The chamber pulsed like a living heart. Black veins of crystal crawled along the walls, twisting like serpents and thorns, each vein throbbing in a rhythm older than memory. At the center, the imprisoned god sat, bound in chains that glimmered with molten shadow and black crystal, its countless eyes—unblinking, infinite—fixed on the intruders. The air grew heavy with the weight of its gaze, a suffocating pressure that sought to crush their very will.A whisper, layered and omnipresent, rolled through the chamber: "You hold… but you are fragile. Every bond, every step, bends beneath you. Break, and I rise."Shanny’s knees buckled. The psychic weight of the voice pressed into her mind, dredging up memories of failure, old guilts, and the profound fear of losing her friends. Her staff dimmed, its light flickering like a candle in a gale. “I… I can’t—”Before the words could fully form, Victor’s flame erupted around him in a wall of white-hot brilliance, cutting through the oppressive dar

The spire’s summit was no mere chamber—it was a cathedral of despair. The walls pulsed with black and molten crystal, alive and quivering, their veins writhing like serpents and dripping molten shadow onto jagged floors. The air hung thick and heavy, carrying the scent of scorched iron and ash. Each breath felt like inhaling the weight of centuries. At the center loomed the god, colossal and impossible, bound by chains that writhed like living vipers, glimmering with molten veins and countless, unblinking eyes.The Chains Above twisted, arcing in lethal patterns, coiling and snapping, waiting for a misstep. Each vibration of the spire resonated through bone, marrow, and muscle, syncing with their own pulses. The god’s heartbeat was a deafening drum of malevolence, its echo pressing into their minds.Victor stepped forward first, white-hot flame streaking along his arms. “Stay close! Every move must be coordinated! One slip, and it tears us apart!”Shanny led with her staff, its light

The silence was not relief. It pressed against their ears, their bones, their thoughts. It was not the absence of sound—it was the presence of an immense attention, something ancient and invisible listening, waiting for what they would say next.Victor staggered first. His white fire was gone, every ember burned into scars along his arms. He tasted iron, but when he spat, it was not blood—it was ash. He wiped his mouth and stared into the dark, forcing a grin he did not feel. "If it's listening... then it's afraid to speak."Elroy gave a hollow laugh that cracked into a cough. He leaned on his blades like crutches. "Or it's waiting to steal our words. One slip, one wrong sentence, and we become the next prayer carved in its skin."Shanny’s staff flickered weakly, her beacon-song collapsed into a faint hum. She clutched her head, nails digging into her scalp. "It’s echoing me… not whispers, but afterimages. Like my thoughts are walking out ahead of me. What if it already knows what we’

They moved again, though none of them spoke the word to begin. The Spire seemed to decide for them, tilting its pulse into a deeper rhythm and tugging their bodies downward. Each step was not taken but extracted, as if the spiral wound itself tighter and drew them like a thread through a needle’s eye. The stair narrowed, and the air thickened. What little light Victor’s flame gave off was dissolved into the stone, swallowed faster than it should have been. The walls pressed close, carved with veins that pulsed faintly, black liquid sliding through them like blood that had forgotten warmth.Sophia brushed her sleeve against the wall and drew back sharply—her skin tingled as though something had tasted her. The silence between them was heavier than armor. Elroy walked last, the crack in his hammer glowing faintly with every pulse of the Spire, as though it had begun to beat in time with the mountain’s heart. Abby kept to the center, her eyes darting at every whisper of movement, but the

The offer hung between them like a thread of poisoned silk, spun from the woman’s smile and the Spire’s beating heart. Her hand hovered in the air—white, elegant, inevitable—as if all of creation bent toward her invitation.For a heartbeat, it almost worked.Victor swayed, the fire in his palm guttering to a desperate ember. He saw it then: a world without burden, without the constant terror of setting everything he touched ablaze. His fire a hearth, not a pyre. His heart clenched at the thought. The ember whispered, let me die. His arm trembled as if it were no longer his own.Abby nearly fell to her knees. The hand clutching her ankle was no longer phantom—it tightened, nails digging into her skin, a child’s warmth pressed against her flesh. Her breath broke in a sob, a sound so raw it seemed to slice the air. She saw laughter in the dark, a face she had buried rising to meet her, eyes bright, waiting. Her foot slid forward, traitorous. Hope was a blade, and it cut her deep.Sophia