "But if those who left this temple behind truly wished to protect it… it’s unlikely we’ll pass all the barriers unscathed…"

  Petros turned. Behind them was a faint shaft of light in the passage through which they had entered. Ahead, in the grotto wall, loomed gates leading into the actual shrine.

  A tall arch, richly painted with hieroglyphs and inlaid with diamonds that glittered in the torchlight, crowned the entrance. Ornaments decorated the lower parts, and further along the corridor, the walls, as far as the eye could see, were covered in reliefs and frescoes with religious scenes. The interior looked much like what they had seen in the previous shrine, though this time with the constant presence of some other deity. Bronze harpy heads clamped lamps in their teeth, which, judging by the design, were lit by some hidden mechanism.

  Aok stepped aside, letting Petros go first. The mage noticed the druid’s hands trembling. The corridor stretched into darkness, remarkably narrow—two grown men would hardly be able to pass each other inside. And there ahead, faint, barely visible swirls of sparks shimmered. There was no doubt: some spells guarded this place.

  "Saelin, watch the walls carefully," Petros commanded in a low voice. "Look for hidden doors, keys, levers—anything. They may have concealed the most important information very cleverly…"

  "Found one," Saelin replied.

  Petros spun around sharply. He came up to where his friend, mouth slightly agape with excitement, was running a hand across the stone wall. Vergilius rushed over as well, already armed with a brush, a whisk, and tools. Saelin traced a curve with his finger, inside which the stones seemed to lie half an inch deeper into the wall.

  "Here you go—a secret door," the scholar shrugged. "The question is, how do you suppose we open it?"

  "Derrick Vanbern has a paper on the study of ancient Nocturn shrines," Petros said softly. "Remember—we studied it while preparing for the expedition? In shrines like these, they often used a defense system where certain stones in the walls acted as levers."

  The torch flame danced on the walls as the scholars fanned out, feeling the rough stone surface. To an outsider, it might have looked comical, but none of them thought that now—the result mattered far more. Saelin was the first to find one. On a stone that at first glance looked no different from the rest, cracks formed a barely visible hieroglyph. After a while, Petros found another. A third was discovered on the opposite wall by Vergilius.

  "On the count of three," Petros said. "One… two…"

  Saelin froze, snatching back his hand. The stone he had just pressed slightly suddenly sank deep into the wall by several inches. In the silence, broken only by the scrape of boots and the faint crackle of torches, something gave a dull, grating sound. An impossibly ancient mechanism, sealed away behind the marble masonry, had stirred to life. Grinding echoed, the floor quivered lightly, the wall shuddered, and a slowly widening gap appeared in the stone. Beneath the arch, a passage opened, spilling centuries-old dust and clumps of earth.

  Petros held his breath. He carefully examined the floor before taking the first step, tapped the stone tiles with the tip of his staff, and only then entered the next chamber.

  It was small, round, with a vaulted ceiling. Everywhere was covered with ornamentation—gold, silver, precious stones inlaid into archways and wall patterns. The ancient Nocturns had clearly spared no expense in decorating their temples. In the center of the room stood a massive round table with carved chairs drawn up around it.

  On the table, opposite each chair, lay an iron-black mask of horrific shape. In the middle, arranged into a nine-pointed star, were curved ritual daggers. Diamonds were set into their hilts, glowing with a strange inner light that pushed back some of the gloom in the chamber. Petros understood the meaning. The blades symbolized the tentacles of the Kraken. One dagger, in whose hilt a blue stone glowed, pointed to the far wall, upon which a great fresco was painted…

  It seemed to be some kind of diagram. At the top, Petros saw a symbolic image of Darius and Octarus, below them a ship with its sails raised. Further down was something like a mountain, standing alone amid waves crowned with white foam.

  Three circles, one inside the other. Above the first was a hand with a sword, above the second—an eye, above the third—a star. In the center, a picture of a boat, a man with an oar, and the shining sun. And hieroglyphs that seemed to denote some ritual names.

  "What does it all mean?" Vergilius asked quietly.

  "No idea," Petros admitted after a long silence. "But I think it will come in handy. Let’s keep moving." He pointed to another arch with doors not far from the fresco.

