The stone door grinds open releasing stale air that carries the scent of old death and something else. A massive darkness spreads before us, broken only by faint, pulsing lights that lead down into the dark.

  "What are you seeing?" Vren asks, noticing my hesitation.

  "Nothing good," I reply, tightening my grip on Gungnir. "Stay close. Move quietly."

  Vren stumbles backward. "Hawks, maybe we should close it."

  His words die as the first of them emerges.

  It's slender and pale, with too many joints in its limbs. Its face is a smooth blank expanse with three vertical slits where eyes should be. More follow behind it, climbing up from the darkness below, their movements quick and jerky like insects.

  "Thralls," I mutter, pulling my spear free, unwrapping it with practiced speed. The runes blaze to life, casting harsh blue light across the gathering horde.

  "What the hell are those?" Vren's voice shakes as he draws his sword.

  "Fodder. Cannon meat. Things that were once human." I rotate my shoulders, settling into a familiar stance. "Stay behind me."

  They pour from the opening now, dozens of them, their pale bodies gleaming in the rune-light. Their hands end in elongated fingers with blackened tips, sharp as blades. They make no sound as they advance, no breathing, no growls, no battle cries. Just the soft scraping of too many feet against stone.

  I step forward, spear held low. "Get ready to run if this goes badly."

  Vren barks a laugh that sounds more like fear than humor. "Define 'badly.'"

  The first thrall lunges, faster than a normal man could react. But I am not a normal man.

  I pivot, driving my spear through its chest. The creature bursts, not blood, but a thick, black ichor that spatters across the stones. I twist, ripping the weapon free as two more close in. One falls with its head cleaved clean off; the other loses both arms before my spear finds its throat.

  They keep coming.

  Five more rush forward in a coordinated assault. I dip, spin, thrust. The spear moves like an extension of my will, finding gaps, weaknesses, tearing through pale flesh with practiced precision.

  I kick one backward into three others, creating space to work. Another leaps impossibly high, descending toward me with claws extended. I skewer it midair, then use its momentum to swing the corpse into another group of advancing thralls.

  "Hawks!" Vren shouts a warning.

  I spin just as a thrall reaches for my back. Its claws tear through my cloak before Vren's sword removes its arm at the elbow. I nod thanks, then thrust backward without looking, feeling the satisfying resistance as my spear finds its target.

  "Behind you!" I call out.

  Vren turns too late. A thrall tackles him to the ground, its blank face pressing close to his. I'm there in an instant, driving my heel into the creature's spine with enough force to shatter it. The thrall collapses, twitching, as I haul Vren back to his feet.

  "We need higher ground," I say, scanning the ruins.

  The altar stands as our only real advantage, elevated, solid stone, with clear sight lines in all directions. I back toward it, spear sweeping in wide arcs to keep the creatures at bay.

  "Up," I command, and Vren scrambles onto the altar, breathing hard.

  I follow with a single leap, landing beside him as the thralls surround us. There must be fifty or more now, circling, their blank faces tilted upward.

  "What are they waiting for?" Vren whispers.

  I don't answer immediately. The thralls' behavior has shifted. They're no longer attacking blindly, instead forming a loose circle around the altar, swaying slightly. Almost, reverently.

  "I don't like this," I mutter.

  The mark on my arm pulses again, the pain sharper now. I glance down to see the black lines have connected, forming a symbol I still can't decipher. Whatever this is, it's changing, evolving.

  "Hawks," Vren points toward the doorway. "Something else is coming."

  He's right. The thralls part, creating a path from the open stone door to the altar. A tall figure emerges from the darkness, moving with liquid grace. Unlike the thralls, this one is eerily beautiful, humanoid, but too perfect, too symmetrical. Its skin is alabaster white, its eyes pools of liquid darkness. Bone-white hair cascades down its back, moving as if underwater despite the still air.

  I know what it is before it speaks. The texts called them the Heralds of Belias, commanders, overseers of the lesser servants.

