After yet another brush with death, Felix felt hollowed out—his muscles heavy, his thoughts sluggish. He slumped against the cold stone, lowering himself beside one of the broken windows of the steeple. From here, the desert stretched endlessly, its dunes glowing faintly under the last dregs of twilight.
With a long, rattling sigh, he unshouldered his bow and quiver, setting them down with a clatter. His body sagged forward, hands braced on his knees.
"This place really~ sucks," he groaned, the words echoing faintly in the empty chamber.
His head drooped, chin nearly touching his chest as the weight of exhaustion pressed down. Silence filled the air, broken only by the whisper of wind seeping through the shattered stone.
"I mean… I knew it was going to be bad. But this?" His voice cracked, low and bitter. "I've been through nothing but hell since I got here. Either I'm cursed… or just really, really unlucky."
The thought lingered a moment, sour and heavy—until another crept in, quieter, sharper.
"Or…" His eyes narrowed slightly, gaze fixed on the desert horizon. "…am I lucky instead? Lucky to have made it this far?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge, daring him to answer.
Felix exhaled sharply and shook his head.
"Doesn't matter. None of it does. The only thing that matters is moving forward."
His hand rose instinctively, brushing against the pendant at his chest. The black needle quivered, always pointing.
"The Sanctum," he muttered, his voice firmer this time. "That's where this ends…. Hopefully…"
Then the sting along his arms finally caught up with him. Felix looked down, forcing his eyes to focus. His forearms were a mess of jagged lacerations, angry red and slick with blood. Glittering shards of glass jutted out of the wounds like cruel splinters, catching the faint light. He grimaced. Those would have to come out—one way or another.
He hesitated, staring at the largest shard embedded deep in his flesh. His hand trembled as he reached for it.
"Just think… happy thoughts. Yea, happy thoughts…"
His fingers tightened around the shard. He began pulling slowly, breath hissing through clenched teeth, a low curse muttering from his lips. The glass resisted, dragging fire through his nerves. With a sudden, desperate yank, it tore free. Felix flung it against the wall, where it clattered and spun before falling still. His hand curled into a fist, white-knuckled, as he rode out the wave of pain.
After a moment he let out a long, ragged sigh.
"Next."
Shard by shard, he worked them out, each one costing him more strength. By the time the last sliver clinked to the floor, the room spun around him. His stomach lurched. He pressed a bloody hand to his temple.
"Fuck… I'm losing too much blood."
Panic sparked in his chest, but he forced himself to move. With shaky hands, he cut strips from his coat and wound them tight around his arms. The makeshift bandages staunched most of the bleeding—except for one.
His gaze fell on a gash running across the meat of his forearm, deep and ugly. Blood still pulsed out in steady rhythm, soaking through the cloth no matter how tight he tied it. He cursed again, harsher this time, his voice breaking.
"What do I do…?"
Then an idea struck him. One he hated.
He sat there a long moment, breathing heavy, knowing there was no other choice. With a bitter sigh, Felix drew his knife across his lap, then reached into his coat pocket. His fingers brushed cold metal and pulled free an old flip lighter.
It gleamed silver in the dim light, worn and scratched but unmistakable. Etched on its face was the figure of a hooded man, bent low, shielding a tiny candle from an unseen wind.
A solemn smile tugged at his lips.
"Grandpa's lighter…" The smile wavered. "Even from beyond the grave, you're still getting me out of shit, huh?"
His grin returned, tighter now, lined with grit instead of warmth. He flicked the lighter open. Click. A flame sprang to life, trembling, then steady beneath its engraved guardian.
Felix set his dagger over the flame, watching as the steel began to darken, then glow faintly red. The seconds stretched, each heartbeat pounding in his ears, every drop of blood lost making him weaker.
When it seemed hot enough, he drew in a huge breath, then shoved the knife's sheath between his teeth. He raised the blade toward the wound, his vision already blurring at the edges. Sweat ran down his temple, stinging his eyes. He hesitated, just for a second—
"…Fuck it."
