It’s just a statue — but unlike any that they’ve seen before.

  The Knight stands fixed atop a heavy container, locked in eternal vigil. It wears a silver helm bowed forward, visor open. It’s gauntlet-clad hands rest atop the pommel of a long, corroded blade imbedded into the crate itself. Fused. Thick steel pins locking it into concrete. It’s dressed in ancient Halidom ceremonial garbs which, once white, are now blistered, flaking, and shot through with streaks of black and silver corrosion.

  The visor parts to expose a completely smooth face, less unfinished and more.. wrong. It’s as though the stone flesh has been stretched too tight — like wax that has begun to soften. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t breathe. Somehow, it still feels like it’s watching.

  Finally, and carved into the top of the crate beneath the crease of the blade sits writing:

  SY-Δ-000.

  Below that, a small rectangular socket surrounded by thin gouges that slope into the crate itself — a small and unfamiliar symbol etched in deeper at the center. It looks like a letter, perhaps from some old dead language long before them.

  “This is the crate?” Chip gasps.

  “There’s gotta be a mechanism, right? A lock?” Slink is pacing around it, studying the bolts that fasten it to the platform.

  “What is it?” Mouse asks, clearly in awe.

  “This is definitely Halidom tech,” Slink guesses.

  “Blood. It wants blood.” Ricket is murmuring to himself. His eyes are fogging up like glass in the cold. Only Rivin hears him.

  “Let me blow it, Riv. C’mon, this cursed shit takes too long.”

  “We don’t even know what it is. Besides, we’d risk destroying what’s inside.” Grey eyes flit over walls, over beams, over eaten-up murals of bowls overflowing. He can make out the writing of one not completely mottled by age. The language is old. Far older than them. Still, he tries to decipher the code — surely there’s something familiar to be found in the tongues of the ancient.

  “The Knight sees no face but the guilty.”

  It’s Ricket’s voice that rings out.

  Rivin narrows his eyes at the boy. Suspicious. Concerned. Not at all ready to address the shiver racing up his spine. Before he can dig deeper, Slink reacts.

  “What? We gotta confess our sins to it or something?”

  “Just let me try the thing—” Chip grunts, shoving at the heavy tablet slab that hides their haul from view. He pushes and pulls and prods until he’s sweating and red in the face.

  “This is embarrassing…” Mouse murmurs once he’s red in the face.

  Chip tries one last heaving jolt, but the lid doesn’t budge. The spectacle welcomes the others to try their hand at tugging as well. One by one—and then all together—they haul and strain at the lid to no effect.

  “Did the map have anything else on it?” Mouse queries, dusting off her palms.

  Rivin shakes his head. “No. Just the tunnels and the code.”

  “What do you suppose is in there? Another drone?”

  “Could be.” The dark-haired teen steps forward now, inspecting the crate himself, long fingers tracing the indent in the top. “Could be a keyhole. Scout the place. Find something that fits.”

  The children spread out on Rivin’s command, scuttling through crate and temple alike. They find many small objects but nothing that fits the groove perfectly. Not until Ricket stumbles over a crack and shunts a tall container onto it’s side.

  A small, plain box topples from its hiding place, cracking on the edge that makes impact with the ground. It’s held together only by a small brass latch, and burnt into the top is a by now familiar symbol.

  “Too easy!” Ricket wields the box victoriously.

  “Don’t jinx it!” Someone is already calling out instinctively in response. Regardless, they all crowd around to see. Ricket waits for only a moment before opening it. What they find softly nestled in red silk and cushion is a turquoise stone bound to a crude rope — the symbol is there again, pressed into the stones center, barely visible within the smooth and seamless face.

  “Don’t touch it,” Rivin says when Ricket’s fingers hover. “Let me.”

  Obediently, the chest is held up and the older teen gently takes the item from its bed. It’s clearly a necklace of some sort. Perhaps religious.

  When he returns to the Knight, he tests the size, holding the gem slightly overhead. To his surprise, the crate begins to tremble. “Stand back.”

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  Once more obedient, the children keep their distance, watching with careful wide eyes as Rivin waits (an extra beat when Ricket lingers too close and is then pulled back by Mouse) and then sets stone into socket.

  He steps back as the tremoring spreads to the floor, shaking dust free of ledges and cavernous roof. The stone statue comes to life, crunching audibly. First, it lifts its head.

  Then, it seems to stretch, rising to stand as it unsheathes its weapon from the container beneath it. The stone greatsword grates in defiance but pulls clean as the lid begins to give way, clicking and grinding as it moves out of place. The Knight extends further, coming to stand stock straight — it’s blade, arched to be sheathed, suddenly swings forward — FWOOSH.

  The others call out. Rivin ducks. Just barely. The sheer force of the blow picks up dirt. The weapon’s edge slices air just above him — his hair whips against its passing, his heart a hammer of panic.

  When he looks up, the weapon is encased and the Knight is still once again. Both palms now rest over the pommel. The visor is closed. It looks straight ahead.

  Rivin’s hand hovers above the hilt of his own weapon, steel eyes watching — waiting.

  The cathedral stops shaking and soon enough the quiet returns. Nothing crawls out. Nothing explodes or materializes. Only silence. He sighs. All are relieved.

