There will be a second chapter today.

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Halfway down the cave, Cassian stopped. The strange hum was louder now. He tilted his head, straining to catch… something, anything. Words, maybe. A whisper. Barely there. Or just the wind being dramatic again. 

He took a glance behind. Bathsheda stood silent, but there was something in the way she held herself, too still, like a painting trying too hard. He shook his head. Tension. Probably just tension.

He took the lead, a lantern bobbed in the dark, revealing walls slick with dew. Water dripped in random rhythms, echoing like distant footsteps. Bathsheda’s steps followed. When he paused to study an inscription, she crouched beside him. 

“These aren’t Norse, are they?” she murmured. “They predate Proto-Germanic.”

He raised a brow. “Ah. So we are in the ‘no one has any idea what these mean’ category.”

“No, they are… older,” she said, frowning but certain.

He kept his questions to himself.

At the tunnel’s end, a stone slab blocked their path. Cassian got up on his feet with a groan that would make all fathers proud, and pressed his palm to its cool surface. It trembled under his touch. Bathsheda crouched beside him and traced the serpent rune carved at its centre. “No tool could carve this so cleanly,” she said, her brow furrowing even further. 

Cassian agreed and lifted his wand. Runes weren’t just random carvings or inked symbols, they were acts of magic in themselves. To create one, you had to channel power through your hand as you etched or drew, weaving it into the lines and curves until the shape became more than art. That was why wizards still clung to their quills and ink. A pen couldn’t channel magic. Even the simplest rune demanded precision and intent, or it would unravel.  

But the rune before him was something else entirely. The serpent’s coils were so intricate it looked alive, scales overlapping in impossible detail, its glassy eyes catching the light of the lantern. Yet it wasn’t an illusion or a painting… it was a true rune, dormant but perfect. This wasn’t mere craftsmanship. It was the work of someone with an almost fanatical control over magic, so perfectly carved it shouldn’t even be possible.

Bathsheda murmured a charm Cassian didn’t recognize, it was foreign, fluid, and certainly not Latin. He blinked, startled, as a lattice of silver light spread across the stone slab.

Cassian frowned. “What was that? I never heard…”

The light flared. The slab groaned and slid sideways, revealing a narrow passage lit by moss that glowed like embers.

Bathsheda didn’t answer at first. She just stepped aside.

Cassian followed, still puzzled. He wasn’t exactly gifted with magic, and Bathsheda spoke more languages than he could name. Whatever the spell had been, it worked, and that was enough.

“After you,” Bathsheda said with a smile, the same curve of her lips. He slipped through first, the passage’s rough floor falling away at a sharp angle. The dank air tasted of earth and distant sea. Here, the runes grew sharper, deeper, as if carved yesterday. He paused to memorise a pattern that looked almost alphabetic. She crouched beside him and sketched it on parchment. 

The corridor opened into a circular chamber farther ahead. The walls were marked with rings, each one circling inward toward a dark center. Every stone was carved, the edges rough beneath his fingertips. Far overhead, the ceiling curved into shadow. The chamber felt both empty and full at once.

In the very middle, a pit yawned wide enough to swallow lantern light. The floor felt hollow. Like it was going all the way to the center of Earth. Cassian crouched at its lip and angled his lantern beam into the void. The flame died the instant it touched the darkness, snuffed out like a candle in a storm. His heartbeat roared in his ears.

He licked his lips. “Well. That isn’t ominous at all.”

Bathsheda stepped up beside him. “I thought you would say that.” 

Her voice echoed oddly, distant like it had bounced off too many stones before reaching him. Cassian turned to her, catching Bathsheda’s eyes… and froze. He knew those eyes. He had seen those eyes before. A chill crept up his spine. For a single, suspended second, neither of them moved.

The lantern’s glow quivered across her face, and there, etched faintly on her cheek were runic scars that hadn’t been there a minute ago.

He froze.

His breath hitched. No… that couldn’t be right. He shook his head hard, as if to scatter the image, and when he looked again, the marks were gone. Nothing but smooth, unmarked skin in the flickering light.

He blinked rapidly, his stomach twisting. It is the lantern. Shadows playing tricks. The light was bouncing off the stone walls, distorting everything.

“Lantern tricks,” he muttered under his breath. It had to be. “Should’ve brought better lighting.”

Forcing his legs to move, Cassian stepped closer to the pit’s edge. His voice came out quieter than intended. “Shall we see what is down there?”

She pressed her palm to his forearm. “Don’t go down. It is dangerous,” she said, clenching hard. 

He straightened, threw the hood off his head. “How do you know?” he asked, meeting her eyes.

She ran a fingertip along her own palm and shook her head. “Please,” she said, her tone was hesitant, as if even she didn’t know how she knew. “Let’s not go down.”

Cassian nodded, forcing himself to look away from her as he stepped back.

