Chapter 9

The chamber pulses like a living thing, the ancient runes overhead flickering with a sickly green glow that casts writhing shadows across the walls. The air is suffocating—humid, metallic, laced with a rot that coats my tongue—and the entity looms before us, its skeletal form twisting, growing, its countless mouths whispering my name in a chorus that burrows into my skull. The thread between Kaelen and me spasms, a frantic heartbeat, and I grip his hand so hard my nails draw blood, his warmth the only thing keeping me from shattering. Rhea's pressed against my other side, her breath shallow, her bloodied leg trembling as she clutches a dagger that looks pitiful against this nightmare.

The tear above the pedestal widens, black ooze dripping upward—defying gravity, pooling into shapes that might be faces, pleading or mocking, I can't tell. The tendrils slither closer, deliberate now, their tips glistening as if tasting the air, and I feel them in my mind—a cold, probing touch that digs at memories, at fears, at *us*. "Lysara," it hisses, voices overlapping, and the grimoire's pull surges, a scream in my veins urging me to reach for it, to open it, to let it in.

"Don't," Kaelen growls, yanking me back as my hand twitches toward the tear. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, and the thread floods with his panic—sharp, jagged, clawing at my own. "It's playing with us." But his voice cracks, and I see it—a flicker in his gaze, a shadow not his own. The entity's tendrils curl tighter, one brushing my marked ankle, and a jolt sears through me—pain, yes, but something else, a dark heat that twists low in my belly, unbidden and wrong.

Rhea gasps, dropping her dagger as a tendril coils around her wrist, not pulling but *stroking*, and her eyes glaze, lips parting. "Kaelen," she murmurs, but it's not fear—it's something heavier, hungrier, and she sways toward him, her free hand grasping his arm. The air shifts, thick with a scent like incense and decay, and my skin prickles, every nerve alight as the entity's whisper turns seductive, insidious. *"Yours… theirs… ours…"*

"What the hell—" Kaelen starts, but I feel it too—the thread pulsing not just with fear but with a raw, primal need, amplifying, distorting. My breath hitches as Rhea's hand slides up his chest, her touch unsteady but bold, and I should stop her—I *want* to—but my body betrays me, heat pooling as I watch, the entity's influence weaving through us like a drug.

"Fight it," I choke, but my voice is weak, and Kaelen's restraint snaps—he pulls me against him, lips crashing into mine, fierce and desperate, while Rhea presses in from behind, her hands roaming my waist, tugging at my robe. The tendrils don't attack—they hover, watching, feeding—and the chamber spins, reality fraying as desire drowns the dread.

Kaelen's hands tear my robe open, rough and urgent, his mouth on my neck as he lifts me, pinning me between him and the pedestal's edge. Rhea's there too, her fingers tracing my spine, then lower, dipping between my thighs with a boldness that shocks me. I gasp, caught in their heat—Kaelen's hardness pressing against me, Rhea's touch teasing me open—and the thread blazes, our minds tangling, their want flooding into mine.

"Now," I rasp, and Kaelen thrusts in, deep and unrelenting, filling me as I cry out, my nails raking his shoulders. Rhea's lips find my throat, her hand working me in time with his rhythm, and it's too much—pleasure laced with wrongness, the entity's laughter a low hum beneath our gasps. The runes flare, the tear pulses, and I feel it drinking us—our lust, our connection—fueling something I can't see. Kaelen groans, hips stuttering, and Rhea's moan vibrates against my skin as we peak together, a chaotic, shuddering release that leaves us trembling, entwined, exposed.

The haze lifts slowly, and horror crashes in—I shove them back, robe hanging in tatters, my chest heaving as the tendrils retreat, sated but not gone. Kaelen's face is ashen, Rhea's eyes wide with shame, and the thread throbs with guilt, confusion, fear. "It… used us," I whisper, voice raw, staring at the tear—wider now, leaking whispers that promise worse.

The entity shifts, its form solidifying—taller, sharper, a crown of bone sprouting from its skull. "More," it croaks, and the floor cracks, stone splitting as something rises—claws, limbs, a second shape clawing free from the abyss. My heart stops, the thread screaming, and I grab Kaelen and Rhea, pulling them toward the tunnel's mouth. "Run!" I shout, but the air thickens, slowing us, and the new presence laughs—a sound like breaking glass, endless and close.

We're not just prey anymore. We're pieces in its game, and the tower's depths are alive with it, closing in.