The chapel screamed.
Not from mouths, but from walls, floors, and shadows—everything warped as if the building had been holding its breath for years and had finally exhaled a madness that was older than the gods they used to fear.
"Out! We have to get out!" Zixuan shouted, already dragging Harith to his feet.
Cecilion didn't move right away.
The sigil had turned into a mouth—no, a throat. It pulsed, wet and breathing, the smell of rot and time pushing up from beneath. Somewhere, the seventh soul was still watching. Or the thing that had taken its body was.
"MOVE!" Harith bellowed, shaking Cecilion back into reality.
They ran. Tripping over pews that had twisted into limbs. Slipping on blood that hadn't been there seconds ago. The aisle stretched unnaturally—every step forward felt like sinking into a dream where distance had lost meaning. The windows weren't windows anymore, just mirrors, and in every reflection—
They weren't alone.