  "Wait," Saelin said, approaching the table. Opposite one of the ritual masks lay an object neither Petros nor Vergilius had noticed from afar. A thick bundle of metal keys. Saelin turned it over in his hands, examined it closely, and slipped it into his cloak pocket.

  "Looks like the priests gathered here for council," he observed. "See—all the regalia collected in one place… even keys to some chambers."

  Silence. Beyond the arch, they found an ancient, crumbling spiral staircase leading down. And from there emanated a strange glow. Green, growing brighter as the stairs circled around a column covered with tiny, almost indistinguishable hieroglyphs.

  The gloom seemed to draw back its immovable curtain. At last, another arch appeared ahead, and Petros was the first to step into a long corridor stretching far forward, with sarcophagi standing in wall niches on both sides.

  "Damn me," Vergilius muttered over his shoulder. "It’s a whole graveyard…"

  "Priests’ tombs," Petros nodded faintly, staring around in a kind of stupor.

  Torches burned in the jaws of bronze gargoyles standing between the sarcophagi. Their flame was clearly magical—bright green, burning here for untold millennia. On the floor lay dreadful, quivering, twisted shadows.

  And there was something else.

  Only now, straining his ears, Petros realized what had been bothering him. From deep beneath the stone slabs of the floor came a steady, muffled pounding and faint grinding. As though giant, ungreased iron gears were turning down there, performing some unknown task, driving in eternal motion a strange mechanism that once served the ancient Nocturns for purposes known only to them, unfathomable to modern people.

  The travelers slowly spread out along the corridor, approaching the sarcophagi and reading the inscriptions. For the most part, they carried no important information, just the names of priests and the years of their lives. The corridor was long, and they advanced slowly. Petros noticed a door on the left side between two sarcophagi.

  "Saelin!"

  "I’m listening."

  "By chance, is that door the one you found a key for upstairs?"

  Saelin came closer. Above the arch, beneath which was a door decorated with strange ornaments, an inscription in hieroglyphs could be seen.

  "Crypt," Petros said. Saelin pulled the bundle of keys from his pocket. They were all of different shapes, and it was easy to tell which one’s head would fit perfectly into the ornate keyhole. Something clicked inside. A beam of light ran across the door, marking a widening crack, and the panels swung open to reveal a dark passage.

  Saelin entered. The darkness here was impenetrable, but under the effect of the elixir, it was easy to distinguish the outlines of the walls and some enormous object in the center of the large hall he had stepped into. From here, four long corridors stretched outward, their ends lost in shadow, and the object in the center Saelin recognized as he drew closer. A massive stone tomb without a lid, low enough to approach directly and peer inside, and see…

  It was empty.

  Or rather, there was no body. Inside lay a neatly arranged purple mantle of the high priest, lavishly adorned with gemstones and gold. On top were dozens of bracelets and necklaces; on the right side rested a ritual staff, and on the left—a rolled-up ancient scroll tied with a ribbon.

  Saelin picked up the scroll as carefully as he could, knowing that one clumsy move and the parchment would crumble in his hands. With the utmost caution, he cut the ribbon, unrolled it, and studied the writing.

  "Petros! Translate."

  "‘Here, according to the canons of our faith, was to rest Saint Scarlet, patron and high priest of this temple from the year 784 of the current era to 796. However, for the sake of preserving the most important relics of the Cult of Dar, the body was transferred to a new crypt. The decision was approved by the High Council of Priests and confirmed by the Seer. The sanctuary, as well as the tomb, is declared sealed to prevent plunder by foreigners.

  A day will come, my children, when you will return to rekindle the torches at Scarlet’s altar. We shall pray day and night to await that day, or die to make it come. And know this, if you are here: the Seer will be able to find in this sanctuary the final key, the key to mastering the symbol of our faith, the symbol of Dar. When the Seer takes this key, comes to Scarlet’s tomb, and fulfills the design, my children, you will receive a sign. A sign that our time has come, and Laugdeil will once again belong to us and our descendants. Laugdeil will be freed from the plague that came from across the sea, forever.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Amen.’"

  Saelin looked closer. In the center of the mantle lay a massive golden brooch with a ruby at its heart.

  "This was to be expected," Petros muttered, carefully setting the scroll aside. "Naturally, they devised countless ways to preserve their artifacts from foreigners, but at the same time left keys for themselves, so that one day the true Seer could return power to Laugdeil. They hoped for it."

