The scream was not given the mercy of becoming a memory.

  The moment it tore through the hall, the stone responded—

  not like something breaking,

  but like something that had been waiting for a signal.

  The chamber convulsed violently, dust cascading from the ceiling like black rain. The tremor was uneven, as though Tizra were not testing them all in the same way. The faint light threading between the roots flickered, shattered—then reassembled itself with unsettling intent, like an eye blinking once. Slowly, it shifted into a deep, arterial crimson, as though veins had just ruptured beneath the stone. The light stretched and writhed, as if trying to seize the exiles and entomb them within the chamber as a living grave.

  “What is that?”

  one of the exiles said, his voice louder than he meant.

  No one answered.

  The passage—

  the passage they had come through—

  was changing.

  Not collapsing.

  The colossal corridor, their only entrance, began to rearrange itself. Massive slabs of stone slid into motion with deliberate slowness, the thunderous groan of rock grinding against rock filling the air. The closure resembled a solar eclipse: edges drawing inward, devouring light and escape bit by bit.

  Galzim saw it first.

  His body stiffened. His eyes widened as he stared at the stone plates descending from above, measured, intentional—never left to chance.

  “No…”

  The word left his mouth as a primal refusal.

  “Not now.”

  Cillian turned to him instantly. She did not ask. She did not scream.

  She knew that tone.

  “It’s closing,”

  Galzim said, his voice rough.

  “The path… is being sealed again.”

  They scattered.

  Not in movement—but in focus.

  Half of them surged toward the passage, as though they could outrun stone itself.

  The other half froze, eyes locked upward—

  where the scream had cut off too suddenly,

  where absence had grown heavier than sound.

  “Jadig!”

  someone shouted.

  No answer came.

  Instead, another stone slab slid down and struck the ground with a dull, final sound—not the chaos of collapse… but the certainty of closure.

  “Move!”

  Ikida roared, shoving two away from the edge, his voice battling the roar of stone.

  “If it seals completely—”

  He didn’t finish.

  They charged for the giant stairway. The fear of what waited above—the source of Jadig’s scream—was lighter than the terror below. As they climbed in frantic haste, Ikida, guarding the rear, felt a burning cold coil around his foot.

  The hall shook harder. One of the exiles fell to his knees. Dust surged upward, mixing with the crimson light until the air itself became something to fight through.

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  Ikida remained behind, rooted at the base of the massive stairs. It was not fear that held him there, but the instinct carved into the souls of leaders—the sense that forbids turning toward safety until the last of your people has stepped onto the path. He watched their frantic ascent, one eye on the void swallowing the sealing passage, as though he stood guard over the final threshold between life and oblivion.

  The moment he was certain they were all ahead of him—and he moved to leap—

  a sudden, searing cold locked his body in place.

  Something solid as metal yet supple as muscle coiled around his ankle with bone-crushing force. Ikida spun sharply, sword leading his gaze—and his blood froze.

  It was not a stone trap.

  It was one of the roots.

  Moments ago, it had glowed with gentle, life-bearing light. Now it had become a thick, serpentine mass, swollen with deep crimson radiance—the color of fresh blood—as though the earth itself were pumping rage through its veins.

  The root yanked him violently toward the darkness as the passage above narrowed further, its grinding roar like jaws closing on anyone who lagged behind.

  Then—

  From above the stairs, through dust and towering steps, a shadow plunged like an arrow.

  Not merely a warrior.

  But a man returned from death itself.

  Galzim—whose blood had stained the stone moments earlier—now hurled himself downward with a body marked by miracle and a blade that knew no mercy.

  He did not hesitate. He did not look back. He leapt into the collapsing chaos to repay a debt. His sword flared in the red light, and with a single flashing arc, severed the crimson root. It writhed as if alive, screaming in silence, leaving behind fading remnants of light.

  The man who should have been a corpse

  had become the only shield between the commander and the abyss.

  Ikida’s eyes met Galzim’s for a single heartbeat amid dust and thunder—a silent exchange of gratitude forged between bitter rivals in the heart of hell. Before either could speak, the crimson roots surged en masse, transforming the chamber into a forest of blood-pulsing fangs.

  Ikida fully drew his blade. He and Galzim stood back to back, steel flashing as they hacked through the raging veins, while the passage continued its eclipse-like closure, snuffing out the last hope below.

  From above, Amazal witnessed it all—Ikida and Galzim drowning in a tide of crimson roots.

  He did not think.

  He leapt.

  Amazal plunged downward through clouds of dust and trembling red light. He did not land like a fleeing man—he struck like a thunderbolt fallen from a lost sky. Drawing his sword midair, he did not strike the roots. Instead, he drove the blade into the heart of the stone step before Ikida.

  And then—

  Everything stopped.

  The crimson roots froze mid-lunge, inches from Galzim and Ikida, as though turned to lifeless stone. The blood-red glow draining through them began to fade, retreating before a cold, alien aura radiating from Amazal.

  They were not merely afraid.

  They recoiled.

  Slowly, apologetically, the roots withdrew, as if ashamed to exist in his presence. The chamber, moments ago roaring, fell silent—save for the distant grinding of the passage nearing complete closure.

  Amazal stood there, sword embedded in stone, his body trembling under the pressure of a power he did not understand. He lifted his head toward Ikida and Galzim. His eyes blazed with the same silver light Cillian had seen before—but now it was sharper. More commanding.

  When he spoke, his voice did not come from his throat alone.

  The chamber itself seemed to speak with him.

  “Run. Now.

  Do not look back.”

  Neither Ikida nor Galzim asked for explanation. They understood this stillness was not victory—but a temporary truce imposed by Amazal’s presence. They sprinted upward, climbing the remaining steps as the light behind them dimmed and the passage sealed like the final blink before eternal sleep.

  Cillian and Vaelor crossed first. Ikida and Galzim followed, hurling themselves through the final threshold—

  —and the sound came.

  A silent explosion.

  The passage sealed completely. A colossal slab fell like a guillotine, severing Amazal from the rest.

  “Amazal!”

  Cillian screamed, slamming her hands against the cold stone that had swallowed him.

  A suffocating silence fell—one that told them the place had reclaimed its dead calm… and that Amazal had become part of Laghmaz’s lower darkness.

  Ikida stood frozen, his sword still dripping with the ichor of crimson roots. The boy had bought them seconds of life with his own.

  Then—

  The stone trembled again.

  Not violently.

  Obediently.

  At the center of the stone floor above, a narrow fissure split open—one that had not existed before. From it spilled a faint silver glow, and something rose slowly.

  It was Amazal.

  He was not climbing.

  He stood calmly atop a massive root—no longer red, but restored to its pale silver hue—lifting him upward as though the earth itself were offering an apology. He emerged from the fissure, and as his feet touched the ground, the root recoiled and vanished into the depths like a shadow fleeing light.

  Amazal collapsed to his knees, gasping, silver light still burning faintly in his eyes.

  The group stared—not with the shock of survival, but with the terror of witnessing someone whom death itself obeys.

  Vaelor broke the silence, his voice edged with new caution.

  “You… how did you do that?”

  Amazal did not answer. He pointed with a trembling hand toward the darkness stretching ahead on the surface—where the echo of Jadig’s scream still rang.

  “No time for questions,”

  Galzim said, watching Amazal with a reverence that bordered on dread.

  “This place isn’t finished with us.”

  Ikida nodded. Despite the unease Amazal’s power stirred in him, the commander’s instinct dragged him back to grim reality. They all turned toward the place from which Jadig’s scream had come—the surface that moments ago had seemed inert, now like the open maw of an unseen ghoul.

  Amazal wiped cold sweat from his brow, his voice breaking as though his soul spoke instead of his body.

  “Jadig… where is he?

  He was here. Standing on these rocks.”

  They advanced cautiously, swords raised, breath held.

  There was no body.

  No fleeing shadow.

  The place was horrifyingly empty—yet the ground was not silent.

  “There…”

  Cillian whispered, pointing with a trembling finger toward a dark corner near the dormant silver roots.

  Ikida bent down—and went pale.

  They did not find Jadig.

  They found his sword.

  The blade was embedded deep into solid stone—not dropped, but driven in with desperate force, as though its owner had anchored himself to the world moments before being dragged away. The hilt was smeared with thick black streaks—not human blood, but a tar-like substance reeking of rot and age, yet it felt unnervingly cold, as if the liquid itself were leaching the very warmth from the surrounding air.

  Beside it—

  Something made Galzim step back, murmuring words in ancient Ifri as if warding off a demon.

  Claw marks.

  Not scratches—but deep furrows carved into solid rock, bearing witness to a brutal strength no human possessed. As though the creature weighed tons—or its talons were forged from something that sliced stone like water.

  Worst of all—

  The marks led into nothing.

  Into the barren zone where no roots grew. Where darkness thickened.

  “He didn’t flee,”

  Vaelor said quietly, studying the gouges.

  “He was taken. And something here… does not want us to follow.”

  Amazal stared at the sword, cold seeping into his heart.

  The scream had not been the end.

  It had been the beginning of something emerging onto the surface—

  something watching them now,

  from behind the darkened veil.