Page 18 of The Shattered Rite
Its walls pressed closer as she moved. The faint bioluminescent glow of lichen lit the carvings ahead: stretched figures, their faces bound in stone blindfolds, mouths sewn shut.
Their hands weren’t held in offering.
They were reaching.
Clawing.
She told herself they were just carvings.
Just stone.
But they looked like they’d been waiting.
And Eliryn, panting, bleeding, choking down fear, whispered, “Get in line.”
Then—breathing.
Not hers.
Heavy. Wet. Just behind her.
She spun.
Nothing.
Only the soft, deliberate exhale of something large enough to swallow her whole.
At the next bend, she dropped to one knee, lungs wheezing.
“Gods, I’m dying because I’m winded and scaring myself. That’s ironic.”
Then—a shape unfolded from the dark.
At first, she thought it was broken stone.
Then it moved.
Limbs. Too many. Long and thin like spider legs, but bending wrong, shuddering at every joint.
Skin like wet obsidian stretched thin over something twitching, something too fast.
A face—no. Not a face.
A split where a face should’ve been. Jawless. Rows of teeth spiraling inside the split. No eyes. Just raw, glistening black skin pulling tight as it inhaled.
It tasted the air.
Eliryn’s throat closed.
Behind it, another one unfolded. Taller. Bones piercing through its flesh like spines.
She stepped back.
Her heel caught a stone.
A crack.
So soft.
