This time, the vibrations from Ebonveil were less aggressive than when Narvel was fleeing from the horsemen chasing after the cube.
'Is there something good in here?'
He scanned his surroundings—endless rows of moss-covered gravestones, cracked and weather-worn were all he could see.
There were also a few narrow passageways carved into the stone walls, like veins of darkness threading deeper into the underground. But apart from the grave markers and the unnerving silence, Narvel couldn't spot anything remotely valuable.
'Or are these gravestones somehow like the Stone of Realization?' That thought pushed him into action. He brought Ebonveil forward and stepped cautiously toward the nearest headstone, testing the idea that his weapon might be drawn to them the same way it had been drawn to the cube.
He held his breath and waited.
Nothing happened, apart from the scythe's tip carving a shallow, line into the aged surface of the stone. A faint hiss escaped as the weapon scraped across, but there was no pull, no resonance. Just a cold emptiness.
"What's making you so excited then?" Narvel muttered under his breath.
Truth be told, he was speaking more to calm his nerves than out of actual curiosity. The suffocating silence of this grave-laced chamber had wormed into his bones. Though he stood still, his heart raced like a hunted beast. Terror brewed in the pit of his stomach, but he gritted his teeth. He couldn't afford to let it consume him. Not now.
Ebonveil still trembled faintly, as though expecting something. But apart from its eerie pulse, the chamber remained quiet.
Then, the map in Narvel's hand shimmered again. A thin beam of silver light slithered from the parchment, winding like a sentient thread through the catacombs and pointing out the path he was meant to take.
Looking around, Narvel hesitated. The silence didn't feel natural. It was too complete—no wind, no echoes, not even the soft sound of his own footsteps unless he focused. It was like being inside a sealed tomb, untouched by noise.
He tried to reassure himself. Maybe if there was something dangerous, it was either asleep or already dead—like the poor souls buried beneath these stones.
Following the glowing light, he continued cautiously through the hall of graves. It didn't take long before the tunnel opened into another large cavern.
Balls of light—dozens of them—drifted in the air like glowing dandelion seeds. They roamed the vast chamber randomly, casting slow-moving shadows against the stone walls and the engraved floors below.
Though Narvel couldn't hear it, these lights were releasing mournful cries—sounds that, if they reached the ears of the weak-willed, would gnaw at their sanity and unravel their sense of self. The kind of sorrow that crept under the skin, whispering the futility of resistance.
The silver line from his map cut across the open space, weaving through the glowing orbs in a careful, zigzagging path.
Narvel stopped to take it all in.
Again, no visible threat.
No claws, no fangs. But his instincts screamed louder than ever. His gut twisted with unease. Something about this place was wrong in ways his senses couldn't fully explain. Even Voidscale, who hovered nervously over his shoulder, shared that feeling. The little beast didn't hiss or growl, but its trembling tail betrayed its unease.
And then the orbs froze.
Suspended mid-air, every single light halted its drifting and began to shiver violently. The atmosphere dropped further in temperature. A soundless pressure pressed down on Narvel's chest.
In a single, eerie moment, the lights contorted and unraveled. Each one twisted into new forms.
They became Specters.
Their bodies emerged as semi-translucent figures—ghastly and tall, some gliding silently with long, torn cloaks of mist that trailed behind them like smoke. Their eyes glowed from sunken sockets, and their bodies flickered in and out of physicality like unstable flames.
A portion of them floated sorrowfully, as if crying through time, their expressions warped in eternal grief. Others murmured incomprehensibly, almost like prayers or broken memories. They resembled drifting veils, hollow and faceless, though tear-streaked features flickered in and out of their ghostly forms.
The rest were smaller—barely the height of Narvel's knees—wispy, almost invisible silhouettes that hovered low to the ground, darting around the gravestones like wraith-like vermin.
Despite their quietness, the weight of their presence was oppressive.
And now, they'd seen him.
Immediately, Narvel could tell that these creatures weren't to be underestimated—especially not when their numbers painted the entire cavern in flickering ghost light. There were too many of them, far too many for comfort. Each one drifted with a sinister silence that gnawed at his courage, and yet the threat they posed felt tangible.
Then, without warning, the soundless pressure burst into a soul-piercing wail that thundered through the chamber bringing forth a wave of despair.
The sound hit Narvel like a physical blow, vibrating through his skull and spine. His vision swam violently. His ears rang with a high-pitched screech that drowned out even his own heartbeat. A sharp pain erupted in his chest, and he vomited a mouthful of blood. The warmth of it smeared across his palm as he tried to steady himself, but a dizzy spell struck him hard, sending the world spinning out of control.
Still clutching Ebonveil in a shaky grip, Narvel stumbled forward, his knees nearly giving out beneath him. He teetered at the edge of collapse, swaying like a dying candle flame.
Just a few feet ahead—where his body would have hit if he had fallen—a grotesque face jutted out from the stone floor. It wailed with its mouth stretched wide, its jagged teeth glinting in the dim light as if it had been lying in wait, hoping to devour him the moment he lost consciousness.
Even in his dazed state, Narvel's breath caught in his throat. A sickening chill ran down his spine.
Had he fallen—had he taken even one more step forward—he would've been swallowed whole.
The specter, as though mourning in its cry, radiated a twisted, unmistakable anger. Whether it was enraged by Narvel's refusal to fall, or simply lashing out in torment over its own cursed existence, he couldn't tell. But its wrath was palpable, cold, and deep.
With another wail, louder and more jarring than before, the specter surged out of the ground.
It moved like a streak of shadow, its tattered form unraveling and reforming as it sliced through the air. The force of its cry sent a ring of distortion through the air, a halo of ghostly cloud that pushed the surrounding air back in a concussive wave.
Voidscale, without a second thought, vanished—blinking out of sight and abandoning Narvel in a heartbeat.
As for Narvel, despite the ringing in his ears and the blood dripping at the corner of his mouth, he still had enough strength to stand. His legs trembled, but his body responded.
Before he could raise Ebonveil, however, the blade trembled violently in his grasp. A pulse of unnatural energy spread from the weapon—a dark wisp, a regal force that radiated an imposing aura.
Ebonveil moved.
As though possessed by its own will, it slashed forward in a sweeping arc with its edge humming with energy that was neither flame nor frost—something deeper, older.
The specter paused mid-charge. Its once-wrathful expression flickered just for a breath—with what Narvel could only describe as fear. But that moment passed quickly.
The blade of Ebonveil cleaved through the specter's incorporeal form effortlessly. The creature let out a distorted gasp as its body unraveled into wisps of fading grey smoke, which spiraled toward Ebonveil's blade and was absorbed like ink into water.
The chamber grew silent again.
"Huh?"
Narvel stood there, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of what he'd just seen. The fact that Ebonveil had not only struck down the specter with such ease but had also absorbed it, left him stunned. The weapon didn't just kill—it consumed.
Then, another surprise. He felt a ripple of energy pulse from Ebonveil, flowing down the hilt and into his arm like a jolt of static power. It wasn't overwhelming, but it was definitely there. Like a gift. Like Ebonveil had just shared something with him.
"What is this…?"
He looked down at the blade, its surface no longer trembling but faintly glowing, as if pleased.
And Narvel, though still reeling from the shock, felt a flicker of courage stir within him. For a heartbeat, the weight pressing down on his chest lightened. Ebonveil's strange energy still lingered in his limbs, giving him a sense of being strong, and with it, he felt a little less afraid.
But the moment was stolen almost immediately.
A deafening, mind-shattering wail erupted once again—this time louder, more enraged. It came not from one, but from the remaining specters. Their cries echoed like the wrathful toll of cursed bells. It wasn't just sound—it was an assault on the soul. As if their very outrage took shape and lashed at him.
Narvel staggered as the sheer force of the collective wail crashed into him like a tidal wave of grief and fury. His vision turned hazy, his ears rang violently, and another mouthful of blood burst from his lips. His knees buckled slightly, but this time, there was something different.
Though his body trembled and his mind wavered, he withstood it.
It wasn't by chance—he could feel it.
The energy that Ebonveil had passed into him earlier now rose like a shield within, reinforcing his resolve and anchoring his consciousness. The haunting pressure still shook his mind, but not enough to leave him helpless. The fear didn't vanish—but it dulled even more.
This newfound resistance kept him upright.
But he had no time to celebrate.
The air around him warped as the specters erupted into motion. Their glowing eyes were now burned with violence. Their mournful drifting forms twisted into vicious streaks of phantasmal rage. They surged toward him from all directions like a tidal flood their hungry howls shaking loose the dust off bones scattered across the catacomb floor.
Narvel didn't hesitate.
Driven by instinct and fear, he turned and bolted in the only direction away from them.