The sound pulses through my bones, deep and resonant, like a summons.
Below the monastery, the ancient passage waits.
And soon, I will descend and unravel its secrets.
Our three small lanterns light the way as we enter the catacombs beneath the monastery, where we bury our dead. The weak glow casts long, trembling shadows along the narrow passageways. Dozens of small alcoves house hand-built wooden coffins, stacked four high, each bearing a holy cross on the front-facing head. Some of the recesses remain empty, waiting for more to fall to fate's hand, their dark mouths open and ready to receive the dead.
From there, we enter the Blessed Sanctum.
The chamber is vast, fashioned entirely of polished stone—floors, walls, pillars, and a sweeping arched ceiling that disappears into shadow. The air is still and heavy, scented faintly of minerals and sacred oils. Statues of angels stand guard around a large pool at the center, their stone faces worn smooth with age.
Within the crystal-clear waters rest the bones of those too small to occupy a coffin. Pale forms lie layered beneath the surface, undisturbed. Each day, our leaders pray over the waters as is ritual, blessing their spirits, and preserving the souls of innocent children to further protect them in the afterlife.
My heart lingers behind with them even as we move quickly along the edge of the chamber toward the tunnel beyond, careful not to disturb their eternal rest.
Telling myself it will not be my last visit to this place keeps my mind on the task at hand.
Minutes later, polished stone gives way to rough-hewn earth, the transition abrupt and jarring. The walls appear clawed from the mountain itself, like they were shaped by unskilled or desperate hands. Only crude markings scratched into the dirt remain to guide us, symbols we decipher with each turn.
The walls sweat with moisture. Dampness gathers and runs in slow trails, slickening the ground beneath our feet and making every step more treacherous than the last. The air grows colder, thicker, pressing against my lungs the deeper we descend into the heart of the mountain.
At intervals, the path breaks into primitively carved stairways that curl into parts unknown. Cold seeps through my boots and into my bones. My limbs grow stiff with it, my fingers numb, and unease coils tightly within me.
Should one of the maidens choose to strike me down here, I would struggle to draw my blades in such a confined space. Chilled as I am, my movements would be slow, my grip uncertain. So I remain poised for the slightest shift in intent, watchful and ready should either of them turn against me.
At last, we reach a massive archaic stone doorway.
The structure leans slightly, its right side slanting downward as if the old earth here has sought to reclaim it. The threshold towers above us, large enough that a giant three times the height of any man could pass through without bowing. We crane our necks and draw our lanterns close together to read the Aramaic script etched across the stone.
The moment the light touches the carvings, they begin to glow.
Not yellow, as though reflecting the flame, but a luminescent whitish-blue, as if embedded with slivers of blue crystals.
We translate the inscription to mean:
Ruin and death claim the unworthy who drink of God’s tears. The sacred waters of the immortals. For those with divine souls alone.
We do not heed the warning repeated in frantic succession at the end.
Turn back. Turn back. Turn back.
We cannot.
Our fate has been written, and our will is no longer our own.
The cavern beyond is black and damp. Moisture immediately settles over my cloak and skin. From the far reaches of the chamber, a massive light source spills outward, casting the same evanescent glow over the eerie cave walls.
As we move deeper, the dampness thickens into heavy mist, soaking us through within seconds. The waters rest in a basin of black rock, dark and opaque, swirling as if formed from some clouded substance rather than liquid. It dances and folds in on itself, slow and restless. A thick, bubbling layer of foam gathers along the surface and clings to the edges of the small lake.
The air tastes metallic. Ancient.
As one, we drop to our knees.
Our cloaks cling to us as we bow forward and fall into prayer. In hushed, synchronized whispers, we recite the devotions of our Order, the same words spoken in sermons and repeated during the quiet stillness beside our beds each night.
God, Holy Redeemer, accept my devotion and hear my plea.
It is I, your child, kneeling in obedience, ready to serve your will and carry your glory into these final days.