The steel kissed his flesh.
Agony erupted, white-hot and consuming. He screamed into the sheath, his body arching violently, teeth biting down so hard he heard the leather crack. The smell of burning flesh filled his nose, choking him, the sizzle of cauterization ringing louder than his own scream.
But the bleeding had stopped.
Felix dropped the blade, the scorched steel clattering against the stone as a strip of charred flesh tore away with it. The smell was nauseating, thick and acrid, but he barely noticed. A raw, broken laugh tore from his throat—hoarse, ragged, more madness than mirth.
His body swayed where he sat, vision swimming, the world tilting in and out of focus. He muttered something slurred and half-coherent under his breath, words dissolving into a rasp as his strength bled out of him.
Then, with no warning, he tipped sideways. His shoulder struck the cold stone, and his body crumpled. Darkness rushed in, swift and merciless, swallowing him whole as he collapsed.
Unconsciousness swallowed him whole, dragging him down into silence. For a while, there was nothing—no pain, no air, no thought. Just stillness.
Then, through the quiet, came a voice.
It wasn't sharp or commanding, but warm—gravelly with age, touched by the hint of a chuckle.
"Heh… don't make a fuss, boy. Pain just means you're still alive."
The words struck like an echo from long ago, something said half in jest, half in wisdom, maybe around a fire or on a long walk home. A memory, not a message.
And then it was gone.
Felix's body twitched, a breath rattling back into his chest. His fingers scraped weakly against stone as the world slowly bled back in. His eyes cracked open, the ruined steeple coming into blurred focus. He lay on his side, cheek pressed to the cold floor.
A tear welled, hot against his dirt-streaked skin, sliding down to the stone. His voice broke as he whispered, barely audible:
"…Grandpa?"
Only the wind stirred in reply.
Sitting up, Felix dragged a trembling hand across his cheek, smearing away the trail of dirt and tears. His face hardened, but the solemnity in his eyes betrayed him. A memory surfaced, slow and stubborn, like something long-buried clawing its way back into the light.
When was it—six years old, maybe? His grandfather's steady hands guiding the handlebars of a too-big bike, the only one who had ever bothered to care. He could still feel the sting of gravel in his palms, hear the rasp of his own cry when he fell. And then—his grandfather's voice, low and firm, telling him to get up, to try again. Not scolding, not dismissing. Just there. Just present. A good man. Maybe the only good man.
Felix's breath hitched, and he shook his head, forcing the memory down before it could take hold. The past was a luxury he couldn't afford. He exhaled, long and bitter, then pushed himself to his feet, gathering his things with slow, deliberate motions.
He glanced once more at the lighter in his hand, its etched guardian catching the faintest glint of dying twilight. Then he pocketed it.
"Enough," he muttered, voice rough. "Time to move."
Picking his way down what remained of the stairs, Felix slipped through the ragged breach the abomination had torn open. Dust still clung to the stones, the scars of the beast's rampage fresh and jagged. Circling the ruined steeple, he lifted his gaze to the horizon.
The tower. Still impossibly distant, yet nearer now than it had ever been. He exhaled once, steadying himself, then turned back into the sea of dunes.
The days bled into one another. A week, maybe more—he had lost count. Each night he camped among the bones of crumbled ruins, half-buried by sand. The only true danger came from below: the same tunneling horrors he had escaped before. Sometimes, he would catch the dunes stirring, waves of sand cresting and falling as the things surfaced and slipped beneath again, graceful as dolphins, monstrous as nightmares. He had grown adept at evading them, but skill did little to blunt the raw fear that clenched his gut whenever the earth shifted underfoot.
Now the tower loomed larger, dwarfing the horizon. From this distance he could finally grasp its scale—a mountain of stone thrusting into the sky. Perhaps only a day or two away. A thought tugged at him: from its summit, would he glimpse the Sanctum?
