The heavy oak door of the embalming chamber buckled inward. The rusted iron hinges shrieked as they were torn from the ancient stone frame. Dust rained from the ceiling, coating the dry, empty slabs in the center of the room.
Vane lay against the far wall. The cold stone pressed against his spine, offering no comfort to the ruin of his chest. His right lung was entirely useless. His left was struggling against a rising tide of his own blood. The world was a narrowing tunnel of grey static. His logic, usually a sharp and flawless blade, was beginning to dull under the overwhelming biological reality of his death.
He looked at the door. It shuddered under another heavy impact. The wood splintered, revealing the dark, flooded corridor beyond. Through the crack, Vane saw the pale gleam of sharpened bone and the dripping of black sludge. The Bone Hounds were throwing their skeletal mass against the barricade with mindless, frantic repetition.
