Chapter 10: The Price Beneath

The Price Beneath,

Marcus stood in the ruins of the Gate's shattered arch, the broken heart of the Abyss still smoldering at his feet. Ash drifted down like ashen snowflakes, settling on blood-dark stone. In the unnatural silence, his breath came ragged, each exhale a prayer to an uncaring night. He felt the weight of victory, and behind it the weight of dread. Behind him, Simon and Peter pressed close, their faces ghost-pale beneath hoods, eyes wide in the flicker of dying torchlight.

The Gate was gone, the threshold no more. Beyond it yawned endless shadow. Dust and sand swirled through the black opening, forming dark spirals on the ground, and Marcus could see shapes moving in the darkness: distant, looming spires of rock, or statues wrought from agony. They were deeper in the Abyss than ever before; this was no mere chamber but a void of devouring night.

Peter drew a shaky breath and clutched at the hilt of his sword. Even from this distance the air smelled of death and burning flesh. Simon's jaw was tight, and his eyes flicked nervously side to side. Marcus heard the faint, gurgling drip somewhere far ahead. Here, beyond the gate, time itself felt slow, as though the world had settled into a final breath.

"We go on," Marcus said quietly. His voice cracked like a whip in the hush. The others nodded. They had no other choice.

Every step forward was agony after the long fight, but each remained resolute. Marcus felt the phantom ache of wounds, as if the shattered heart of the Abyss had not been the only thing broken tonight. In his chest was a dull ache where his own heart had been, and each of the brothers carried invisible scars. Even among their bond as brothers, they carried their burdens alone.

Ahead, the torchlight flared against the walls, revealing forms half-seen. Towering columns of black stone rose like the ribs of some ancient leviathan, ribbed with veins of crystal that glowed with an inner fire. The crystals reflected their torchlight back in fractured beams, casting shards of red and golden light across blood-spattered walls. Where the rock had split, it looked as if flesh and bone had been gouged away, the severed stone hanging in clumps like the torn limbs of a corpse. Below their feet, the pathway was slick with blood, turning their footsteps into a stain of glistening footprints.

Marcus's torch sputtered; the flame danced like a dying thing. He watched its reflection in a pool on the stone floor, a small mirror to the fire. Simon spoke softly, voice trembling.

"I've seen enough of this place. I want it to be over." His words vanished into the silence of the cavern. The torchlight caught on a fragment of mirror buried in the stone: a jagged shard that glinted like a crystal tear.

They came to a chamber ringed with ancient altars. Each altar was carved with strange symbols, half-intelligible script of a faith older than memory. On one, a statue knelt, its hands raised in an eternal plea, its face chipped and broken. Holy symbols were carved into marble, now marred by lichen and flame-black soot.

And on the altars lay offerings of the abhorrent kind: mounds of torn flesh, greasy bowls filled with congealing blood, and on one central dais a fresh cadaver, half-flayed, crucified by wicked iron hooks driven through shoulder and hip. The air reeked of copper and rot. Peter gagged at the smell. Marcus had to grip his brother's elbow to steady him, and Simon looked away. The sight was all too familiar. Sacrifice was the currency of this realm, he realized. The altars spoke of broken promises and broken faith: the worship here had demanded payment of flesh and blood, and nothing remained of their devotion but shattered idols.

A great basin of black water stood before the largest altar. Marcus knelt beside it to test with a stick; the water did not ripple, though it was warm and tasted of iron. "This place," he whispered, "it's a tomb of prayers." Simon raised his torch to a cracked mosaic on the wall: an angel of flame, wings melted away, eyes gouged out as if by sacrificial blade. The motif of fire was twisted here: where light should bring hope, it had only born pain.

As they moved deeper into the chamber, the flame flickered across the far corner, and Marcus froze. Something in the shadows shifted. At first, he thought it was merely rock, a statue perhaps. But then he saw it breathe.

From the corner stepped a figure that should not have been. It was a woman, pale as moonlight, though marred by flame. Her flesh was mottled and raw, as though she'd been in prayer and scorched on the altar. Black and red crystal fragments jutted from her shoulders and spine, like broken faith crystallized in her flesh.

Chains hung from her wrists, and in each hand she held a puddle of blood instead of water. Her eyes, sunken and ancient, glowed with a fire that burned from within. She bowed deeply, and in a whisper that filled their ears she said, "Welcome, travelers of sacrifice."

