He pointed to faint markings carved into the stone around the entrance. They were subtle, easily mistaken for natural cracks in the rock.
"Sigils," Milo whistled. "Containment wards?"
"Or summoning boundaries," Zane's expression darkened. "Either way, someone's been playing with forces they shouldn't."
Milo leaned over us, his curls falling into his eyes as he studied the markings. "These are old school. Like, pre-standardized magical practice old. Whoever carved these was working from some seriously ancient texts."
Horrace made a discordant sound, his tentacles tightening around my shoulders. Through our connection, I felt his growing distress, a recognition of something familiar but wrong.
"Horrace doesn't like it," I translated, stroking his side soothingly. "Something about these feels off to him."
"Great," Zane straightened. "Even the inter-dimensional horror thinks this is a bad idea. That's usually a sign to turn back."
"Or a sign that we're onto something important," I countered, surprising myself with my determination. "If cultists are performing rituals down there, we need to know what they're up to. Especially if it's connected to the Harbingers."
Zane studied my face for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. But I'm going first, and we stay close."
He pulled a small silver object from his pocket that expanded into a glowing orb of light. With one last warning glance at us, he descended into the darkness. Milo followed, his skeletons clustering nervously around his feet. I went last, Horrace's eyes providing additional visibility in the gloom.
That was handy. A built-in flashlight.
The tunnel was narrow and rough, forcing us to walk single file. The walls were damp, occasionally marked with more of the strange sigils. They seemed to pulse faintly as we passed, or maybe that was just a trick of Zane's magical light.
"These tunnels shouldn't exist," Zane commented after we'd been walking for several minutes. "According to the blueprints, there's nothing but solid rock beneath the factory."
"Maybe they're natural sea caves that someone expanded?" Milo suggested, ducking to avoid a low-hanging stalactite. "Ormaybe they're dimensional weak points. Places where reality is thinner, easier to tunnel through."
The thought sent a chill down my spine. After my experience with the Harbingers and the prophetic breach, the idea of thin spots in reality was far more disturbing than it might have been a few months ago.
We continued deeper, the tunnel gradually widening until it opened into a circular chamber. The ceiling rose high above us, lost in shadows despite Zane's light. The floor had been smoothed and polished, inlaid with intricate patterns of darker stone that formed a massive sigil.
"Okay, this is definitely cult central," I whispered, taking in the scene. Alcoves had been carved into the walls, each holding candle stubs and small, unidentifiable objects. The air felt heavy, charged with lingering energy.
"Recent activity," Zane crouched, examining wax drippings. "Within the last day or two."
"Guys," Milo's voice was uncharacteristically serious. "Look at the walls."
We turned to see what had caught his attention. The chamber walls were covered in writing, hundreds of symbols etched into the stone. Some I recognized from my own prophetic markings, others were completely foreign, yet somehow familiar.
"These are prophecies," I breathed, moving closer. "Fragments, like the ones I absorbed from the breach."
Horrace made a high, distressed sound, several of his tentacles pointing urgently at specific sections of text. Through our connection, I felt his recognition, his fear.
"He says these are wrong," I translated, struggling to understand the impressions flowing from him. "Like corrupted versions of real prophecies?"
"Someone's been collecting them," Zane moved to examine another section of wall. "Cataloging them. But why?"
The answer came to me with sudden clarity. "They're trying to understand how prophecies work. How they're made. The Harbingers said my prophecy wasn't theirs, that it was rewriting the others. What if the cultists are trying to do the same thing? Create their own prophecies?"
"Or hijack existing ones," Milo added grimly. "Including yours."
I reached out, my fingers hovering over one particular symbol that matched a marking on my arm. As I drew closer, the blue lines on my skin began to pulse more rapidly, responding to the energy in the chamber.
"Winter, don't touch anything," Zane warned, but it was too late.
The moment my fingers brushed the carved symbol, every marking in the room flared with light. The sigil on the floor began to glow, lines of power racing through the inlaid stone. I stumbled back, but the damage was done.
"What's happening?" I gasped as the chamber trembled around us.