  "And perhaps they hope still," Saelin said, lifting the brooch and holding it up to his eyes.

  The ruby sparkled in its golden setting.

  Something thudded dully beneath the floor. A soul-rending screech echoed as a massive stone slab fell in the passage through which the scholars had entered the hall, sealing off their way back. And then, in the ringing silence that followed, came the sound of tiny gears snapping frantically, mechanisms spinning, and a heavy pounding shaking the ground beneath their feet…

  "Weapons!" Petros shouted, grabbing the firearm slung on his chest.

  Saelin managed to slip the brooch into his cloak pocket. Aok hurled the torch into the sarcophagus, and the purple mantle flared up like straw, casting a harsh light across the chamber. Petros raised the weapon with trembling hands, his head whipping about, realizing that for the first time in the whole expedition the danger was real as never before…

  Thunderous pounding. A guttural growl from the darkness, where nothing could be made out, not even with the Elixir. Cold sweat dripped down his temples.

  And then THEY appeared.

  Petros opened fire first—he couldn’t hold back, his fingers clenched the trigger, and a blinding flash ripped through the veil of darkness. The barrel jerked in his hands, spraying a burst into the creature that leaped from the tunnel. Saelin screamed in terror, his burst cutting across, colliding with Petros’s bullets. They managed to glimpse the enemy veering aside, dodging the hail of fire, crawling a few feet up the vertical wall, claws sinking into the stone, then clambering onto the ceiling and leaping down with a monstrous roar, straight onto the sarcophagus. A massive shaggy paw with dagger-like claws slashed across Vergilius’ face; blood sprayed on the stones, and Aok managed to hack the beast across its furred back with his sword before it bounded away to the opposite wall, preparing for another strike.

  "A werewolf…" Petros gasped.

  A deafening roar. Another wolf burst from a different tunnel. Vergilius toppled to the ground, curling up and aiming his weapon. He had the presence of mind and strength to fire straight into the face of the charging beast. The first werewolf bared its fangs and leapt again; Saelin met it, gripping his weapon tighter and unleashing the last of his magazine in a wild spray. He caught a glimpse of crimson streams spraying outward, the beast’s pale eyes wide with pain and fury—and then its claws slammed into him, knocking him to the ground, crushing him beneath its weight.

  "Aok! Behind you!" Petros shouted, frantically reloading his rifle.

  The druid spun with such speed that he managed to duck and hurl himself aside, dodging the third monster as it burst into the fight. From his knees, he thrust up his hand, breaking a fragment of bark between his fingers. The flash of blue light nearly blinded Petros; he shielded his eyes, crying out and lowering his weapon. He heard Saelin’s wild choking scream, Vergilius’s groan, and the sudden roar of one of the werewolves. The mixture of sounds left his ears ringing. The light vanished. Aok stumbled back, lowering his hand. One of the wolves howled, collapsed to the floor, convulsing and bleeding out.

  Vergilius managed to rise. One of the werewolves leaped backward, sensing the dangerous proximity of druidic magic, but had no wits to end the fight. It roared, sprang from the floor in a monstrous jump, soaring to the ceiling, and then Petros, now more accustomed to the firearm in his hands, raised the barrel and fired point-blank.

  Shell casings clattered to the floor with an ugly metallic ring, the thunder filled the chamber, and the beast crashed down onto the spot where Vergilius had just sprawled, smashed into the sarcophagus, and toppled it with the weight of its massive body. Trinkets, jewels, and ornaments showered across the floor.

  "Peeetros!.."

  The third beast raised its head, suddenly bounded forward, leaving Saelin lying in a pool of blood. Vergilius, face smeared crimson and hands trembling, struggled to lift his weapon. Aok steadied himself, stepped back, gripping the hilt of his sword. The beast’s crazed eyes swept over the men; it roared, struck the floor with its paw, and launched itself forward. But it only managed one leap. A rifle burst hit it square in the gaping jaws, shattering fangs and tearing through the back of its skull. The werewolf crashed down, thrashing and howling so loudly it nearly burst their eardrums. Its bloodshot eyes went dark.

  Aok collapsed to the ground, drained of all strength. Vergilius turned away, staggering, pressing his hands to his face. Petros flung aside the overheated weapon, jumped down from the pedestal where the sarcophagus had stood, and rushed to Saelin.

