The party pressed forward after the retreating cultist, their steps echoing across the stone until the corridor spilled into a vast chamber. What had once been a place of reverence now stood desecrated beyond recognition.

  The altar at the center had long ago been shattered, reduced to a mound of broken stone and blackened dust. Where worshippers once gathered in devotion, pews lay toppled and charred, their wood split into jagged heaps.

  A faint green glow pulsed through the room, seeping from necrotic wards etched into the floor. The light flickered like sickly veins across the chamber, feeding an atmosphere heavy with dread.

  Figures moved within the glow. Dozens of cultists circled the broken altar in measured steps. Their voices rose and fell in a chant that scraped along the walls.

  The sound was more than human. It tangled with whispers that did not come from any throat, whispers that seeped from the cracks of reality itself.

  Above the altar, suspended in the dim air, hung a Visage. It was not fully formed, a shape half-seen and shifting, its edges blurring into shadow. Even indistinct, its presence pressed against the heart, demanding recognition.

  The party did not need to guess what they were witnessing. The cultists gave voice to it themselves.

  “Phase one is complete. Varidia has fallen. The pitiful lives taken fuel our power. Now begins phase two. The corruption will spread. The cities will fall.”

  The words carried across the chamber like a verdict.

  Around the walls, a different dread stirred. Stone sarcophagi stretched in ordered rows, their once-sacred carvings worn almost smooth. A few lids already shifted, skeletal fingers scraping along the stone. Some hinges squealed, others cracked. The dead were answering.

  Dust drifted through the air, mingled with the copper tang of blood and the stench of rot. Forgotten offerings lay scattered across the floor. Coins dulled with rust, wilted flowers turned brittle as paper, relics broken and abandoned. The chamber was a grave robbed of its silence.

  The first of the risen lurched forward. A dozen skeletal forms pulled themselves free, dragging rusted armor and dented shields along with them. Their eyes were empty hollows, yet the hatred that drove them was palpable.

  They surged toward their intruders.

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  Alkibiades was the first to be surrounded, his heavy shield pounded by gnarled hands and rusted swords. He swung his own sword in waves, trying to make room to breathe.

  More undead flowed past him towards the rest of the group.

  Yet not one touched Lillyth.

  The undead flowed around her as though she were invisible, parting like water circling a stone. At first, she exhaled in shaky relief. But her stomach twisted as she noticed the truth. They were not ignoring her. They sensed her.

  Her aura stretched over the chamber like a net, sheltering not only her allies but feeding the foul ritual itself. She was sustaining them all.

  Lillyth’s hands trembled. She tried to pull back, but the energy clung to her, unyielding. Aeyona saw her fear spike and rushed to her side, flinging a bolt of lightning toward an advancing corpse. The magic sputtered in her palm before it flared out.

  Panic flared in Aeyona’s eyes, but she pulled Lillyth close anyway, one arm tight around her waist as if by shielding her body she could shield her heart. Their closeness in the chaos was desperate, a fragile island of warmth in a sea of horror.

  Across the chamber, Marvel’s sleek panther form tore through the swarm. Claws tearing through grey flesh. Paws shattering bones into splinters.

  She was swift, but each strike slowed, each pounce less precise. Breathing became a heavy chore. The stamina she relied on was draining, and mistakes crept in.

  Her paws slipped on blood-slick stone, and she fell to the floor. The undead took advantage of her failure. A blade sliced through her fur, blood dripped from her rib as she let out a loud roar.

  “Marvel!” Lillyth cried out.

  Horren stood apart, his body already streaked with cuts from the battles. Blood dripped freely, soaking into the floor. He raised his hands and the air shivered.

  The crimson trail at his feet stirred, drawn upward, curling around his blade. Each swing of the weapon flung arcs of burning energy, battering the undead around Marvel. This gave her time to stand back up and retreat towards the safety of the group.

  Horren should have faltered under the strain, but instead he laughed. The sound was sharp and unsettling, carrying above the clash of steel. Pain did not deter him. It was fuel, and he reveled in it.

  The laugh that answered him was colder.

  The chant faltered as one cultist at the altar lowered her hood. Her laughter was smooth and deliberate, each note cutting through the chamber. Horren froze. The weapon in his hand stilled.

  “Saralyn…”

  The name tore out of him before he could stop it.

  The woman’s smile widened. Her eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction, as if the years had been worth waiting for this very moment. She studied him openly, as though inspecting the quality of a scar.

  “So you lived.” she said. “Good. I would have been disappointed otherwise.”

  “What are you doing?” Horren asked, rage building in his chest.

  “Finishing what I started years ago. Tearing down a broken system that is long overdue.” She sneered.

  “The invasion.. don't tell me,” Horren began.

  “Yes, the elves were meant to succeed, but those vile little templars managed to cut them short. At least the bastard's corpses still have use.” She laughed.

  Her words struck with the weight of betrayal long buried. She did not deny what she had done, nor soften the truth. She spoke as if he had always known.

  “How dare you? You swore an oath to protect the surface from the very Depths you've joined. It's been our family's one damn job for centuries!”

  “Power, brother. Why else have we done anything in this damned family?” Saralyn replied, then her eyes grew black.

  “Speaking of family, let's complete this little reunion. Shall we?” she lifted her hands, black swirls of energy forming around them.

  The air trembled. One sarcophagus near the altar shuddered violently, runes flaring. With a crack like thunder it exploded outward, shards of stone scattering across the floor. From within clawed a horror that made even the undead recoil.

  A knight’s corpse, dwarven once, was fused with scraps of armor and jagged bone. Stitched together with chunks of other bodies, until the abomination stood tall and grotesque.

  Metal pierced flesh, ribs stitched with iron, plates embedded into muscle. The figure moved as though its body were both puppet and prison. Its roar was a sound of steel tearing, pain and rage bound together.

  Horren’s voice broke against the noise.

  “…Brother, no.”

  The abomination’s helm tilted. For a moment, recognition seemed possible. Then the creature’s eyes flared with unnatural light, and it charged.