  "The Mark-Bearer returns," it says, voice like silk over broken glass. "After so many years."

  "I've never been here before," I reply, spear held ready.

  The Herald tilts its head, an unsettling, bird-like motion. "No. But the Mark has. It knows the way home."

  "This isn't my home," I say flatly. "And I didn't come for conversation."

  The Herald's perfect mouth curves into a smile. "No. You came for blood."

  It raises one elegant hand. "Then blood you shall have."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The thralls surge forward as one, scrambling up the sides of the altar. I swing my spear in a wide arc, decapitating three in a single motion. Vren stands back-to-back with me, his sword flashing as he defends his side.

  "Fight or die!" I shout, driving my spear through a thrall's eye slit.

  The battle becomes a blur of motion. I lose count of how many fall beneath my spear. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Their bodies pile around the altar, creating a macabre barrier that the others must climb over to reach us. Black ichor slicks the stone beneath our feet, making footing treacherous.

  Vren fights with surprising skill for a man who claimed to be running from debts and a woman. His technique is formal, trained, the kind taught in military academies, not picked up in tavern brawls.

  A thrall slips past my guard, its claws raking across my side. I feel the sting but ignore it, driving my knee into its blank face before finishing it with a spear thrust. Another leaps onto my back, arms wrapping around my neck. I reach back, seize it by what passes for its skull, and flip it over my shoulder onto the altar's surface. My boot comes down hard on its chest, crushing whatever serves as its heart.

  Through it all, the Herald watches, unmoving, its perfect face serene.

  "Enough," it finally says, voice cutting through the chaos.

  The thralls immediately cease their attack, backing away, still surrounding the altar but no longer pressing forward.

  I stand amidst the carnage, breathing hard but steady. Vren leans against me briefly, a gash across his forehead bleeding freely, but his eyes are clear and focused.

  "Is that the best you have?" I call out, voice echoing across the ruins.

  The Herald steps forward, picking its way delicately through the fallen thralls. "Oh, Mark-Bearer. We have barely begun."

  It reaches the edge of the altar, looking up at me with those bottomless eyes. "The Master has waited so long. He will be, disappointed, by your reception."

  "Your master can keep waiting," I reply, adjusting my grip on the spear. The runes pulse brighter, sensing my intent.

  The Herald's smile widens. "He has been patient for centuries. A little longer will not trouble him."

  It touches one pale hand to a fallen thrall. The creature's body shudders, then begins to dissolve, melting into black ichor that flows toward the Herald's feet. The other fallen thralls follow suit, their forms liquefying, streaming toward the same point.

  "What is it doing?" Vren whispers, horror evident in his voice.

  The black substance pools around the Herald, then begins to climb its legs, absorbing into its perfect white skin. With each passing second, the Herald changes, growing taller, broader, its features shifting subtly toward something less human.

  "We need to kill it now," I say, adjusting my stance.

  "I agree," Vren replies grimly.

  I don't hesitate. I leap from the altar, spear aimed directly at the Herald's heart. The creature moves with impossible speed, sidestepping my thrust with millimeters to spare. Its hand lashes out, catching me across the chest with enough force to send me sprawling.

  I roll with the impact, coming back to my feet in a low crouch. The Herald is fully transformed now, standing nearly eight feet tall, its body corded with black veins that pulse beneath its white skin. Its face has elongated, mouth stretching wider than any human's could, filled with needle-like teeth.

  "Ignite," I command again, and my spear blazes brighter, flames dancing along its length.

  The Herald growls, stepping back from the fire. Weakness discovered.

  I press forward, forcing it to retreat with sweeping arcs of flame. Vren circles to its left, looking for an opening. The remaining thralls stand motionless, watching the confrontation with their eyeless faces.

  "Hawks," Vren calls, "the door!"

  I risk a glance. The stone door is slowly closing, grinding back into place.

  "Keep it occupied," I shout, suddenly changing direction, sprinting toward the opening.

  The Herald screams, a high, piercing sound that sets my teeth on edge, and gives chase. Exactly as I wanted.

  I reach the door, slide beneath it as it continues to close, and find myself in a short passage leading to a wider chamber below. I don't stop to explore, instead backing up against the wall beside the narrowing opening.

  The Herald follows, forced to duck to fit through the gap. The moment its head appears, I strike, driving my flaming spear straight through its elongated skull.

  The creature howls, thrashing wildly as fire spreads across its face. I push harder, forcing the spear deeper, twisting the blade. Black ichor streams from the wound, sizzling where the flames touch it.

  With a final, violent thrust, I drive the spear completely through, pinning the Herald's head to the stone floor. Its body convulses, limbs lashing out in death throes powerful enough to crack the surrounding rock.

  Then, suddenly, it stills.

  I wrench my spear free, breathing hard. The Herald's body begins to dissolve like the thralls before it, melting into the same black substance. But unlike them, it doesn't pool, it evaporates, rising as dark smoke that dissipates into nothing.

  The door continues to close, now just a narrow gap. I roll beneath it at the last second, emerging back into the ruins where Vren stands surrounded by the remaining thralls, yet they make no move to attack him.

  Without their Herald, they seem directionless, swaying in place.

  I rise to my feet, spear held ready, but the thralls begin to retreat, moving back toward the stone door. It's fully closed now, yet somehow they phase through it, their pale bodies passing through solid rock as if it were mist.

  Within minutes, they're gone, leaving only black stains on the ancient stones as evidence they were ever here.

  Vren stares at me, blood still trickling down his face. "What, what the hell was that?"

  I exhale slowly, drawing back the flames from my spear until only the runes glow softly. "A Herald of Belias. One of his lieutenants."

  "And those things? The thralls?"

  "Humans, once. Transformed into servants." I look down at my torn clothing, the black ichor splattered across my arms and chest. "I'm never going to get this blood off my clothes."

  Vren makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "That's what you're worried about? Your clothes?"

  I shrug, suddenly feeling the weight of the fight in my muscles. "Clothes are expensive."

  Vren shakes his head in disbelief. "You just killed, I don't even know how many of those things. And that, that creature. Like it was nothing."

  "Not nothing," I correct him, examining a deep cut on my forearm. "But I've fought worse."

  I walk to the altar, studying it more carefully now. The symbols are dormant again, no longer glowing. The mark on my arm has faded as well, returning to those faint lines I first noticed after encountering the Spidrae.

  "The mark," I say, more to myself than to Vren. "It wasn't connected to the door at all. It just, responded to it."

  "What do you mean?"

  I shake my head. "I don't know yet. But I need to find out."

  Vren looks around at the bloodstained ruins, then back at me. "We should get back to Greyhaven. Before night falls."

  He's right. Whatever answers I seek won't be found standing here among the dead.

  I nod, retrieving my pack from where I dropped it before the fight. "Let's go."

  As we head back down the path toward Greyhaven, I can't shake the Herald's words from my mind.

  The Mark-Bearer returns. After so many years.

  I've never been here before. But something in me has. Something old and dangerous.

  And I need to know what it is before it decides to show itself again.

  「Progress Update - System Tracker」

  「STATUS UPDATE」

  Hawks Taylor | Fallen Kingspear Lvl 28

  Equipment: Gungnir (Active), Prince's Flask, The Bestiary, Bloodstained Clothing

  Finances: 85 Silver

  Pending: Ironwood Spear Sheath (Ready Tomorrow)

  Condition: Multiple Minor Wounds, Mark Dormant

  Defeated: Herald of Belias, Multiple Thralls

  「QUEST LOG」

  Missing Livestock and Child (Updated)

  Discovery: Herald of Belias and thralls emerged from ancient doorway

  Combat: Herald and thralls eliminated, doorway resealed

  New Information: Mark responds to Belias artifacts but is not directly connected

  Next Objective: Return to Greyhaven, research the Mark