Crescent Betrayal, The Ring That Remade Him

The Dying Embers

The dark does not just hide monsters. It turns you into one.

Lincoln didn’t think. He threw himself sideways, shoulder slamming into jagged stone. The creature’s bladed limb came down where his head had been, striking the floor with a crack like thunder.

Move. Move or die.

He scrambled on hands and knees, loose shale slicing his palms. The thing behind him clicked and chittered, tasting the air. Lincoln ran. He didn’t know where—only that he had to put distance between himself and the thing that breathed hot rot down his neck.

His foot caught a slope steeper than the last. He tumbled, a brief, violent cartwheel, until a rock wall stopped him with a sickening thud. Stars burst behind his eyes. His ribs screamed.

Then he saw light.

A faint orange glow, feeble and stuttering, painted the walls of a small hollow. Lincoln squinted, certain the fall had rattled his brain loose. But the light remained.

A figure huddled beside it—withered, trembling, wrapped in torn robes. The man’s face lifted.

“Master Lincoln?” The voice was a ruin. “Is that you, or am I finally mad?”

Lincoln crawled forward, ignoring the fire in his side. “Santiago.”

He reached the old servant and gripped his shoulders, feeling bone beneath thin fabric. The man was barely there. Blood crusted a gash on his temple. His hands shook uncontrollably.

“They threw you in,” Lincoln said. It wasn’t a question.

“An accomplice, they said. Helping you steal from the coffers.” Santiago laughed, a dry, rattling thing. “Lies, all of it. Lady Cressida just wanted me gone. I knew too much about your mother.”

Lincoln’s jaw tightened. “She’ll pay for it. Both of them.”

Santiago gestured weakly toward the light. It came from a glass cylinder mounted on a stone plinth—an everflame core, pulsing like a dying heart. The orange glow was weak, barely pushing back the darkness.

“It’s almost gone,” Santiago whispered. “Maybe an hour. When it dies, the cold takes us. Then the things in the dark come to finish the job.”

Lincoln forced himself upright, ignoring the protest of bruised muscles. “We’re not dying here.”

“What can you do, boy? No weapon. No food. Nothing but that name they’ve already erased.”

Lincoln reached into his pocket and pulled out his mother’s ring. The dull metal caught the fading light. “I have this. It’s all she left me.”

Santiago’s eyes softened. “The Forge Master signet. I thought they destroyed it.”

“They didn’t. And I’m not letting it end here.” Lincoln closed his fist around the ring. “I need a weapon. Anything. Did they leave you with nothing?”

Santiago hesitated, then reached inside his tunic. He produced a small knife—rusted, dull, the handle wrapped in fraying leather. “Your father’s. He kept it in his study. I stole it before they dragged me out. Thought maybe… maybe I could protect you.”

Lincoln took it. The blade was pathetic, barely sharp enough to cut cloth. But it was metal. It was something.

A crash echoed through the tunnel. Rocks rained from the ceiling. The skittering was back—closer, hungrier.

“It found us,” Santiago breathed.

The everflame flickered.

Lincoln positioned himself between Santiago and the tunnel mouth, the useless knife held low. The light pulsed slower now, like a heart running out of beats. Shadows danced and stretched.

“Master Lincoln,” Santiago said, his voice cracking. “Leave me. Run. Maybe you can find a way up.”

“No.”

“You’re young. You’re strong. I’ve lived my life. Yours is still ahead.”

Lincoln didn’t turn. “You were the only one who looked after me when I was nothing to that family. I’m not repaying that by feeding you to monsters.”

The skittering stopped.

Silence. Heavy and waiting.

The core pulsed once. Twice. A long, flickering pause.

Then it died.

Absolute blackness swallowed them. The cold rushed in, biting at exposed skin.

And through the dark came a wet, tearing screech so close Lincoln felt the spit spray his face.

He swung the knife blind.