The air inside the ruins was thick—like breathing through wet cloth. James Holloway's torch sputtered, casting flickering shadows that danced across the stone walls. The passage sloped downward, carved from obsidian and veined with something that pulsed faintly green.
He moved slowly, machete raised, boots crunching over bones and brittle offerings. The walls were covered in carvings—twisting figures, mouths agape, eyes gouged out. Some seemed to shift when he wasn't looking.
A whisper brushed his ear. He spun, torch flaring. Nothing. But the whisper came again, this time from the walls themselves.
"You are known."
James pressed on. The corridor narrowed, forcing him to crouch. He passed through a chamber where the floor was a mosaic of skulls, each one grinning up at him. In the center stood a pedestal, and atop it, a mask carved from bone.
He reached for it. The moment his fingers touched the surface, the chamber groaned. The walls bled. The skulls screamed.
James staggered back, clutching the mask. The torchlight dimmed, and the green veins in the walls flared. A figure emerged from the shadows—tall, robed, faceless. It did not walk. It glided.
James ran. The corridor twisted, became a spiral. He stumbled into a new chamber—this one filled with mirrors. But the reflections were wrong. They showed him dead. They showed him rotting. They showed him kneeling before the faceless god.
He smashed a mirror. The shards screamed.
The mask in his hand pulsed. He felt it calling to him, whispering promises of power, of escape, of ruin.
"Wear me, and be spared."
James hesitated. Then he hurled it into the darkness. The whisper turned to a shriek. The chamber shook.
He fled again, deeper into the ruins. The walls narrowed. The air grew colder. And somewhere ahead, he heard the sound of chanting.
Not human. Not sane.
He was close to the heart now. The cursed relic. The god. The hunger.
And it knew he was coming.