| The Rift Beneath

❰ The Forbidden Chamber ❱

The night was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth, the remnants of an earlier storm still clinging to the damp stones of the city's forgotten district. Rowan Lysander pulled his coat tighter around himself, his breath curling in the cold air as he stood before the crumbling structure. The iron gate, rusted and warped with age, loomed before him, its hinges groaning like a wounded beast as he pushed it open.

Rowan's appearance was striking, an amalgamation of formality and rugged practicality. The dark, fitted tailcoat he wore clung to his frame, the high collar turned up in aristocratic fashion, giving him the air of a Victorian gentleman. Beneath the coat, a tailored waistcoat of deep maroon with intricate patterns gleamed faintly in the dim light. His high-neck shirt, with its stiff, ruffled collar, sat beneath the carefully tied cravat, adding a touch of refinement to his adventurous persona. The brass pocket watch nestled against his chest, gleaming with every movement.

On his head sat a top hat, its brim wide enough to give him an air of mystery as he gazed toward the structure before him, his every movement deliberate and precise. Slung across his chest, a leather utility belt held the tools and maps necessary for his exploration, a stark contrast to the elegant attire beneath. His cargo pants, dark and durable, were filled with pockets, their practicality evident as he navigated the ruin. His boots, polished yet sturdy, clicked softly against the cracked stone floor, each step calculated as he ventured deeper into the unknown.

The explorer within him was not lost amidst the Victorian elegance. His field jacket, a mixture of leather and canvas, hung from his shoulders, ready for the harsh conditions of the outside world, while the wide-brimmed explorer hat atop his head protected him from whatever elements might have remained. Leather gloves, worn with use, protected his hands as he adjusted the scarf around his neck, the soft fabric fluttering in the faint breeze that stirred within the ruins.

He had heard whispers about this place.

A ruin with no official records, tucked away in the oldest part of the city—a district where even the most desperate thieves refused to linger after dark. The few who spoke of it mentioned strange markings, a chamber hidden deep within, untouched by dust or decay.

To most, these were omens. To Rowan, they were invitations.

His boots echoed against the cracked stone floor as he stepped inside. The air within was different—thicker, heavier, as though pressing against his skin. The dim glow of his lantern flickered, casting shifting shadows against the walls.

They were carved.

Faint inscriptions ran along the stone like veins, spiraling in patterns too deliberate to be mere decoration. Some were faded, eaten away by time, but others were as sharp as the day they had been etched. Rowan had seen symbols like these before—briefly, in the collection of a reclusive scholar who had paid a fortune for an artifact dug from ruins far older than the city itself.

But here, they weren't artifacts. They were foundations.

The further he walked, the more the architecture changed. The walls grew smoother, the layout more deliberate, as if the building itself had been shaped for a specific purpose rather than mere function. It was an unsettling thought. Who had built this? And why had it been abandoned?

Then, he reached it.

A vast circle was carved into the floor of the chamber before him. It spanned nearly the entire room, its grooves deep, precise—untouched by dust, as though time itself had refused to claim it. The markings were intricate, layered upon one another in ways that made his head ache if he tried to follow their patterns for too long.

And at its center, a single sheet of parchment lay waiting.

Rowan's pulse quickened.

It was pristine.

No sign of decay, no moisture damage from centuries of neglect. The very sight of it sent an uneasy thrill through him. Artifacts were valuable. Lost knowledge? Priceless.

He stepped forward, careful not to scuff the edges of the circle. The symbols on the parchment were unlike any he had ever seen—curling, interwoven shapes that seemed to resist the constraints of ink and paper, shifting when he wasn't looking directly at them. His fingers tingled as he reached down.

The parchment was cold.

Not the damp chill of aged paper, but something deeper, like the absence of warmth itself.

A fleeting warning whispered at the edge of his mind. This does not belong to you.

He ignored it.

Rowan had built his life on taking what others left behind.

He inhaled and, without hesitation, read the first line aloud.

The moment the words left his tongue, the chamber breathed.

The very air shuddered.

His lantern flickered, its light struggling. Shadows along the walls twisted, stretching unnaturally as if something unseen had stirred. A low vibration hummed beneath his feet, soft at first, but rising—pressing into his bones.

Rowan took a step back. His breath came quicker now, uneven. He had triggered something, but what?

Then—crack.

Not the sound of stone breaking. Not wood, not metal. Something deeper.

The very fabric of the room split before him.

A jagged rift tore open in the air, like a shattered mirror suspended in nothingness. Beyond it was not darkness, but something deeper than darkness—a space where light had never existed, where even time seemed to wither.

And from within that abyss, something moved.

A hand—or what should have been a hand—emerged.

It was coated in black mist, vapor coiling around it like living tendrils. Its fingers were too long, their joints bending at angles that defied anatomy. It did not simply reach forward—it flowed, like liquid shadow solidifying only when it wished. The air around it shivered, reality bending in protest.

Rowan's breath hitched. This was wrong.

The mist-cloaked hand lurched forward.

It struck him in the chest.

A pain unlike anything he had ever felt exploded through him, not just in flesh but in something deeper—as if the thing had touched more than his body. His vision blurred, his limbs turned to lead, and he staggered backward.

Then—the floor beneath him shattered.

Not cracked. Not broke. Shattered.

The stone fractured like brittle glass, splintering beneath him in a thousand fragments. The pieces did not fall—they dissolved, swallowed by the abyss below.

Rowan had enough time for a single, breathless realization.

It wasn't the building that had been abandoned.

It was the thing beneath it.

And now, he was falling into it.

The last thing he saw was the hand, still reaching—

—before everything was consumed by nothingness.