Chapter 6: The Tomb of Sahris

The Tomb of Sahris;

Dawn's pale light revealed more horrors than Marcus could have imagined. The village lay in tatters: splintered doors, shattered windows, and the acrid scent of decay hung heavy in the air. Corpses—villagers and priests alike—lay strewn in unnatural poses, their expressions frozen in terror. Some faces were contorted as if they had witnessed their own deaths; others bore ghastly smiles, lips peeled back to expose teeth sharpened like blades.

Marcus rose unsteadily from his mother's grave, his bones aching with grief and exhaustion. Beside him, his brothers moved silently among the dead, their faces a mask of resolve. Neither spoke; words felt meaningless in the presence of such darkness.

"We need to find out what Methusi wants," Marcus said at last, voice raw. He scraped his boot against the gravels. "This was no random slaughter. It's a message."

His elder brother, Simon, nodded. "We'll search the chapel. There might be clues—something the priests left behind."

Together, the three crossed the hill and entered the ruined chapel. The air inside was colder, as though the walls themselves mourned the souls lost within. Marcus's fingers brushed against the soggy remnants of an aged parchment on the altar—a fragment of Latin scripture torn to half its length. He lifted it, squinting at the faded ink:

> "Ad tenebras ducant vias, ubi…"

He frowned. "To lead the way into darkness, where…?" The rest had burned away.

Simon's gaze drifted over the altar's cracked surface. "Look here." He pointed to four deep gouges in the stone, arranged in a circle—like talon marks. "Something down there in the crypt."

Marcus exchanged a glance with his younger brother, Peter. "Then that's where we go."

They descended the narrow steps into the crypt's suffocating blackness. Each step echoed like a heartbeat in the stale air. Torchlight revealed wall carvings of angels weeping tears of flame, their faces twisted in agony. A low chanting drifted upward—so faint it could have been the wind, or the darkest corners of Marcus's mind.

At the crypt's center lay a stone sarcophagus, its lid carved with a winged figure bound in chains. Fresh blood pooled in the crevices. Marcus's throat tightened as he knelt and pressed his fingers to the liquid—the iron tang burning like acid.

Suddenly, the chanting swelled. Marcus's torch flickered, casting grotesque shadows that danced along the walls. He held his breath as the brothers formed a protective circle, crucifix and Bible in hand.

A rattling hiss echoed from within the sarcophagus. Marcus sensed a presence, probing, hungry. He whispered a prayer of protection—his voice trembling but determined.

The lid began to shift.

With a thunderous crack, the slab split down the center and fell away. A rush of wind roared up the stairwell, extinguishing the torches. The crypt plunged into darkness, save for the faint, sickly glow emanating from within the tomb.

From that glow emerged a figure—not Methusi, but something older. Ancient skin stretched over a skeletal frame; its hollow eyes shimmered with cold intellect. Its mouth twisted in something resembling a smile.

"Who dares disturb the tomb of Sahris?" it whispered, voice dry as dead leaves. "You bear the mark of the broken covenant."

Marcus's grip on his crucifix tightened. "We seek to stop Methusi. What is this covenant?"

Sahris's head tilted, bones cracking like breaking twigs. "A pact forged in arrogance… broken in fear. Methusi was but a harbinger. I am what he flees."

Peter whispered, "He fears this thing?"

Simon took a step back, voice low. "Marcus, we shouldn't be here. This is older than demons. This is—"

"—a fallen witness," Sahris finished for him. "One of the Watchers. The first to see Hell… and survive."

Marcus felt the weight of it settle on his chest, heavier than grief. He swallowed his fear. "Then tell me what Methusi is. Tell me how to stop him."

Sahris leaned forward, flesh barely clinging to its face. "Only the willing may bear the weapon. And only the faithful may wield it."

Something shifted in Marcus—grief giving way to grim clarity. "Then I will bear it. Tell me where it is."

Sahris reached toward him. Its bony finger touched Marcus's forehead—and a searing vision ripped through his mind. A wasteland beneath a bleeding sky. A temple in ruin. The howling of lost souls chained to pillars of salt. And at the heart: a sword of light bound in thorns.