  “That was close.”

  Rivin proceeds to move towards the open container cautiously, fingers twitching as the others wait with bated breath. When he peers into the open maw he finds only a second container; this time wooden and ordinary. He then unsheathes his longsword and uses the blade to broach the distance, tapping the top of the closed crate with the tip. When nothing happens, Rivin glances at the others and gestures them over.

  Footfalls follow, scuffing over platform as they rush to see for themselves. Like the eldest, all they see is a blank wooden box. They’re equally disappointed, but not enough so that they might risk opening the second tomb. Instead and together, they begin to work it out of the opening, finding some difficulty in getting it dislodged.

  Once it’s free, Slink whips out his newest design — slapping pocketwheels to the corners to help glide it across the platform. He adjusts the height and soon enough they’re escorting it away from its tomb and to the side.

  “Slink, permission to blow the door. Everyone else, pocket whatever looks worth it.”

  Slink pumps the air with his fist, quickly b-lining for the locked lattice and tearing open his pack. It’s not long before he’s got Petunia strapped into the links and is waiting on Rivin’s signal. It’s only given when he’s sure they’re ready to go.

  In his periphery, Rivin spies Chip’s tentative approach towards Mouse. She’s happily latching her pack up, struggling because it’s bulging again. The blonde crouches to help her, smiling once their fingers brush.

  He’s holding the gem from the socket, the one freshly plucked from the Knight’s stone chest. He hands it to her and even in the pitiful light his cheeks are warm and pink. Mouse raises a brow, perplexed, but turns a similar colour as she takes the gift.

  “It’d be a shame to leave it behind,” the boy says. “It’s real pretty.” He tongue catches on a knot. “L-Like… Uhm, like—”

  The girl holds it up to the light, tests it weight and studies it closer before:

  “Help me put it on.”

  He’s still choking on his compliment when he moves around to her back, taking the rope and fixing it around her neck. Once he’s done, it hangs pretty against the divot of her collarbone. Chip smiles broadly, even as she looks away, tentatively playing with the new gem doting her neck.

  The Knight watches with its empty face. Rivin watches too.

  Later, they all gather a respectful distance from the door.

  “Ready?” The eldest asks.

  Mouse and Slink are poised behind the crate to push now, and Ricket is ready to hoist it forward with a freshly attached rope.

  “Ready!” They all say in unison.

  Slink presses the detonator clutched in his fist — blowing the door when Rivin nods his signal. With a sharp and somehow neat crack of pluming smoke and fire, the door it expelled from it’s hinges.

  Almost immediately, an alarm begins to sound, screeching as the lights overhead begin to blink in rapid succession.

  Rivin and Chip dart out first, blade wielded and scope trained on any movement in the shadow. They’re still alone.

  Rivin gestures the others forward and then they’re speeding the crate towards the leaving man.

  CRASH — A spectator drone explodes through the windshield of the marked excavator, spitting shards of glass as a ruby eye veers towards them, before it can even disengage its gun, Chip has already sent a bullet into the spotlight.

  It drops but manages to sweep up just before it crashes into soil — Rivin vaults forward, splitting right through it’s middle and sending it crashing into pieces like it’s brethren before it.

  The others haven’t slowed behind them — the pocketwheels squeal but hold up against the craggy terrain. Soon enough, they’ve reached the opening and Rivin steps aside to allow the others to funnel the crate into darkness.

  Before long, the sound is buried beneath laughter. Beneath victory. Breathless and wild — rattling like the lid of the crate as they race ahead. Too exhilarated now that they believed they were safe.

  “That was e—”

  “Don’t say it!”

  “—Easy!”

  “Idiot!”

  “Left up ahead!” Rivin calls as they careen further into shadow. The children only laugh. They’re animals. Feral. Unhinged. Glorious.

  He shakes his head but he’s chuckling softly under breath. It’s contagious.

  “We’re in the big leagues now,” beams Chip with excitement, jogging closely behind. The cart rocks over cracks — the lid nudges again.

  Rivin wonders if anyone bothered to strap it closed.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Slink is cackling.

  The crate rocks again.

  Someone should really bind that lid.

  “Hey slow—”

  Clink.

  The cart rocks too far to one side.

  Time seems to slow as it tips. Crashes. Bursts.

  From within, a completely colorless body strikes the ground. It clanks as though clad in armor, and yet appears entirely absent of clothing. The thing looks human in shape at least, but the skin in bone white. Clear like slate.

  The world grows silent. Everyone stops moving.

  The group start to crowd around it nervously. Curiously. Foolishly.

  “What the—?”

  The creatures skin begins to ripple like water being touched. Small waves surf across its flesh and at the apex of each surge, it stops — sculpts.

  Before their very eyes it has grown armor. Gauntlets. Chest plate. An open visor.

  Then, if begins to unfold like dough — sticking to itself, its spine pulled upward by some unforeseen force.

  “Get back!” Rivin calls, sensing the danger.

  No one moves. No yet. They’re transfixed.

  Finally, it stands tall, neck bent against the tunnel ceiling.

  It has no face, no eyes, no mouth.

  Yet, like the statue that guarded it — they can feel it watching, waiting, and this time, it’s not fixed to the ground.