Like a guard on his post, a solitary torch stood its lonely vigil over an empty, debris-filled hallway. It crackled and hissed at the covetous, creeping darkness, fighting to keep the corridor from being swallowed back into its murky depths.
The light lashed back and forth, forcing the gloom to release its hold on the broken stones, splintered wood, and forgotten bones it had claimed for so long, before it tried to snatch them away again. The shadows danced mischievously on the old walls along the borders between them, jumping from right to left and left to right, as though unsure whose side to take in this timeless feud.
Suddenly, the torch's shaky flame faltered and fluttered as a draft swept unchecked through the corridor, lending darkness a fleeting advantage before drifting onward. The gust weaved through grand, decrepit stone halls, past deserted dorm rooms and dead, silent kitchens. It climbed winding, ruined stairs and brushed over broken candelabras, overturned tables, shattered chairs, and bare, dusty bookcases—chastising every torch in its wake.
At last, it reached its destination at the very top of the monastery: a large prayer hall, once glorious, now an echo of its former resplendent self. The draft nimbly crossed the whole of it, intentionally stirring the dust into restless eddies as it went, and brushed past the fair-haired young woman sitting on the chancel steps. She clutched her leather-bound notebook tightly as it swept over her and the broken pew behind her, before vanishing through the large, jagged remains of once-stained-glass windows.
Hellion raised her head toward the entrance, slightly irritated, as if half-expecting to see someone at the threshold to blame for leaving the door ajar. Finding no one, she halfheartedly patted down the wide brim of her capotain and brushed the dust off her sleeves before her eyes returned to the notebook in her hands.
She flipped through its pages in a flurry, sighing at the lack of answers they offered. Stopping at the last written page, she put down a single line: "No luck so far." With a frustrated motion, she slid her pencil between the pages and slipped the notebook into the inner pocket of her heavy, dark-green coat as she languidly stood up. The lass stretched with the grace of a cat, her mismatched eyes drifting across the abandoned hall's decaying furnishings and web-covered rafters before settling on the grand windows behind her. She approached one of the broken openings, her boots brushing against loose debris, and leaned out slightly to peer at the world below.
The forest sprawled far and wide, its expanse broken only by wisps of smoke rising from humble settlements. From this height, the trees seemed small, their vastness diminished by the sheer scale of the monastery—its many floors carved into the heart of a lone, monolithic rock that loomed like a giant over the land.
The girl lingered for a moment, savoring the view's splendor. She drew in a deep breath and stepped back, somewhat refreshed, as her inquisitive eyes shifted toward the entrance of a neighboring room.
Lacking a better guide, she sauntered across the hall, letting her curiosity draw her over its threshold and into the remains of a once-magnificent library. Tiny particles of dust swirled lazily, caught in splinters of light shining through lofty, faded windows. They danced around the towering bookcases stretching before her, like snowflakes swirling in a snowy woodland. Their contents, what little remained at the mercy of the elements crumbled to dust on the shelves before her eyes, ravaged by time.
Hellion approached one of the shelves and pressed the bare index finger of her partially gloved hand to the edge of it, tracing the intricate relief hidden beneath the grime. A twisting vine, carved along its length, revealed itself as her finger moved. She followed it step by step, marveling at the once-stunning library, the clatter of her boots echoing through the chamber. When she reached the end of the shelf, she stopped as her finger trailed off of it, leaving the library silent as a tomb once more. She rubbed the dust from her finger with a naked thumb, her expression solemn as she silently mulled over her thoughts.
The girl looked around, her eyes sweeping over the massive bookcases and the shattered remains scattered across the floor—until something caught her attention. At the far end of the room, near one of the towering bookcases, the dust swirled unnaturally, highlighted by crooked beams of light filtering through the broken windows. It twisted and weaved erratically, clinging to the bookcase's edges, its movement strangely deliberate.
Hellion narrowed her eyes, trying to puzzle out the nature of its behavior. Just as she turned to move closer, a faint tapping sound reached her ears from behind. She froze, her body tensing. Her left hand moved slowly toward the ornate grip of a flintlock holstered at her belt. She paused, listening—waiting for the footsteps to grow more distinct.
As the sounds closed in, her hand tightened around the pistol. In one deft motion, she unholstered it. With a flick of her wrist, the weapon spun once, its charcoal-grey barrel gleaming faintly in the dim light, before settling firmly in her grip. A soft hum reverberated through her hand as she aimed its snarling wolf-muzzle straight ahead, between another set of mismatched eyes: one amber-gold, the other icy blue.
Her hand jerked upward reflexively as she jumped back, startled. The demon stood in place, his hands slightly raised, looking bewildered. Hellion relaxed her shoulders and let out a deep sigh of relief.