  Saelin slowly turned his head toward him. Petros recoiled when he saw the half-open mouth, the eyes wide from pain and shock, clouded with a filmy haze—and worse, the torn collar of his shirt and cloak, beneath which his bare neck was visible. A deep, ragged wound gaped there, blood flowing freely. Saelin slowly raised his hands, pressing them feebly to the bite. His skin was ghostly pale, his lips bloodless. He tried to speak but could only moan, choke, and gulp for air.

  "Bandage!" Petros shouted in a voice not his own. "Vergilius! Aok! Help me!"

  He barely realized what he was doing as he tore the shirt apart, fumbling to twist the fabric into a makeshift tourniquet, desperately trying to tighten it without strangling Saelin. Saelin whimpered faintly, writhing in spasms against his arms. The bleeding stopped, though both Petros and Aok were soaked in blood up to the elbows. Petros mumbled incantations; Aok pressed several Runes to the scholar’s chest, and together they bent over him, while Vergilius, a little apart, rinsed his gashed face and arms with elixirs.

  "Saelin. Saelin.

  "Erik…"

  "Damn it all…" Saelin managed to croak. He convulsed in Petros’s arms, his skin chilling beneath the touch. Aok staggered to one of the dead werewolves, pried open its jaws, and inspected the fangs.

  "That… beast… did it bite me?"

  Petros nodded silently. Saelin closed his eyes.

  "Aktos… it hurts so much… Petros… The artery? Tell me the truth. Don’t stay silent, damn you—say it!"

  Again, a slow nod. A shuddering breath.

  "The venom… is it in me?"

  "Your skin’s turning green," Aok said quietly, returning. "So yes—it is."

  "Elixirs… It’s not too late… We can still stop the infection… We can fix it… I won’t…"

  "We don’t have those elixirs, Erik. We need to get out of here, and fast. Ashley can heal you. The main thing is to reach the aerostat…"

  "Then what the hell are you waiting for?!" Saelin burst out, thrashing again. Foam flecked his lips, tears of helplessness streaked his filthy face. "Move! For God’s sake, move! Find a way out!"

  "Now," Petros said, glancing back. Vergilius limped closer; Aok helped bind his head and anoint his open wounds. His leg, too, was clearly damaged, he could hardly walk. "Now. We’re going."

  ***

  The way back was sealed. They had to find another exit from the shrine. Petros chose at random, entering one of the tunnels from which the werewolves had come, still clinging to the hope that the ancients had set no further traps. He half-carried Saelin, whose steps faltered with every stride. Aok supported the staggering Vergilius.

  The corridor ended at a rusted metal grate, raised now to reveal a passage beyond. The air shimmered with faint blue sparks, remnants of freezing magic. It was easy to guess that until Saelin took the brooch, the wolves had slumbered here as petrified statues, preserved for two thousand years. Skulls littered the floor. Torn iron chains lay in the corner, relics from the time when these beasts had lived here as guardians of the shrine. Whips, lashes, and long rods with blood-encrusted tips hung on the opposite wall. Protective enchantments had left it all untouched, frozen in the state it had been when the Nocturns abandoned this place.

  The doors onward were locked, but the key Saelin carried fit one. Petros tugged the handle. The door opened grudgingly, with a groan of rust. A staircase climbed upward, its walls of greenish stone lined with sconces holding dead stubs of candles. They ascended, stumbling on the steep, uneven steps, cursing the ancients who had built them with so little thought for modern travelers. Vergilius moaned; blood seeped anew through his bandages. Saelin only clenched his teeth, dragging himself higher. At last, wheezing and muttering curses in his own tongue, Aok clambered first into the next chamber.

  It was small, with a vaulted ceiling covered in faded frescoes. The bare walls bore no ornaments: it was a cellar. The air was cold. Rows of sealed barrels lined the walls. Amphorae on the shelves hinted that grain and foodstuffs had once been stored here.

  They didn’t linger long. Vergilius’ bandages were changed, and after some hesitation, Petros gave him a vial of narcotic potion to dull the pain. Vergilius collapsed into instant, blissful sleep. Saelin shook his head silently at Petros’s offer. He could still endure.

  Another locked door, another long search for the right key…

  The next hall was a scriptorium.

