𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜰɪꜰᴛʏ-ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

A Price to Pay.

🌎

    Rory and Chris stumbled through the labyrinth, their breaths shallow and ragged, the walls seeming to shift and twist with each passing second. The path ahead was illuminated only by the dim light of the waning fog. The air was thick with tension, and Rory’s mind was a tempest of thoughts, still reeling from the horrific visions they had encountered. Yet she knew that stopping now, allowing herself to be consumed by fear, would only seal their fate. They had to keep moving.

    The walls whispered dark secrets, unintelligible but laden with malice. Rory's heart raced, each beat thundering in her ears, but she pushed on, her hand instinctively tightening around the hilt of her sword. They pressed on.

    After what felt like hours, the narrow corridor they had been navigating opened up into a vast chamber, the sudden space making Rory's pulse quicken. The temperature plummeted, the icy air biting at their skin like the breath of a crypt where no living soul had ever ventured—or returned. The room was eerily quiet, save for the faint drip of water echoing somewhere in the distance. As they stepped forward, the faint light revealed what lay at the chamber's heart.

    A grand, elegant throne dominated the center of the room, bathed in a sickly light that made the gold glint ominously. Its intricate design spoke of ancient craftsmanship, a relic of forgotten times and terrible rulers. But what drew Rory's attention wasn’t just the throne—it was the scattered remains that surrounded it. Bones, twisted and broken, lay in disarray, littering the floor like discarded toys. Rory’s stomach twisted as her gaze moved across the room. She had hoped, at first, that the bones belonged to animals, but as she looked closer, her heart sank. Some were unmistakably human—arms, ribs, skulls.

    Some of the remains were disturbingly intact, the decaying remnants of flesh still clinging to the bones, hanging grotesquely from half-rotted torsos. Strings of sinew and dried skin dangled like grotesque ornaments from cracked ribs. Rory felt bile rise in her throat, her body revolting against the sight, but she forced herself to swallow it down, to stay focused. The stench of rot filled the chamber. Whatever had killed these poor souls, it was either long gone or lying in wait. Rory hoped she would never find out what had killed them.

    Her heart hammered in her chest as they moved cautiously across the room, every step calculated, her eyes flicking to the floor and walls for signs of traps or hidden dangers. Her breath felt heavy in the thick air, each inhale bringing with it that horrible smell. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched—whether by the spirits of the dead or something far worse lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

    The golden throne stood empty, a silent sentinel. It loomed over them, majestic yet foreboding, like a relic of some dark monarch who had long since fallen to ruin. The rich gold, though still shining, had darkened with time, the surface marred by patches of rust and decay. Rory could feel its pull, a force that seemed to whisper to her, daring her to approach, to sit upon its grand seat. But every instinct screamed that doing so would be a mistake—a fatal one.

    Just as they reached the opposite side of the chamber a ghostly figure began to materialize before them, emerging like a wisp of ethereal smoke. The air around it shimmered, flickering as though the figure hovered between existence and oblivion, caught in some terrible in-between. When Rory tried to focus on it directly, it seemed to vanish, leaving nothing but a haunting shadow in its place. But from the corners of her vision, the figure became clear—a tall man clad in flowing white robes, crowned with a delicate circlet of gold. His presence exuded authority, the kind that could only come from someone who had ruled ruthlessly and without mercy.