"Goddamnit, Azazel." She shook her head and returned the weapon to its holster. "Don't do that."
Azazel lowered his hands. "Apologies, Master," he said, bowing slightly. "I did not mean to startle you."
"So? Anything?"
He shook his head. "Nothing of worth, Master."
She sighed and massaged her brow in frustration. "This is turning into a colossal, bloody waste of time."
Azazel cocked his head slightly. "Perhaps... Master Van Oostenhof was mistaken in assuming there would be any relics left to find here? Although, he did seem optimistic about this location..." His clawed finger scratched his long muzzle. "I presume you've already searched here?"
The demon's gaze wandered across the ruined library, admiring its breadth and threadbare splendor with a faint, naive smile. His eyes passed over a large, painted window—once radiant with color—then stopped, drawn back as if pulled by an invisible thread. On it was a faded image of a woman clad in flowing robes of faint blue and crimson. A soft halo framed her head as she gazed downward in quiet contemplation. Her outstretched hand, meant to comfort, was fragmented, the glass darkened with grime. Only the faint outline of a child remained unmarred, bathed in a thin sliver of light. He stared at the icon, enamored, mouth slightly agape.
Hellion's eyes shot open as her hand dropped away from her brow. Her gaze slowly shifted back to the suspicious bookcase at the far end of the room.
"Thrice..." she muttered, drawing the word out before turning sharply and heading toward it.
Azazel snapped back to attention, curious as to what was brewing in his master's mind, and moved to follow.
The cabinet looked like any other among the many there—a silent, stoic, reverent keeper of knowledge. Only the playful dust around it betrayed its true purpose. Hellion looked it up and down, over and across. She brushed along its shelves, searching, feeling for anything that might reveal what the bookcase was hiding. Her eyes caught something. Beneath the grime, the twisting vine carved lengthwise was cut in two places, a few inches apart—its intricate pattern broken. She pressed firmly, and the small switch gave way.
The bookcase rattled and shifted. Both of them stepped back, mouths agape. Shaking off years of dust like a waking animal, it creaked and moved sideways, revealing a doorway beyond veiled in darkness. Not halfway through its lumbering journey, the cabinet froze, its ancient mechanisms groaning in displeasure.
Hellion's features puckered into a sour expression. "Oh, piss off, you f—!" she smothered the curse under her breath. Angrily, she hopped next to the bookcase and tried to force it along. After a few futile attempts, leveraging different limbs and angles, she stepped away frustrated and motioned to her companion.
"Azazel, if you'd bloody please? Before I redecorate using grenades."
The demon nodded, stepping forward with an amused smile. Bracing himself, he pushed against the reluctant bookcase, straining as it groaned and scraped along the stone floor. With one final shove, he managed to clear the doorway, dust billowing from its tracks.
The lass pulled a tinderbox and a small canister from her satchel. A sharp click rang out; sparks danced in the gloom, and the wall-mounted torches flared to life. The chamber slowly revealed itself as the flickering light spread, driving back the darkness which relinquished a grim tableau.
Skeletons lay scattered across the large, circular room. Some sprawled face-down within arm's reach of large, empty rafters; others slumped over old, broken benches. A few leaned against the walls, their bony fingers clutching rosaries, wooden bowls, or the crumbled remains of disintegrated books. Parts of one, dressed in the same frayed, moth-eaten robes as the others, lay collapsed over a stone formation resembling a well at the room's center.
They exchanged a glance, then spread out across the ill-fated mausoleum, looking over the lamentable dead. Hellion's eyes dug into every crevice, shadowy nook and cranny—no stone on the floor or brick on the wall escaped scrutiny. She stepped over the monks' remains seemingly unfazed, her left hand keeping a firm grip on her knife.
A prevailing chill crept outward from the well, pulsing throughout the room. She could feel it sapping the heat from her body, inching its way up her spine. The dull thud of boots on stone, the faint rustle of cloth—muffled, as if sounds were choked out in their infancy. No air moved in the sanctum. Perhaps even time stood still here, as if they were walking inside a memory.
Azazel knelt beside one of the corpses. Missing limbs, fractured bones, and a frozen look of horror marred the brittle skeleton. Its colorless robes had nearly disintegrated, now resembling little more than a rotten sack. He gingerly picked up a bone, turning it over in his hands with curiosity. Under the torchlight and dust, it had an almost golden hue. It was coarse to the touch, and countless tiny cuts ran along its length. Azazel narrowed his eyes. The grooves were jagged, erratic. Shallow, but unmistakable. Were those—?
"Aha!!"
Azazel jolted, dropping the bone as his ears flicked up, head snapping toward his master.
"Finally! I knew it! I goddamn knew there had to be something!" boomed Hellion, her voice shattering the chamber's oppressive languor.
She stood on the opposite side of the room, looking at what appeared to be a small cabinet built into the wall itself. A braid of chain and a small padlock kept it shut. She eagerly drew her weapon and began bashing the lock with the butt of her knife. After a few heavy hits, the ancient lock buckled and fell, landing with a dull metallic clang, the chain unspooling after it.
Hellion returned the knife to its scabbard and opened the cabinet to reveal a hefty-looking cross sitting atop a large tome, both blanketed in thick dust. Though muted by years of grime, the cross's magnificent luster had not faded. As she wiped it clean, the relic revealed itself—it was made of pure gold, intricately ornate, decorated with several small, spherical gems of deep, bloody red, and a large piece of brilliantly white, polished bone affixed at the center, fashioned similarly to the rubies that adorned it. Hellion was practically beaming, her grin nearly as bright as the artifact itself.
"What did you happen to find, Master?" Azazel called out from across the deathly-still room.
"At least a month's worth of comfy beds and warm food! And something besides that for a change!" she replied, nearly ecstatic, as she quickly shoved the cross into her satchel—presumably before it could sprout wings and disappear. She peeked into the cabinet again and picked up the old tome, swiftly patting away the curtain of dust to assess its worth.
The book was heavy, its covers bound and strapped shut with brilliant gold and dark iron, its decorations inlaid with silver. A large sun motif sat embossed at the center, elaborate patterns drawn toward it.
Pleased with the second find, she attempted to stash it as well. But once she pulled on the book, it refused to leave the cabinet entirely.
Brow furrowing, she tugged again. The book still refused to budge, persistent in its obtuseness. Flummoxed, she looked it over from top to bottom, from side-to-side and found it was bound by a small chain, affixed to the cabinet itself.
That little, small, infinitesimal inconvenience seemed to be the last straw.
Hellion gritted her teeth and grabbed the book with both hands. She started trying to yank it out of its hiding place—pulling and tugging, and heaving, and snarling.
Azazel stood motionless, watching in surprise. And slight concern.
Putting a boot on the wall, she clenched her jaw and leveraged her whole body into the effort. Under the unrelenting strain, the chain finally snapped, sending her stumbling backward—straight toward the well. Azazel's breath hitched as he lunged in panic.
She crashed into the flimsy, eroded, waist-high wall, which crumbled under her weight—bricks, dust, and the rest of the slumped skeleton spilling into the darkness. Azazel barely managed to grab her by the collar of her coat. She clung to his arm with one free hand, squeezing painfully tight as she stared into the black abyss.
He pulled her back to safety, and both let out an audible sigh of relief. Azazel gave her a confused look filled with a fair amount of worry and wordless admonishment.
Hellion looked up from the brim of her hat, still catching her breath, and just shrugged. "I... thought I'd just throw myself in and save us all the trouble, eh...?" she offered with a shaky smile.
"Ahem... thanks, Azazel..." she added, then looked away, trying to steady her nerves.
She placed the book in her satchel and took stock of her inventory—guns, knife, hand bombs, gunpowder, flash powder, tinderbox, notebook. Nothing seemed to have parted with her into the hole, except for her wits.
Azazel's ears perked up and swiveled around. He cocked his head to one side, and his eyes widened.
There was a faint scratching coming from... somewhere, like nails dragging across a stone floor, followed by a distant gurgle.
Hellion noticed him tensing up and quickly latched the satchel closed. Her hands moved slowly to the handles of her flintlocks as she quieted her breathing—waiting, watching her companion.
The demon methodically scanned the room, trying to get a beat on the sounds. Only the flickering torches and playful shadows moved in the gloom. There was that faint gurgle again, pricking his ears—morphing, multiplying into muted chirps.
From where? Nothing was approaching the entrance—no, it's not at the entrance. This was somehow close. Really close. Where is it? Inside the walls? It can't be, but it feels like it is. Wait. Is it... above—?
A flash of teeth descended—Azazel swiftly sidestepped. Grabbing a handful of coarse fur, he smashed the shadowy creature against the wall with a meaty crunch.
Hellion's guns spun in the air and settled in her palms, finding their targets.
The wolf-heads roared with a metallic bang, spitting fire at two of the creatures, piercing their skulls and bodies. The momentum carried them past the gunslinger, where they hit the floor with a thump and a splatter. Their large ears and bristly fur now covered in blood and brains.
Another one skittered along the wall, searching for a better angle before lunging at Azazel.
He caught it mid-air by the throat, and the creature choked. Its gaping mouth, lined with razor-sharp teeth, snapped at him as its dog-like body jerked and twisted, desperate to break free. It wailed, screeched, and gurgled, its membranous wings flapping wildly, clawing and raking at his arm as it thrashed in his vice-like grip.
Its large eyes widened, then glazed over as its neck broke with a squelch and a pop. Azazel turned and hurled its limp body, knocking another one out of the air just as it leapt toward his master, sending both it and the corpse tumbling down the well—clawing haphazardly at the walls in vain.
Two more fell dead at Hellion's feet, reeking of singed fur, as she scanned the room and ceiling with both guns at the ready, smoke rising from their muzzles.
Her eyes shifted around, hunting in the dim light.
Nothing moved in the rafters. Nothing moved in the room. Nothing twitched, gurgled, or even moaned.
The chamber lay still and silent again, drinking in the carnage.
They exchanged glances and nodded. Hellion stylishly holstered her guns and gave the cabinet one last parting look before turning toward the exit, boots crunching over the scattered debris. Azazel spared a final glance at the slaughter they were leaving behind, then followed.
One step. Two steps. Then—
Like a drop of water in a still lake, a distant cacophony rippled through the monastery, reverberating through its walls. Scratching sounds magnified a thousandfold, compounded by the small sanctum, as if they were coming from inside their heads.
They turned toward the ruined well.
Hellion rushed to grab a torch off the wall and stepped onto the edge, holding it over the black nothingness. She looked down— then let go.
The torch swooshed and flickered as it plummeted downward, revealing the old, dusty brick walls bit by bit. Then, they disappeared.
A churning black mass of skittering, seething bodies replaced them. The glow caught in a hundred bulging, black eyes and a thousand-thousand sharp, white teeth as they swarmed upward.
Hellion's mouth fell open.
"RUN!!"
They dashed toward the exit and through the library, racing through the prayer hall and careening through the grand, decrepit stone halls, past deserted dorm rooms and dead kitchens.
The sounds of gunfire echoed through the monolithic cloister, enmeshed with ghoulish wailing and screeching trying to drown it out. They descended winding, ruined stairs and leapt over broken candelabras, overturned tables, shattered chairs, and bare, dusty bookcases.
The creatures started pouring out of every hole and crevice.
Azazel kneed one mid-motion, shattering its teeth, then picked up a metal shaft, throwing it and skewering a few of the beasts in mid-air. Hellion's red-hot flintlocks tore a path forward to an old, rotting door.
The gunslinger drove her shoulder into it with a loud crash—it exploded into splinters and shards. She tumbled forward, recovering from the impact, as Azazel grabbed her under the arm in full stride and heaved her upright so they could keep running.
They descended into the bowels of the monolithic rock, trying to retrace their steps. Torches flickered as they flew past, then disappeared into the wall of flesh and fur that followed. The vast cavern's dim, trembling light flared fiery-red with every gunshot, accompanied by a vile cacophony.
The hunt brought them to a large crevice, one side sloping lower than the other. Hellion sprinted toward it and jumped—the black fissure stretched beneath her like a smiling, hungry maw of jagged teeth. She landed and rolled, turning to face the crevice with her pistols, stopping on one knee.
Azazel followed, the mass of creatures heaving like a dark wave behind him as he jumped.
A storm of bullets whizzed past him, felling any that tried to follow. He landed close, facing the creatures coming up behind her, eyes fixed on the stalactites above them. He extended his open hand upward, then with a slicing motion brought the rocks crashing down on the erratic beasts as they skittered and lurched toward them.
Hellion brushed past him as he turned to face the black mass washing over the cavern. The ground beneath him shifted. Small stones, chunks, and fragments of rock rose up to form a firing line behind him. With a gesture, he unleashed it—the rain of debris pierced flesh, cracked skulls, and shattered bones indiscriminately.
The cave howled with dying screeches as he retreated, following Hellion down a narrow tunnel, sliding into the dark.
They staggered out, exhausted, into the meadow directly at the foot of the monastery—dust-caked, bloody, and breathless.
Hellion sprawled onto the lush grass, drawing in deep, hungry breaths as both of them looked up at the towering monument. Above, the creatures flocked restlessly, circling the old temple in agitation.
She sat up, peeked into her satchel, and grinned impishly, letting out a pleased sigh. Beside her, Azazel stretched, checking that everything was still where it should be. He patted himself down, picking bits of debris from the many buckles of his off-white long coat. The lass sprang to her feet, dusting herself off and plucking a few thistle tufts from her hat.
They exchanged glances, nodded, and she motioned for him to follow.
The vast forest stretched out before them, dwarfed only by its lonely stone guardian. Without a word, they set off toward a distant plume of smoke, rising beyond the evergreens.