The door opened onto the garden.
Silence. Absolute silence, broken only by the rustle of the wind in the ivy.
The hero stepped forward, onto a path of cracked stone slabs. The garden spread out around him—vast, overgrown, and wild. Ivy entwined the columns, moss covered the walls, grass sprouted between the stones. And everywhere stood statues.
Angels.
Hundreds of white marble angels. Of varying sizes—from human height to three meters tall. In various poses. Some were praying, hands folded at their chests, heads bowed. Some mourned, covering their faces with their palms. Some extended their hands to the sky, as if begging for salvation. And some...
Some screamed. Silently, with open mouths and distorted faces. Hands stretched forward, fingers curled like claws. "Beautiful," Medusa whispered, examining the nearest statue. A female angel, covering her face with her hands. "But... creepy."
"Yes," the hero walked around the statue. The details were incredible—every feather on the wings, every fold of clothing. Too realistic. He touched the statue's hand. Cold. Hard. Marble.
Dolor silently surveyed the garden. There were too many statues. They stood along the paths, between the trees, in the thickets. Hundreds of pairs of empty stone eyes.
"We need to find a way out," the hero said. "Quickly."
They moved along the path. The statues stood motionless, frozen in their poses. The wind rustled the leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed.
The hero blinked.
When he opened his eyes, the statue was closer.
The angel, who had been standing three meters to the right, was now two meters away. The same pose—arms folded at his chest, head bowed. But definitely closer.
The hero froze.
"Medusa," he called quietly. "Don't take your eyes off the statues."
"What?"
"Just do as I say."
He stared at the angel. Unwaveringly. The seconds ticked by. The statue didn't move.
The hero slowly turned his head to the other angel. The one on the left. Grieving, his face covered. He was in the same place.
"They're moving," Dolor said. He stood with his back to the hero, looking at the statues behind him. "When you're not looking."
"What?" Medusa turned around.
"NO! Don't turn away!"
But it was too late. The hero heard a sound—stone scraping against stone. Very quiet, but distinct.
Medusa turned back. Behind her, three meters away, stood the angel. Enormous, three meters tall. Her arms stretched forward, her claw-like fingers almost touching her shoulders. Her face was contorted—her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes empty.
A second ago, this statue was five meters away.
"Damn," Medusa breathed.
"Don't look away," the hero repeated. "As long as you look, they can't move."
"And if I blink?"
"Don't blink." Silence. They stood, staring at the statues. The hero felt his eyes begin to water. His eyelids trembled, demanding he blink. He resisted.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
His eyes burned. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
"I can't," Medusa croaked. "I can't take it anymore..."
"Hold!"
Forty seconds. Fifty.
The hero blinked.
The crunch of stone. When his eyes opened, all the statues were closer. A meter, two. The ring was tightening.
"We're trapped," Dolor said.
He was right. The statues surrounded them on all sides. Praying, grieving, screaming. Dozens of stone angels, frozen a meter from the group. Arms outstretched, ready to grab.
"What happens if they catch us?" Medusa asked.
"I don't know," the hero replied. "And I don't want to find out."
He looked around. He needed a plan. They couldn't stand there forever without blinking. Sooner or later, one of them would close their eyes, and...
"We'll walk back to back," Dolor said. "Look in different directions. Cover all angles."
"Good idea."
They formed a triangle, back to back. The hero looked forward, Medusa to the left, Dolor to the right. Each controlled their own sector of the statues. "Move slowly," the hero said. "Step by step. Keep your eyes locked."
They began to move. Synchronized, slowly, like one organism. One step. Another step.
The hero blinked—the statues rushed forward. They froze half a meter away.
Medusa blinked—there was a scraping sound from the left.
Dolor blinked—a scratching sensation on the right.
The ring tightened with each blink.
"You have to blink one at a time," the hero said. "I blink—you look. Then you, Medusa. Then Dolor."