“We should head back,” he said. “But we need to warn the others first.” 

She tucked her wand back into its sheath at her belt. “We will warn them,” she replied. “If they still want to enter, it is their decision.” 

“Fair enough. Let’s move.” He frowned but stepped back, guiding Bathsheda along the spiral corridor towards the mouth of the cave. Not more than a few breaths later, a low rumble rolled through the tunnel. It began as a tremor underfoot, an odd shudder that made loose pebbles skitter across the floor. Cassian froze, spine stiffening. The lantern swayed, its light dancing across the walls. Whatever enchantment kept these carvings so pristine was awakening.

He braced himself against the damp wall and swung around. Bathsheda’s expression was tight. Before she could speak, the ground shivered again, harder this time. Stone cracked high above. He grabbed her elbow and pulled her back.

A slab of roof rock broke free with a jagged crack. It fell, splitting the tunnel in half. Dust exploded around them. Cassian yanked Bathsheda aside, pressing her against the cool stone just as the chamber folded inward behind them. The walls moved as though alive, crushing the runic walls in. 

Bathsheda was hunched low, one knee to the ground, shielded by his arm. “Blasted magic,” she muttered, coughing up dust. “That seal was never meant to stay open once we poked around.”

She flicked up a Pretego shield as they stumbled toward the cave mouth, the walls rattling behind them. Cassian stretched his hand, whispered the same charm… but nothing happened. Of course not.

Bathsheda grabbed his arm and hauled him forward. “Move,” she snappep. Cassian swallowed, as he rushed out.

A slab smashed down behind them. Bathsheda shoved Cassian ahead. Dust exploded in their faces.

“Move! Now!” she cried again.

The tunnel lurched again. “Out!”

Cassian stumbled into daylight, falling to the ground. Bathsheda tumbled out after him.

Others were already out. They escpaed from the tunnel sooner than Cassiand and Bathsheda, faces covered with dust. A half dozen researchers walked closer.

“What on earth happened?” Thierry Duval, a French Rune Master, asked, no demanded, eyes darting between Cassian and Bathsheda. He folded his arms, staring down. 

Cassian opened his mouth, ready with a quip about temperamental runes and faulty tunnels, but Bathsheda beat him to it. She brushed grit from her sleeve and met the man’s glare head-on. “We were examining the rune structure,” she said. “Then the roof came down on us.”

“Examining?” Duval repeated. “You nearly got yourselves buried alive.”

Cassian opened his mouth to say, “Hey, I know that song! Right on!” but Bathsheda beat him to it again, her lips twitching, “We misjudged the ward’s strength.” She glanced at Cassian, who gave her a narrow grin. She cut him a warning look. He shut his mouth and instead touched his wand to a stone chip at his boot, rolling it with the tip. Sulking like a child.

Bathsheda’s gaze flicked down the shattered tunnel, then snapped back to Hilde, who was now on her feet. 

“You all right?” she asked.

Hilde drew in a shuddering breath and ran a hand through her hair. “I am… yes. And you?” she replied, eyes wide.

Bathsheda nodded with a smile. “Good.” She straightened. “What happened to you in there?”

Hilde swallowed. She glanced at the cave mouth. “I… I heard voices,” she said. Her lips quivered. “Whispers, at first. They sounded like someone beside me, telling me to keep tracing the runes.” She shook her head as though to banish the memory. “Then everything shook, and I must’ve blacked out.”

Cassian joined them. He offered Hilde a scrap of parchment and a quill. “Can you write down what you heard,” he said. “Every detail.”

Hilde took them, fingers trembling. She began to scratch words in pale ink,

“A voice… urging me forward… Yrsa… come to me… the spiral binds us…”

Cassian furrowed his brow. “Yrsa,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Hilde looked up. “Does that mean anything?”

He shook his head, laughing awkwardly. “Not sure. Probably a name… or a very bad omen.”

Hilde gave a nod, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t remember anything else. Sorry for worrying you.”

Bathsheda leaned over, patting Hilde’s shoulder with a smile. “It is all fine. Too bad the cave caved.”

Cassian rolled his eyes, stifling a grin. He made a mental note to mock her about that later. Instead, he turned back to the scrap of parchment. “Yrsa…” he murmured, tapping the quill against his palm. “Does anyone else recognise that?”

Thierry Duval, arms still folded, huffed. “Sounds Norse, perhaps a mythic figure. But I would expect something older here.”

Cassian held up a finger. “Norse myth, you say? Yrsa was a queen in the sagas… daughter of Halga, mother of Halfdan. But that is way after Proto-Germanic.” He shot a look at Bathsheda. “Feels like someone, or something, is playing us.”

Spoiler

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Cassian glances at his reflection, straightens his collar, then turns to you.

“If you were hoping I wouldn’t notice you haven’t voted…

Well I haven’t. You leave no mark.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep