The second day, the first rune flared, dull orange, then cracked down the middle. A bone-splinter crack tore through the ruin. The ground trembled under their boots. Dust rained from the ceiling.

Cassian’s eyes lingered on a slab that had broken free near his boots. Dirt caked its surface, but beneath it, he could just make out faint spirals etched into the rock. Crude little figures huddled around the spiral, hands raised, lines of fire scratched above their heads. He ran a thumb across the groove and frowned. Too rough for any scholar’s hand. Looked more like someone had carved a story in desperation, a warning passed along by survivors.

“They woke up the hunger that walked. It devoured light, it swallowed air, and the beasts bent their heads beneath its crown.”

“First layer’s down,” one of the French wizards said.

The crimson-robed woman moved to the next glyph. Her lips moved quickly.

Third day, another crack. A second rune crackked, hissed, then bled out into the marble like ink in water. 

Another piece of stone had sheared away from the arch, scattering across the floor. He blew the grit clear with a breath. The carvings here were sharper, almost angry strokes gouged deep. A crooked figure towering above them, crowned in jagged spikes. Behind it, marks like rotting trees. His stomach sank. It wasn’t just ritual work. It read like ruin carved into stone.

“It wore no name, for names give power. But its steps blackened the fields. Forests turned hollow, rivers curdled to ash. Where it passed, the nightmares howled and the monsters coiled, drinking the ruin it left behind. Magicks raised fires and prayers. None were answered.“

On the fourth day, the third rune resisted. Light sparked across it in jagged bursts, the stone beneath groaning. Leontis’ brow furrowed as he pressed his wand closer, voice rising over the hum.

The rune shone bright white. A pulse shot through the chamber, shoving Cassian back a step. Dust burst from the cracks, and the marble floor split with a sharp pop. ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ n͟o͟v͟e͟l͟f͟i͟r͟e͟.net

“Rune’s gone,” the crimson-witch said on the fourth evening, stepping back, her face pale.

Leontis turned, wiping sweat from his brow the next dawn. “Everyone ready?”

Two Hit-Wizards moved forward, one of them hefting a battered shield charm. The arch shivered. A deep, hollow sound rolled through the stones, low and guttural, almost as if a voice trying to crawl out from under centuries of rock.

Bathsheda’s fingers twitched on her wand.

The crimson witch took a slow breath. “On my mark.”

The last rune flared, a deep crimson that sank into the stone like blood into sand. Then silence.

Everyone froze, not a sound except for the faint crackle of magic lingering in the air. Sweat prickled at the back of their necks, breaths bated, wands tight in their hands. From above, it would’ve looked like some mad painting… scholars and Hit-Wizards locked in place like statues, waiting for the world to end. Five minutes dragged into an hour.

Then someone sighed in relief. A second later, another followed. The crimson-robed witch spun on Cassian, eyes flashing. “See? You talk too much.”

Cassian gave an easy shrug. “Glad to be wrong.”

Leontis didn’t comment. He lifted his hand and waved the group forward, moving towards the gaping arch.

Cassian’s boot nudged a stone half-buried near the arch. He stooped, brushing the dust away. The carvings here bit deep, not crude like the others. Words etched over words.

“Then the elders came. They wove chains of thought and chains of bone. They lashed the hunger down, prised open its mind, and sealed its voice in sleep. They drowned it in earth, in silence, in forgetting.

But the hunger does not forgive. It remembers every hand that bound it. It waits for the fool who breaks the chain.”

The air inside the sealed space was cooler, heavy with the scent of stone and iron. Pale light slanted through a cracked ceiling. Carvings lined the walls, their edges worn smooth by centuries. At the centre sat a low, square slab, blackened and cracked down the middle.

Bathsheda crouched by the nearest wall, running her fingers over a deep spiral etched into the stone. “The symbols are ominous.”

Cassian hovered nearby, eyes narrowing at the scrawled glyphs. “Look at the overlap… there is another set of runes beneath these.”

“You are imagining things,” the French wizard said curtly, tugging at his gloves.

Cassian gave a faint laugh. “Right. I am imagining a binding spell, multiple layers deep, because someone in 2000 BCE was bored out of their skull.”

Leontis glanced around the chamber, uneasy. “It is… quiet.”

“Quiet is good,” Cassian muttered, stepping toward the marble slab. Chains trailed across its surface, taut and heavy, like someone had been pinned there recently. He crouched near, brushing dust from the carved lines, fingers grazing a rune worked deep into the stone. The mark pulsed faintly, heat prickling his skin.

