Chapter 31: The Church Beneath
The night in Whisperwood felt heavier now.
Even the trees seemed to hold their breath.
Kael walked beside Lyra in silence, the shattered pendant clenched in his hand like a blade. Every step took them farther from the well, deeper into the part of town that didn't appear on any map.
They were searching for the beginning.
Not of the curse.
Of the lie.
They found the church near dawn.
Or what was left of it.
Half-buried beneath roots and soil, the broken spire jutted out from the earth like a bone piercing through skin. Stained glass lay shattered across the overgrown path. The symbols carved into the door were worn, yet familiar.
Kael paused.
"I've seen this place."
Lyra turned. "Where?"
"In my dreams. Always buried. Always burning."
They pushed the door open.
Inside, the church reeked of mildew and rot. The pews were cracked and warped with age. The altar stood crooked and made of stone, not wood.
And behind it, a trapdoor.
Lyra lit a match. "Old churches always hide what they can't bury."
Kael pulled the door open.
Stairs again.
But these weren't carved.
They were grown.
The roots had shaped themselves into a spiraling descent, slick with moss and old blood.
As they stepped down, the walls pulsed with red light.
Not magic.
Memory.
At the bottom, they entered a cavern lit by flickering candles.
They weren't alone.
Statues lined the walls twelve of them. Hooded. Faceless. Each held something different: a blade, a scroll, a coin, a child.
Kael moved slowly, reading the plaques beneath each.
Elias of Ash. Gave the first name.
Marien of Grief. Offered the blood.
Gale of Hollow. Carried the Saint.
Lyra's voice was a whisper: "The founders…"
"They didn't summon the Saint," Kael said. "They made it."
In the center of the cavern stood a slab of black stone.
And upon it, a book.
Bound in red leather. Locked shut.
Kael reached for it.
"Wait," Lyra warned.
But the moment his fingers touched the cover
A scream filled the cavern.
The statues turned.
Their heads jerked toward him with sharp cracks, like breaking branches.
One began to weep.
Another laughed.
The book pulsed beneath his palm alive.
Kael yanked his hand back.
Lyra stepped beside him, blade drawn. "They're not statues."
Kael looked at the stone faces again.
And realized they weren't carved.
They were petrified.
Real people.
The founders.
Still alive.
The book cracked open on its own.
Pages turned rapidly.
Then stopped.
On a single page.
Kael read the words aloud:
"To survive, we gave up names. To protect, we gave up truth.
But to live forever… we gave up our children."
A pause.
Then Kael whispered: "They fed the town their own bloodline."
Lyra's stomach twisted. "That's why it keeps calling to the descendants. Why it remembers you."
Kael turned the page.
It listed names.
And one of them was his.
Kaelin Thorn. Blood of Elias. Keeper of the First Gate.
The cavern shook.
The founders screamed.
Not words just sorrow.
Kael stumbled back, clutching his head again.
"They gave me to it."
Lyra grabbed him. "We need to go."
"No," he rasped. "We need to finish it."
He pointed to the altar above. "That's where the ritual began."
They raced up the root-staircase, the cries of the statues echoing behind them.
Back in the church, Kael tore the cloth from the altar and revealed what lay beneath
An ancient sigil carved in bone and salt.
He reached for Lyra's dagger.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Ending it."
He slashed his palm and let the blood fall on the mark.
It hissed. Burned red.
The wind howled through the church like a beast unleashed.
The sigil pulsed once
Then whispered.
"One founder must return. Or the town endures."
Kael stared at Lyra.
And whispered:
"It wants me to take their place."