The Gate Opens

Chapter 28: The Gate Opens

The prison groaned.

The hum in Ian's skull had turned into a roar, pounding against the inside of his head like a war drum. His legs burned, his breaths came sharp and fast, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.

Not with them behind him.

The Watchers were moving.

No—chasing.

The thing that had fallen with them was still coming, its form shifting like a liquid trying to remember how to be solid. But now, the others had joined it. The Watchers, who had stood so still before, had begun to lurch forward. Some walked stiffly, their joints barely working. Others moved in sharp, jerking motions, as if pulled by invisible strings. And then there were the ones that ran.

Ian didn't turn around again. He didn't need to. The sound of them—a mass of bodies, shifting and scraping against the metal floor—was enough.

The spirals lining the corridor pulsed, each flicker of light revealing the twisted figures behind them.

Closer.

Faster.

"Don't look back!" Ian gasped, gripping Clara's wrist as they sprinted toward the Gate.

It was massive. At least twenty feet tall, carved from the same smooth, black metal as the rest of the prison. But unlike the walls, the spirals on the Gate weren't just shifting—they were peeling apart, layers of metal unwinding like a clock breaking down.

And something waited behind it.

Clara's voice was barely above a whisper. "It's opening."

Evelyn skidded to a halt beside them, gun still raised, though Ian doubted bullets would do much now. "Then we go through."

Ian reached for the Gate—but the moment his fingers brushed its surface, everything shifted.

The floor buckled.

The air collapsed.

A sudden force pulled them forward, dragging them toward the opening like a vacuum. Ian had no time to react before he was falling, the weight of the world tilting as he tumbled forward into the spirals.

Then—darkness.

Not the kind that came from a lack of light.

The kind that lived.

That breathed.

That watched.

Ian hit the ground hard.

Pain exploded through his body as he rolled onto his side, his flashlight slipping from his grip and skidding across the floor. No—not a floor.

Stone.

Cold, jagged, uneven.

Ian coughed, pushing himself upright. His vision spun, his ears rang. For a brief moment, he thought he was still falling. Then, slowly, the world came back into focus.

Clara groaned nearby. Evelyn was already up, scanning their surroundings, gun raised.

They weren't in the prison anymore.

The smooth walls were gone. The metallic corridors had vanished. Instead, they were standing in a vast, cavernous space—older than the prison above. The air smelled of damp earth and something rotting. Massive, broken pillars lined the room, some half-sunken into the ground, others crumbled entirely.

And at the center of it all—

A throne.

Not built, but grown.

Black stone twisted upward in spirals, coiling like roots. Something sat upon it.

Ian's stomach twisted.

It wasn't a body. Not exactly.

It had bones—long, twisted, hollow things that stretched from its hunched form like the remains of wings that had never flown. Its skull was elongated, split down the center by a spiral crack. Its hands rested on the arms of the throne, fingers too long, too sharp.

And then—it moved.

The head lifted.

The spiraled crack opened.

A voice—inside their heads.

"You are late."

Ian staggered back. The sound wasn't a sound at all. It was pressure, pressing into his thoughts like a thousand voices speaking at once.

Clara let out a sharp breath. "It's still alive?"

Evelyn gritted her teeth. "No. It's waiting."

The thing on the throne shifted, its fingers curling against the stone. Its skull tilted, as if examining them. The spirals in the walls pulsed brighter, responding to its presence.

Then, the humming changed.

No longer chaotic.

A pattern. A rhythm.

A countdown.

And Ian realized—

The Gate hadn't just let them in.

It had let everything else out.