  This was something Petros could not pass by. Saelin muttered bitterly, but Petros unceremoniously laid him across a copyist’s table and hurried down the rows, glancing into open manuscripts scattered there. All were copies of the same religious text, one that Petros knew somewhat already, so he didn’t linger. Instead, he went to the door left of the lectern, behind which the priests once read aloud. Every scriptorium had its overseer, who also served as the sanctuary’s chronicler.

  The chamber was small, austere: a cot in the corner, a stool, a table with a candle stub, and a massive, crude cupboard full of manuscripts. On the table lay a closed, unfinished chronicle. Petros opened it to the last page, his breath catching as he read the hieroglyphs.

  "March 25… We have gathered nearly all our belongings; those manuscripts the Abbot ordered taken are packed on wagons waiting outside. Books that exist in single copies, the High Council commanded us to leave here, along with the ashes of the Priests in the Crypt. Of course, we dare not disobey, and yet my heart breaks to think of how many great works will be entombed here, sealed away, perhaps forever… Yet this also means hope—that we shall return, unseal the locks, and light the altars again.

  March 27. The ashes of Saint Scarlet were taken from the sanctuary and placed in a specially built tomb on the slopes of the Fire-Breathing Mountain. At this very moment, under the strictest guard, the Star of Tornir is being transferred from the Temple of Vaimos to the same place. The High Council has decreed: the relics will remain on the mainland, forgotten for a time. The war is over, the peace treaty signed, but still, there is danger that foreigners will covet the Archipelago. And the people of the Nocturns must preserve the Lake and the Star at any cost. While they exist, the cult of Dar exists—and with it, hope in our hearts. Everything has been arranged so that, when prophecy is fulfilled and the Nocturns reclaim their ancestral lands, the Seer will find the signs and return the Star and the Lake to eternal possession. He must endure trials to prove he is truly the Seer and the future High Priest of the Nocturns, and not some impostor. But in the end, the symbols of our faith will be his, and Space and Time will return beneath the Hand of Man…"

  Petros glanced back. Through the half-open door of the chamber, Saelin muttered hoarsely, giving brief answers to Aok.

  The Fire-Breathing Mountain. So he had been right. That was where his path led now.

  ***

  A succession of halls. More and more chambers, endless corridors where it was all too easy to lose their way. And more than once, they clenched their teeth in frustration upon realizing they had circled back into a room they had just left.

  They were forced to drink another vial. The potion’s effect wore off too quickly, and still, there was no telling how far it was to the exit. Saelin groaned, his eyes clouded, veins swollen, as the werewolf venom was spreading through his body.

  Then one corridor brought them to a window.

  It was a barred embrasure in the wall, through which streamed the clear evening light. A lilac sky lay beyond, rapidly swallowed by dark smears of clouds. The grille had been meant to keep wild beasts from entering the sanctuary, but to the travelers it looked more like the bars of a prison cell… After millennia, the iron had rusted and weakened, and after half an hour of exhausting work, Petros and Aok managed to break it, hacking away with their daggers.

  They crawled outside and collapsed onto the grass on the hillside, drained of all strength. All around, as far as the eye could see, shrubs and strange trees swayed and whispered in the wind. Above loomed a steep, rocky slope. It was impossible to tell which way they should go to reach the aerostat.

  At last Aok got his bearings. Quietly, carefully, taking pains not to make unnecessary noise, they headed down the slope, forcing their way through thickets of thorns, deeper into the woods. The danger of running into druids still lingered. Worse, in the thickening twilight, it grew ever harder to navigate, while cannibals could all too easily set an ambush.

  Petros lost track of time. He was weary, utterly spent. His flask had been drained from too many gulps, nearly empty now. Saelin was growing worse by the moment. Vergilius, still dulled by narcotics, remained unresponsive to everything.

  By the time the familiar jagged cliffs came into view, it was nearly dark. Clouds had swallowed the sky, and the dusk was blacker and thicker still. A storm was gathering. But Petros recognized the place and hurried forward, dragging Saelin along…

  At the edge of the hollow, he dropped to his knees in despair. Something inside him gave way, though his eyes refused to believe it, though his mind was unwilling to accept what had happened.

  The aerostat was gone. The clearing was empty. Only torn ropes and trampled grass showed where the flying ship had stood—before leaving without them.