Marcus gasped and staggered back, sweat pouring from his brow.

Sahris withdrew its hand. "The path is shown. Whether you survive it… is your burden."

The tomb's glow died, leaving only cold stone and silence.

Marcus turned to his brothers. "We leave at dawn."

Outside, the wind howled like a dying prayer.

The war had just begun.

At dawn's first light, Marcus, Simon, and Peter strapped oilskins to their backs, filled their flasks with holy water, and set out across the scorched fields. The road to the fallen temple was a ribbon of cracked earth, flanked by withered trees bent like supplicants. The sky bled crimson where the sun dared to rise.

Each step felt as though the world itself mourned. Blackened bones—remnants of long-dead pilgrims—stuck from the ground like warning stakes. A low wind carried distant whispers: half-forgotten prayers twisted into curses. Marcus clutched his crucifix, every bead an anchor against despair.

"Stay close," he murmured. The brothers fell into silence, the only sound their boots on the dust.

Hours passed in a blur of heat and silence. When the temple's shattered spires came into view, Marcus halted. It loomed like a wound in the earth, obsidian ruins clawing at the sky.

Simon swallowed. "Are you certain this is where the sword lies?"

Marcus closed his eyes, recalling the vision Sahris had burned into his mind: a sword of light bound in thorns at the temple's heart. He nodded. "We go in—and find it."

They crossed the threshold, stepping over fallen columns engraved with arcane runes. Inside, shards of stained glass carpeted the floor in a kaleidoscope of gore-tinted light. The air smelled of brimstone and rot.

A distant hum guided them deeper, each pulse resonating in Marcus's chest like a heartbeat. At the center of the collapsed nave lay an altar draped in black vines. Between the vines glowed a blade—pure light carved into a double-edged sword, its hilt entwined in living thorns.

Peter gasped. "It's beautiful."

Marcus approached, every instinct warning him of the price. He laid a steady hand on the hilt. Immediately, the thorns writhed, pricking his skin. Pain lanced through him, but he did not withdraw. Instead, he whispered, "By God's mercy, I am worthy."

The sword pulsed, and the thorns dissolved, releasing arcs of soft light that settled across Marcus's flesh like gentle fire. He lifted the blade, its glow banishing the shadows around them.

A crash echoed behind. Simon raised his sword as rotted forms—twisted souls bound in chains—shambled toward them.

Marcus raised the Sword of Light. "Stand firm in faith!" he cried.

The blade swept in a radiant arc. Each stroke cleaved the wraiths into motes of light that drifted skyward as freed souls.

When the last shadow fell, the temple was silent once more.

**Chapter Three: The Watcher's Burden**

That night, the brothers camped in the temple courtyard around a small fire. Marcus cleaned the Sword of Light, careful not to dull its edge.

Simon stared into the flames. "Who was Sahris? That…thing. Why did it help us?"

Marcus placed the blade across his lap. "Sahris was one of the Watchers—angels sent to guide mankind. He broke his covenant by showing forbidden truths, then was cast down to guard the boundary between Heaven and Hell."

Peter shivered. "So he's punished…"

"Yet he endures," said Marcus. "His agony is eternal. He fears Methusi because Methusi would unmake the boundary, unleash Hell upon the earth." Marcus's voice grew softer. "Sahris stayed to atone, awaiting a champion of faith to wield the weapon he could not. That champion is… perhaps me."

Simon's eyes glinted in torchlight. "Your faith gave you strength."

Marcus bowed his head, the weight of destiny pressing on him. "Faith and loss. My mother's sacrifice… our village's blood… they all brought me here. I will not fail."

From the darkness came a whisper—familiar, raspy. The brothers tensed as footsteps approached. The sword's light flared.

A cloaked figure stepped into the firelight, face hidden. "Marcus of Esperance," it said. "The battle begins when the heavens tremble. Will you walk the path to the Abyss?"

Marcus rose, sword in hand. "I will walk it, and I will not turn back."

The figure inclined its head. "Then may your faith be your shield."

As dawn crept over the horizon, Marcus and his brothers prepared to journey deeper—beyond the sacred boundary, into Hell's own shadow.