“Break the crown, and the crown returns. Loose the hunger, and it will loose you. Do not enter. Do not speak. Do not wake.

Do not speak. Do not think. Do not name. Forget. Forget. Forget.

To remember is to feed it.

To name is to call it.

Do not dream of it.

Do not look too long.

Forget or die.

Forget or die.

Forget—

Cassian felt a shiver down his spine, the moment he touched it, then the world lurched sideways.

The chamber dissolved… stone, dust, even the voices behind him peeled away like ash in a high wind.

He stood ankle-deep in water, staring at a cave lit by flickering torches jammed into rock crevices. The air was thick, salty, carrying the tang of a sea nearby. Shadows writhed along the walls. Not from the flames… something else moved in there.

A line of figures knelt in a circle, their bodies draped in rough linen, faces smeared with ash. They chanted low, guttural syllables that rattled his ribs. Something primal, all bone and blood.

At the centre of the circle, a shape writhed. Not human. Too many joints, too many teeth glinting in the torchlight. Chains snaked over its form, glowing faintly as the chanting grew louder. It roared… a sound like a cliffside collapsing into the sea. Cassian’s chest tightened, his lungs struggling to pull in air.

One of the kneeling figures slammed a curved blade into the earth. Blood-coloured runes blazed along the ground. The chains tightened. The thing shrieked… no, that wasn’t a sound made for human ears. The torches guttered. A foul wind howled through the cavern.

Cassian staggered back, but his boots found no purchase. He was rooted there, forced to watch.

The creature’s form buckled. A clawed hand lashed out and struck one of the robed figures. The body crumpled, folding in an instant. The others didn’t flinch.

The chant shifted, faster now, sharper.

“…Ekthélo… Krouna…”

Cassian felt it ripple through him. Old magic. The kind that burned from the inside out.

The creature let out one last bellow. Then the runes on the slab blazed bright. The chains went taut, dragging it down with a crack of bone and flesh.

Light exploded outward.

Cassian flinched.

When his eyes cleared, the cave was empty. No torches. No robed figures. No creature. Only the slab, cracked and dark, with a single spiral rune carved deep into its surface.

A voice pressed into his skull, rumbled low.

“Release me.”

Cassian wrenched his hand back from the stone.

Air rushed into his lungs like he’d been drowning.

“…Ekthélo… Krouna…” he muttered under his breath.

“Krouna? Ekthelo?” A passing scholar said, “Which language is that?”

Bathsheda’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears. “Cassian?”

He blinked at her, fingers still twitching.

He turned to her, gasping for air, trying to steady the pounding in his ribs. “I am fine…” he started, the words sticking in his throat. As he was about to smile and assure her, time seemed to drag its feet. Every sound in the chamber slowed to a crawl… dust hung midair, Bathsheda’s breath caught in her throat, and the faint torchlight flickered like a dying heartbeat.

Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. That alone made his gut knot. Then he saw it… caught in the reflection of her eyes. Something moved behind him, huge and wrong, like a shadow trying to squeeze through the crack of reality.

Bathsheda didn’t wait. Her gaze locked on something behind him, something Cassian hadn’t yet turned to see. Her bare palm snapped open, fingers splayed wide.

Fire erupted from her skin, coiling into a lattice that hardened in the air like molten glass. The shield struck Cassian’s back and spread, a wall of living flame curved to his shape. Runes blazed across it in spirals, flickering and shifting as though they breathed. Her hand moved without thought, sketching each glyph in fire faster than a quill could scratch parchment.

The heat didn’t scorch him. He felt it as a pulse, a second heartbeat thrumming against his spine. And behind him, something vast and unseen collided with the shield in a shower of sparks, the impact rattling his bones.

Bathsheda lunged to grab him. He didn’t wait. He didn’t think, he just threw his weight forward, dragging her with him. They hit the stone hard, his shoulder taking most of the impact as they tumbled. A roar tore through the chamber, low and guttural, shaking the ground under their bodies.

The roar hit like a hammer. Stone groaned under the weight of sound as air rushed out of the chamber. Heat licked across his shoulders, searing enough to sting his skin through the robes. He rolled, keeping her beneath him as debris rained down.

The slab behind them wasn’t empty anymore.

Not a Spoiler, Just an image! ↓

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

Nothing wrong with being quiet. Except timing.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep