The Weight of Sacrifice

The ruins of Blackwood Manor loomed behind Sarah and her friends like the jagged teeth of a long-dead beast. Fog clung to the ground, thick and suffocating, as they huddled near the remnants of the chapel. Adrian stood apart, his back turned, staring into the mist as if it might swallow him whole. The dagger in Sarah’s hand hummed faintly, its obsidian blade still streaked with Lila’s dried blood.

“We need to move,” Mark said, kicking a charred timber. “The ash is spreading faster. Half the town’s already under that… fog.”

Lila sat on a fallen stone, her scarred palm pressed to her chest. The inky veins had spread up her neck overnight, pulsing faintly as though breathing. “Adrian,” she said, her voice strained. “You said the vault under the church was our only hope. Why aren’t we moving?”

Adrian didn’t turn. “Because the vault isn’t what you think.”

Sarah’s grip tightened on the dagger. “Then what is it?”