Curiosity gnawed at him as much as the hunger in his belly. Everything else here had long since crumbled into desert, ruins worn down to hollow husks. Yet the tower endured, proud and unbroken. Its silhouette cut against the sky with a defiance that unsettled him. What secrets had kept it standing, when the world around it had been swallowed whole?
He let the thoughts linger for a moment before shelving them—better to pin them down later, when his mind wasn't already pulled in a dozen directions.
Instead, his focus shifted inward. Progress. He could feel it in the quiet hum of his ether. At first, inhabiting this body had been disorienting, as if he were a guest wearing someone else's skin. But now… now it felt like home. The power no longer pressed against him like an ill-fitted cloak; it settled, familiar and steady, as if it had always been his.
His hand rose almost unconsciously to trace the curve of his horn. The gesture tugged an idle thought to the surface. Horns were common enough among Demonkin, of course. But he'd heard rumors—strange accounts of others blooming with features far beyond the ordinary. Eyes of unnatural hues, pupils slitted like beasts, even tales of wings. Wings, of all things.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "I don't know how comfortable it'd be to lug around wings… Still, it does sound pretty damn cool."
He shook his head, dismissing the notion with a quiet chuckle. Idle fantasies for another day.
His face then assumed a more serious demeanor. It was nice to distract himself now and then, but once again it was time to face the music.
He let out a tired sigh, "It's back to walking… again."
The next two days dragged on, each hour stretching thin beneath the weight of silence. Nothing stirred in the dunes, no lurking shadows broke the monotony of his march. It was a blessing, yes—but a dull one. With no danger to fend off, no mystery to chase, the desert itself seemed determined to grind him down with endless sameness. Sand. Heat by day, cold by night. And the tower, always on the horizon, never seeming nearer until suddenly—
Finally.
At last.
He stood at its base.
The tower rose before him like a monument carved against time itself. It was no mere ruin. Its stone was blackened and scarred, worn by centuries of wind and sand, yet still it endured—unyielding, defiant. Gothic arches clawed upward along its surface, many half-eroded, their sharp lines softened into strange, skeletal curves. Gargoyle-like faces, cracked and weathered, leered down from high ledges, their once-fierce visages reduced to half-formed grimaces.
Despite the erosion, the tower was far from broken. It loomed whole and terrible, like the spine of some ancient god driven into the earth. Narrow windows pierced its height like empty eyes, and from their shadows, it was easy to imagine something watching. The air around it felt heavier somehow, the desert wind thinning as though unwilling to brush too close to the stones.
It was beautiful, in its way—harsh, alien, and yet undeniably alive. Not just a relic, but a survivor.
And standing there at its foot, he couldn't help but feel small.
His eyes settled on the massive metal doors, and his gaze lingered, tracing the intricate engravings etched deep into their surface. The carvings sprawled across the metal like a tapestry of frozen motion—an entire menagerie of puppets captured in eternal stillness.
Animals mid-leap, knights locked in poised combat, musicians caught with instruments raised mid-note. Each figure bore such painstaking detail it felt less like simple craft and more like memory hammered into metal, as though every engraving sought to enshrine a fleeting moment forever.
As his gaze wandered over the engravings, a smile tugged at his lips—unbidden, almost childlike wonder at the artistry etched in steel. But the expression withered as he noticed the scars. Deep gouges marred the metal, ragged dents warped the surface, as though something had pounded against it with relentless fury. And worse—one of the massive doors sagged open by the smallest of cracks.
A cold shiver traced his spine. He drew his bow, nocked an arrow, and pressed his shoulder to the iron. With a groan that echoed like the wail of some dying beast, the door yielded. A thin blade of daylight cut into the tower's gloom.
The light spilled forward, crawling across the floor—and what it revealed made his stomach twist.
Felix grimaced, voice barely above a whisper.
"What the hell happened here…?"