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“They’re not statues,” said Alastor quietly. “They’re golems.”
“And for the simple humans among us?” asked Carlisle.
"Think living clay," I said. "Enchanted by ancient magic."
“So, I’m guessing they're not here to welcome us with open arms?"
“That would be my guess too,” said Alastor. He was quiet, and it unnerved me. Normally he’d be barking orders by now and yet he just stood there, watching them. He didn’t know what to do, I realised.
Ash stepped forward; his gaze fixed on the silent figures. "Golems are creatures of clay or earth, brought to life by magic. They're built to serve, to carry out the will of those who animate them. The tale goes that Adam himself was the original golem,sculpted from dirt until God breathed true life into him. Most golems don't get that gift; they remain 'unfinished'—that's what the word means."
"Creepy and fascinating," Carlisle murmured, inching a step back, his eyes darting from one statue to another.
"Exactly." Ash nodded. "They're like echoes of a life, bound to obey."
"Bound until when?" I asked, my hand instinctively resting on the hilt of my knife.
"Until their purpose is fulfilled, or they're destroyed," Ash said, his gaze now darkening with concern. "Whichever comes first."
The air crackled with tension, a static charge that prickled against my skin as we moved slowly closer to the temple's entrance, standing at the doorway looking down the steps into the garden.
"Okay, but seriously," Theo asked. "Who's pulling the strings on these clay puppets?"
“Solomon, clearly,” I murmured.
“But he’s dead,” said Theo. “Isn’t he? Did I miss the part when he got turned into a vampire or something?”
Ash shook his head. “Just dormant magic, lying in wait. Their purpose was already set, it just needed to be triggered.”
"Great, walking pottery with a purpose," Theo drawled, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips despite the tension radiating from him.
"They're here to protect the scroll," Alastor said. "This could get ugly fast." He turned to me, eyes sharp. "Sariel, what was the riddle on the column?”
I fixed my eyes on his, trying to push away that uncomfortable watched feeling from the golems, as I recalled the lines etched on the tablet at the top of the column.
“It was an ancient language, but if I translate it, it comes out as this,” I said, closing my eyes and focusing on the lines in my memory.
“In halls of splendour lies not the prize,
Nor beneath starlit skies or demon eyes.
Seek where silent sentinels stand guard,
In earth's embrace, in sleep unmarred.
An embrace of stone, a slumber deep,
Guarding secrets that it does not keep.
To wake what sleeps but never dreams,
One must be more than what one seems.
Find the guardian born of earth and spell,
In whom the darkest curse doth dwell.
In the silent keeper’s embrace,
