Arc 3, Chapter 31: Descent

  No one moved.

  The stone monkeys returned to their stillness. All eight statues sat locked in prayer, and a heavy silence settled over the chamber. The only remaining sound was the group's frantic breathing.

  Voss stood with his jaw tight, staring at the statues. His fingernails bit into his palms.

  "They laughed."

  His voice came out low, burying his rage.

  "When Bram died, they laughed."

  He walked toward the nearest statue. His breathing grew heavier with each step.

  "Mocking him. Like his life meant nothing."

  Voss drove his boot into the base of the statue. The sharp crack of the kick echoed through the room, yet the monkey remained perfectly still.

  He kicked it again. "You laugh at us like we're entertainment!"

  He slammed his fist into the statue's face. The impact tore the skin from his knuckles. Voss grabbed the stone's shoulders and strained against the weight, trying to rip it from the floor.

  A grinding screech of metal dragging across stone filled the chamber. The vibration traveled through the floor and up into Ash's bones.

  Ash looked up.

  The massive stone slab above them shuddered and dropped. A full foot in one motion. The impact sent dust and debris raining down on their heads. The air pressure shifted, pushing stale wind into their faces.

  Sharp metallic clicks echoed from above. Hundreds of rusted iron stakes forced their way through gaps in the ceiling. Jagged points hung over the entire chamber floor.

  Vera screamed. Rowan pressed his back to the wall, his gaze locked upward.

  "What is that?!"

  The ceiling held its position. The room grew quiet once more.

  Rowan’s breathing was fast and shallow. "It stopped. Oh god, it stopped—"

  Three of the monkeys unhinged their jaws. The sound that came out was harsh and grating, like rock scraping over rock, formed into the rhythm of laughter. It filled the chamber, loud enough to make Ash's ears ring.

  Ash's eyes moved across the chamber.

  *The same three as before.*

  He studied each one while the laughter continued. One had its head tilted back, staring up at the spiked ceiling. Another angled downward, focused on the floor. The third looked straight ahead, directly at the group.

  Ash glanced at Anna. She was watching the statues too, her gaze moving from one to the next. Her eyes met his.

  The laughter stopped. The three monkeys snapped their mouths shut in unison. The crack of stone on stone echoed through the room as they lowered their heads and pressed their palms together. All eight statues looked identical once more.

  A low rumble started in the walls. Dust shook loose from the corners.

  The floor jolted beneath Ash's feet. He stumbled as the stone platform gave a violent shudder and began to rise. The grinding sound returned from above. The ceiling descended, spikes inching closer while the floor pushed upward.

  The gap between them narrowed.

  Rowan’s voice tore through the chamber. "It's going to crush us! The ceiling. There's no way!"

  Vera lunged at Voss. She grabbed the front of his shirt, her face tight with fury and desperation.

  "This happened because of what you did!" Tears cut tracks through the dust on her cheeks. "My daughters. I won't..."

  Her voice collapsed into broken sobs.

  Voss remained silent. His mouth opened, then closed. He met her eyes, then dropped his gaze to the floor.

  Anna stepped toward them and rested her hand on Vera's shoulder.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "We're getting out. You'll return to them."

  Ash turned away from the group and approached one of the monkeys that had laughed. The movement overhead shook thin streams of dust from the ceiling.

  He crouched in front of it. His fingers traced the carved stone, moving across the surface. He tilted his head, examining the statue's pose.

  *The inscription—The old order must not be disturbed.*

  Anna stopped beside him.

  Ash moved to another of the laughing monkeys as the floor continued its rise. He looked up. The spiked ceiling hung lower, close enough to reveal rust on the iron stakes.

  *They laughed. The same three. Both times.*

  The statue sat in prayer, no different from its neighbors.

  *What makes them different?*

  Anna moved closer and crouched beside the statue, inspecting it.

  The grinding grew louder. The gap between the spikes and the floor shrank.

  Ash hurried to the last laughing statue. Anna stayed focused on the previous one.

  He knelt. His eyes traced the carved features, searching for a detail that set it apart.

  *The laughter wasn't random. They know. They're aware.*

  "Look at them—completely disrespectful." Anna's voice cut through his thoughts.

  Ash looked up at the statue in front of him.

  *Rude. Disrespectful.*

  The statue sat in prayer. Hands pressed together. Head bowed low.

  *But during the laughter—*

  He pictured it. The stone head had been thrown back, neck arched. The carved eyes aimed upward at the spiked ceiling.

  He rose and faced the other two laughing monkeys.