They tried. The hero closed his eyes for a second—Medusa and Dolor didn't blink. The statues in their sectors froze. Then Medusa blinked—the hero and Dolor held their gaze. Then Dolor.
It worked. But it was excruciatingly slow.
They walked for a minute. Five. Ten.
Their eyes burned. Tears streamed down their faces. Their necks ached from the strain. But they continued.
And then the sun began to set.
The light grew dimmer. The shadows lengthened. The statues turned into gray silhouettes.
"It's getting dark," Medusa whispered. "If we can't see them..."
"I know," the hero quickened his pace. "Faster. We need to find a way out before dark."
They were practically running now, still with their backs to each other, still looking at the statues. But the light was fading.
And suddenly the hero stumbled.
He fell. His gaze tore away from the statues.
A grinding sound. Loud, predatory.
When he raised his head, the angel was above him. Enormous, with outstretched wings. Claw-like hands reaching down.
The hero rolled. The claws hit the stone, striking sparks.
"RUN!"
They broke into a run. Not looking back. Only forward, along the path between the statues.
A grinding sound came from behind them. Loud. Multi-voiced. Hundreds of statues came to life at once.
The hero turned as he ran.
The angels were moving. Quickly, rapaciously, like predators. Arms outstretched, faces contorted. They ran through the garden, leaping over bushes, skirting trees. Soundlessly. Only the scraping of stone on stone.
"Over there!" Medusa shouted, pointing to the building ahead.
A gazebo. Stone, with columns. A fire burned inside—torches on the walls.
They burst inside. Turned.
The angels stopped at the edge of the light. Frozen. Motionless, as statues should be. But their postures had changed—all now reaching toward the gazebo, arms outstretched, faces angry.
"Light," the hero exhaled. "They're afraid of the light."
"Or they can't move in the torchlight," Dolor added.
Medusa sank to the floor, breathing heavily.
"What now? Are we going to sit here forever?"
The hero looked around. The gazebo was small. Four columns, a roof, torches. Outside, in the darkness, stood angels. Dozens of them. Waiting.
"The torches won't burn forever," Dolor said.
He was right. The flame was already weakening. Maybe an hour before it goes out. Maybe less.
"Then we need another plan," the hero drew his dagger. "Can we destroy them?"
"It's stone," Medusa shook her head. "Marble. My trident will break one, maybe two. But there are hundreds of them."
"My sword too," Dolor added.
The hero considered. Stone. Statues. What turns the living to stone?
He looked at Medusa.
"Your gaze."
Medusa raised her head.
"What?"
"Your gaze turns to stone. You're a gorgon."
"Yes, but they're already stone..."
"No," the hero stepped closer. "When they move, they're alive. Magically alive. Maybe your gaze will work?"
Medusa frowned.
"Maybe. But for that to happen, they have to move. And when I look, they freeze."
"Then turn away," Dolor suggested. "Let them come to life."
"Can you watch through the reflection?" the hero added. "Do we have a mirror?"
Medusa pulled a shard of glass from her bag—a remnant of the broken window from the observatory she'd picked up.
"Will it work?"
"Let's try."
The plan was insane. But there was no other.
The hero and Dolor stood at the edge of the light, looking at the statues. Medusa stood behind them, her back to the angels, holding the shard of glass so she could see the reflection.
"Ready?" the hero asked.
"No. But go ahead."
The hero and Dolor closed their eyes.
A sharp grinding sound was heard immediately. Loud, multiple. The angels came to life.
The hero felt the air move—the statues were rushing toward the gazebo. He heard the scrape of claws on stone. They were close. Very close.
"Medusa, NOW!"
Medusa picked up the shard and looked into the reflection.
Her eyes met the angel's reflected eyes.
The sound was like thunder. Sharp, deafening. The hero opened his eyes.
The angel froze. Not just stopped—he turned to stone. Real stone, not a magical statue. Cracks ran across his body. He collapsed, crumbling into pieces.
"It's working!" Medusa shouted.
