Chapter 8

The mist clings to us like a shroud as we huddle on the balcony, the tower's silhouette blurring into the unnatural twilight. My ankle burns where the tendril gripped me, a faint, pulsing mark that won't fade, and the thread between Kaelen and me thrums with a jagged edge—his fear bleeding into mine, a feedback loop I can't quiet. He's pressed close, his breath hot against my neck, one hand gripping my wrist as if I might slip away. Rhea's crouched nearby, her green eyes darting to the courtyard below, where that *thing* vanished—but the silence is worse than its presence, a void that promises it's not gone, only waiting.

"We can't stay here," I whisper, voice barely audible over the wind's low moan. The sanctum doors hang open behind us, the grimoire's glow pulsing like a heartbeat, taunting me. I feel its pull now—dark, insistent, whispering in a tongue I don't know but somehow understand. It's not just a book. It's a key, and whatever Torin woke, it's tied to me through it.

Kaelen's grip tightens, his dagger still slick with that black ooze. "Where, then? It's in the tower—maybe beyond it." His voice is steady, but I catch the tremor beneath, the strain of holding us together.

"Down," Rhea says suddenly, pointing to a shadowed grate in the balcony's corner—a maintenance hatch, leading to the tower's undercroft. "If it's hunting, we don't wait to be cornered." Her face is pale, sweat beading despite the chill, but her jaw's set. She's right. Staying here is a trap, but descending feels like stepping into its jaws.

I nod, swallowing the bile rising in my throat, and Kaelen pries the grate open, the metal screeching in protest. The hole gapes, a black maw exhaling damp, earthy air, and my wards flicker—no magic reaches inside. "I'll go first," he says, but I grab his arm, the thread flaring with my panic.

"No," I snap, sharper than I mean. "We don't split up." His eyes meet mine, stormy and fierce, and for a heartbeat, I see us again—his body pinning mine, the heat of him chasing away the cold. It's a lifeline, faint but real, and I cling to it. He nods, and I take the lead, lowering myself into the dark, my robe snagging on jagged stone as I drop.

The undercroft is a labyrinth of narrow tunnels, walls slick with moss and something stickier I don't name. Kaelen follows, then Rhea, her pained grunt echoing as she lands. The air presses in, heavy and sour, muffling our steps, and the only light is a faint violet sheen from my trembling hands—magic weakened, barely a candle's worth. Shadows twist at the edges, shapes that might be roots or fingers, and every drip of water sounds like a breath too close.

We move single file, Kaelen's hand brushing my back, a tether in the gloom. The thread hums, erratic now, and I feel his heartbeat—fast, uneven, mirroring mine. "Keep talking," he murmurs, voice tight. "Don't let it get quiet."

"Old tunnels," I say, forcing words past the lump in my throat. "Built before me—before the tower was mine. I never mapped them." My foot slips on something wet, and I stifle a gasp, steadying myself against the wall. It pulses under my touch—faint, alive—and I jerk back, breath hitching. "It's here," I whisper, and the air shifts, a low rumble vibrating through the stone.

A scrape ahead—metal on rock—and we freeze. Rhea's behind Kaelen, her dagger trembling in her grip, and I strain to see, light flickering. The tunnel bends, and beyond it, something glints—eyes, too many, reflecting my glow like shattered glass. A hiss slithers out, multi-toned, and the walls ripple, tendrils unfurling slow and deliberate, cutting off retreat. My heart slams against my ribs, the thread screaming with Kaelen's spike of dread, and I grab his hand, nails digging into his skin.

"Run," I choke, but there's nowhere—just forward, toward it. The tendrils lash, faster now, and Kaelen shoves me aside, blade slashing as one coils toward my throat. It recoils, sizzling, but more come, and Rhea's scream pierces the dark as one snares her leg, dragging her back. I fling a spell—raw, desperate—and it bursts, violet flame searing the air, but the thing only laughs, a wet gurgle that claws at my mind.

Kaelen hauls Rhea free, her blood slicking the floor, and we stumble into a wider chamber—vaulted, ancient, runes older than mine etched into the ceiling. The grimoire's pull is stronger here, a siren call in my skull, and I see it: a pedestal, empty, but the air above it warps, a tear in reality leaking that black ooze. The creature emerges fully—tall, skeletal, limbs bending wrong, its face a shifting mass of mouths and eyes. It doesn't speak, but I *feel* it—hunger, endless, reaching for me, for the thread, for us all.

Kaelen pulls me against him, his chest heaving, and I clutch his shirt, the thread our only light in this abyss. "We fight," he whispers, lips brushing my ear, a fleeting warmth that steadies my shaking hands. But as the thing advances, tendrils spreading like a net, I wonder if we've already lost—if the tower's heart has turned against us, and this is where it ends.