Simon uttered a strangled curse. Peter whimpered. Marcus stepped forward, sword raised. "How—who are you?" he demanded. The torchlight glinted off the crystals in her skin, scattering spots of blood-red light across their faces.

In a voice as soft as a death-knell, the woman spoke, "I am the Keeper of Offerings. I who am given is she who gives." Her words were a riddle, an ancient truth laced with torment. She knelt at the altar before them, setting down the puddles in bowls of brass, water turning red as it touched the carved stone. Around them, the torches seemed to ignite of their own accord, crackling into live flame though no breeze stirred. Shadows arced along the walls like living birds, filling the chamber with winged shapes.

"Our blood," Marcus whispered, understanding. The Keeper's gaze moved over them, pitiless. She embodied every sacrifice given here. In her form Marcus saw all the pain, all the fear and devotion of countless lives. To fight her would be to fight their own sins.

She rose to her full height; faint flames licked her hair, and when she moved, pieces of charred cloth fell away like ashes, revealing more pale bruised skin. Simon noticed the cracks in the crystal on her back, as if the very thing that bound her was fracturing. Her arms opened slowly, palms up, and the brothers understood. The torchlight glinted on broken glass and spilled blood at her feet; on the wall behind her was painted an enormous chalice between two pillars, an offering symbol.

The Keeper waited, quiet and terrible. She held her hands to the light, as if catching it. Simon glared at the Keeper, teeth bared. "We will not play your games. The Gate is gone, the heart broken — what more do you need?" he snarled. The Keeper raised a hand. "Not death, but choice," she replied, voice strangely gentle. "Three have come. Only two may proceed. There must be an offering: one life for the many, a blood willingly given."

Marcus took a step back, bloodless. He looked at Simon and Peter in turn, fear and resolve mingling in his eyes. "We have given all," he said quietly. He closed his fist around his sword. Peter's breath caught, silent tears tracking down his cheeks. In his mind he saw their childhood, their small forms clinging together in the dark, and he did not want to lose one of them.

At his side, Peter spoke first, voice trembling: "I—I will." Simon cried out, "No!" and lunged to grab Peter's arm, but Marcus grasped his brother's shoulder to hold him back. "Peter, no," Marcus said softly. "Let him speak." Peter nodded; on the edge of his face Peter dared a hopeful smile.

Simon's eyes were wild. "You have no right—!" he shouted, but Marcus continued, solemn. "If this is what must be, then I will do it," he said. He drew the small knife at his waist and cut into his palm without hesitation. Red blood welled and dripped, and Marcus let it spill into the black water of the basin with shaking hand.

"It is done," Marcus said, voice firm despite the tremor. The water hissed softly as if in acceptance. A column of black smoke rose in curling spirals around him, warm and shivering against his skin. The flame on his palm turned from white to red as the life poured from him. Simon and Peter fell to their knees beside the basin, watching their brother sacrifice himself with silent awe.

"It's the only way," Marcus continued. "I believed we could leave this place all intact, together... but if one must become offering, let it be me." His voice cracked. Simon whimpered and reached out to grasp Marcus's bloody hand, as though to halt what he had begun. "We don't let each other go that easily," Simon whispered back, tears streaming.

The Keeper nodded once. She spoke softly, "By blood and sacrifice, the passage is given." Behind them, the altars shuddered and a rumble shook the cavern. Flames burst along the cracked wall, forming a new archway of molten light. Beyond it stretched a corridor of fire and bone, a pathway deeper into the Abyss.

Marcus released his hand and let the knife fall, standing unsteadily. He wiped the blood from his hand on his tunic and held it out. The chalice of flame accepted his sacrifice, swirling red and black around the basin. Where his blood met stone, the shape of a burning chalice flared in the crimson pool.

Peter and Simon rose to their feet. "I won't leave you," Peter said, voice firm. Simon's arm was wrapped around his brother's waist; Marcus placed a hand on each of their shoulders. In that moment their bond, strained to the breaking point, held strong.

The corridor beyond promised untold horrors. Shadows danced along its walls, writhing like hungry serpents in the flickering torchlight. The searing heat of the corridor licked at their skin, and the floor was slick with ash. Ahead lay more darkness and sacrifice, but the gate had opened. They entered the corridor, leaving behind the Keeper, the altars, and one offering less among them.

Darkness and light met in the tunnel ahead, and as Marcus advanced, the glow of the chalice on his palm casting great shadows, the question left unanswered lingered between them: Was this the salvation they sought, or the beginning of their end?