She turned the shard, catching the other angels in the reflection. One by one, they petrified, crumbled, and turned into piles of rubble.
The hero and Dolor helped—they closed their eyes, letting the angels approach, then Medusa looked through the shard. Five angels destroyed. Ten. Twenty.
But there were too many.
One broke through from the side. The hero saw it too late. Claws sank into his shoulder, tugging.
Cold. An unbearable cold spread from the point of contact. The skin hardened, turning gray.
Turning to stone.
- NO!
Dolor struck with his sword, severing the angel's arm. The statue recoiled. Medusa caught a glimpse of it through a shard—and collapsed in the rubble.
But the hero was already falling. His arm was stone up to the elbow. The cold spread further, to his shoulder, to his chest.
He felt his heart slowing. His lungs freezing. His thoughts becoming viscous, slow.
Turning into a statue.
The last thing he saw was Medusa's face, screaming something.
Then darkness.
The hero didn't die.
But he didn't live, either. He was trapped. In his own body. Stone, motionless, cold. His consciousness remained—dull, slow, but present.
He saw. Not with his eyes—they were stone. But with some other sense. He saw Medusa and Dolor, continuing to fight. Destroying the angels one by one.
He saw the torches go out. The darkness close in.
He saw the last angel fall, shattered by Medusa's gaze.
Silence.
Medusa approached his stone body. She touched it with her hand. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"How can I bring him back?" she asked Dolor.
"I don't know," the warrior replied.
Medusa knelt beside him.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, don't leave me."
Time passed. A minute. An hour. The hero couldn't tell. Time flowed differently in the stone body.
And suddenly he felt a crack. Tiny, inside his chest. Where his heart had been.
Immortality.
It worked. Slowly, but it worked. It fought the petrification. The crack grew, branched out.
A lurch.
The stone shell cracked. Chunks of marble fell away. The hero inhaled—deeply, greedily. Living air into living lungs.
He fell to all fours, coughing.
"You're alive!" Medusa hugged him. "You're alive!" The hero nodded, unable to speak. His body trembled, the blood slowly returning to his limbs. Phantom pain—not from death, but from petrification—pulsed in every cell.
"No more... statues," he croaked.
Medusa laughed through her tears.
"I agree."
When the hero could stand, they moved on. Through a garden strewn with the fragments of broken statues. In the center of the garden stood an angel. Enormous, five meters tall. Majestic. Wings outstretched, hands folded in prayer, face calm.
The only one whole.
The hero approached cautiously. The statue didn't move. Even when he turned away.
At its base was a plaque: "First Angel. Guardian of the Garden. His gaze holds all the others."
"He controlled them," Dolor said. "While he stood, all the others were frozen."
"Then why were they able to move at all?" Medusa frowned. "Why didn't he hold them?"
The hero looked at the statue's face. Calm, peaceful, with closed eyes.
"Because he was tired," he said quietly. "Tired of holding them. Maybe he even wanted someone to free him."
He touched the statue's foot. Cold. But not hostile. Just stone.
Behind the central angel was a door. Simple, stone. The exit. They walked through it without looking back.
The corridor beyond the door was empty. Quiet. Safe.
The hero stopped and leaned against the wall. His body still trembled from the phantom pain of petrification.
Medusa sat down next to him.
"You scared me," she said quietly. "When you turned to stone. I thought... I'd lost you."
"Sorry," the hero took her hand. "Not on purpose."
"I know."
They sat in silence. Dolor stood guard, as always.
"I wonder," the hero said, "how many more floors are left."
"Many," Medusa replied. "Too many."
"Yes," the hero closed his eyes. "But we will get there. To the end. Or we will die trying."
Medusa chuckled.
"You've died before. Many times."
"Then I'll die again," he smiled. "And I will rise again. Again." "Idiot."
"Your idiot."
Medusa pressed herself against him. The snakes on her head hissed softly—contented, at peace.
They rested a little longer. Then they stood.
The next floor awaited.