  *The eyes. Did they move them the first time too?*

  *One had angled its face downward. Eyes aimed at the rising floor.*

  *The third stared straight ahead. Directly at us.*

  Stone ground overhead as the ceiling dropped. The sound was closer than before.

  —

  Stone pressed cold against Mira's back. She sat on the floor of the collapsed house, the wall behind her barely holding its shape.

  Her palms rested in her lap. Even at this close distance, her fingers were pale, featureless smudges against her dark skirt.

  Dirt stayed packed under her nails.

  The water in the bucket outside had turned the color of tea from her scrubbing, but the dark marks remained trapped in the creases of her skin.

  Each pass of the cloth only left her hands stinging. Mira pressed her palms together, feeling grit scrape between them.

  Beyond the jagged gap in the wall, the world was loud. Shovels bit into the earth, and tools clattered against stone. A woman’s voice rose above the noise, steady and clear, giving orders about boiling water and fresh linen.

  *The villagers are awake.* The thought sat like a lead weight in her gut.

  *Because the corruption is gone.*

  *Because—* Her throat tightened. *—because I infected them.*

  *My brother. The potion. Everything that happened.*

  *My fault.*

  She opened her eyes beneath the bandages. The world was a mess of dull gray shapes and light that bled at the edges.

  *They're alive because someone else saved them.*

  *Not me. I'm the one who infected them.* Her hands curled into fists.

  *And I've been sitting here.*

  *Hiding.*

  *While they recover from what I did.*

  Mira's chest felt tight.

  Her breathing came in shallow, ragged hitches. Bracing her weight against the cold stone, she forced herself up. The floor pitched under her feet. She gripped a splintered timber, hanging on until her balance returned.

  *I have to tell them.*

  *Apologize.*

  *Even if they hate me.*

  *Even if—*

  She cut the thought off and moved toward the doorway.

  The air expanded as Mira stepped clear of the rubble.

  Without walls to catch them, her own footsteps sounded small and distant.

  Her boots hit the hard-packed dirt of the square. The ground felt smooth under her soles, worn down by years of merchant wagons.

  Memories of the weekly market surfaced. The scent of baked loaves. The rough weight of her father's hand in hers.

  Now, the space felt vacant, filled by the sharp smell of wet dust.

  As she walked, the sounds of the camp stopped. The rhythmic scrape of a shovel cut off. Conversations nearby snapped shut. The square turned quiet, leaving only the thin whistle of wind through charred wood.

  *They know who I am.*

  *They know what I did.*

  The survivors’ attention prickled against Mira’s skin. She could see only dark smudges against a leaden sky, but she felt the weight of their focus.

  *Say it.*

  *Tell them.*

  Her legs turned to water. She hit the dirt and pressed her forehead against the grit. The earth still held the heat of the previous day, its warmth pressing into her cold skin.

  "I'm sorry." The words rasped in her throat.

  The survivors stood rigid. Only the thin whistle of wind moved through the ruins.

  She kept her face in the dust. "My brother. The potion I brought from the capital. I gave it to him. The corruption spread to all of you."

  Her voice broke. "You became—because of me. Because I—"

  A jagged, raw sound escaped her chest, a sob she could not swallow. Her frame jolted. Her breath hitched.

  "I infected you. Made you suffer. Nearly killed you."

  She dug her fingers into the soil until grit packed under her nails.

  "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  Hot tears soaked into the bandages over her eyes. She stayed pinned to the ground, weeping into the dirt.

  Boots crunched closer. Warm hands gripped Mira's shoulders. They pulled her upright, their hold firm as her legs wobbled.

  The crowd closed in. Coarse wool and the scent of woodsmoke pressed against her as arms locked around her ribs. Heat rose off them until she was held fast by their collective weight.

  "Mira," a man's voice rasped near her ear. "Your father gave his life for Willowden."

  "We haven't forgotten," an elderly woman added from her other side. "We were here when he fell."

  A hand cupped the back of Mira's head, fingers smoothing over the bandages. "You're blood of this village."

  "What your brother became—"

  "What the sickness did to us—"

  "That weight belongs to all of us. Not just you."

  "We claim you as ours. Always have."

  The tension in Mira's chest snapped. Her strength failed, and she let her head fall against a rough-spun shoulder.

  Every sob jolted her frame, but the arms around her only tightened. She gasped for air as the cold that had lived in her marrow for months began to lift, replaced by the heavy heat of their bodies.

  They stayed with her, their breath warm against her hair, keeping her upright while the morning sun began to bake the mud of the square.