Father Paul moved softly through the dimmed halls of the church, his steps quiet whispers against the chill stone. The light from the candles wove around him, creating dark shadows on the walls and casting the space as more ominous than usual. He moved past other priests with ease, hardly greeting them, and they merely watched him go. He knew they gossiped behind his back—how he always strode as though he carried a burden too heavy for his shoulders, how his face never altered from that frozen, unreadable mask. He didn't care.
Fatigue clung to him like a wet cloak, weighing him down with every step. For having been put in charge of arranging William's funeral, it had never left his bones. The late hours, the soft condolences, the stifling climate of mourning—none of those daunted him. It was all part of the job, an expectation, a duty. But the tears? That was something else.
He did not like the sound of humans crying. The weeping closed in around his ears, gripped his skull like a clamp, and left him shuddering in distaste. The sobs, the gasping for air, the broken voices—it was all too much. Not that he didn't care, but that it reminded him of something he did not wish to recall. A memory far down. A sound he had attempted to expel from his mind for so long.
But he endured it.
He remained motionless when he wished to turn away. He clenched his jaw when the weeping irritated his nerves. He pushed through the cold, heavy air of mourning because that is what a good priest was supposed to do.
His sharp eyes flashed around the other priests as he passed them. Their eyes lingered on him a fraction of a second longer than they should have, but he did not notice. He was used to being watched, scrutinized, and talked about. It was impossible—after all, he had joined the church and risen through the ranks in a blistering fashion, achieving the rank of second head priest in record time. Some considered it amazing; others considered it unnatural.
Or perhaps it was only him.
Everyone had been saying the same thing to him since he was a child—he looked intimidating. Like a thug. A gangster. Some had even joked that he was in the mafia. He had the presence of someone you didn't want to mess with—tall, broad shoulders, and a stride that seemed to say quiet authority. It didn't matter that he was a man of the church; his face negated the image. His sharp, piercing eyes, always half-closed and calculating, didn't help.
And he despised it.
"Brother Paul," a voice yelled out, shattering his trance. "Wait one minute."
He stopped, turning his head to look at a red-headed priest who was dashing up to him. The guy was blowing and blowing, taking in enormous desperate gasps of air as if he'd just run a marathon. Father Paul stood frozen, impassive.
The priest—Brother Newt—shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. Paul wasn't good with names, but this one he could never forget.
"Brother Newt," he said, his voice even and uninterested. "What do you want?"
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake this man from his head.
Because Brother Newt had been the last man to have spoken to William before he died.
Newt swallowed, his troubled eyes darting aside. "Brother Gabriel told me to tell you he needs you."
Paul's expression did not alter, but a flicker of something crossed his eyes. He had been waiting for this. Finally. The restlessness that had plagued him for days would be answered. No more wakeful nights, no more questions left unspoken.
He was turning away, but before he did, he stopped.
"Did those two children depart?"
Newt nodded in a hurry. "Yes, they were here for a little while before they left. Some priests saw them."
That was enough.
No second thoughts, no hesitation, Paul strode on, his gait steady and unrelenting. The farther down he went, the colder the air. The scent of aged wood and burning wax surrendered to something sweeter, yet more damp and ancient. Stone walls seemed to close in behind him as he descended the staircase to the basement of the church.
The instant his foot found the bottom step, he acted without hesitation. He pushed aside the creaking wooden door.
Inside, bathed in the warm glow of candles, Father Gabriel sat in wait.
…
MC and Jake ducked behind a shattered stone pillar, their gaze on the entry of Father Paul into the basement. His robes crackled with each step, the candle's dim light casting macabre shadows on the dripping walls. The wooden door slammed shut behind him, its sound ringing up eerily in the church.
MC breathed slowly. There was something down there—something important. Something that could help them.
Jake shifted position beside them, rubbing the back of his neck. "Chasing Father Paul seemed like a good plan at the time," he growled. "Now it seems we have to go in too."
MC didn't respond immediately. Their gaze remained on the door, tension crawling up their neck. "Jake, have you ever been downstairs?"
Jake shook his head. "No. We weren't allowed."
MC swallowed hard. "So we have no idea what's really down there." Their fingers curled at their hips. "Great. Just great."
There was a moment of silence between them. The candle flames danced as if pushed by a non-visible force.
Then, exchanging a knowing look, they stepped forward.
The door groaned as MC pushed it open, revealing a steep staircase leading down into darkness. The air was thick and still, with a smell of something ancient—dust, mold, and something else. Something almost metal.
Jake stood at the entrance, grasping the railing. "This creeps me out."
MC's jaw was set. "Yeah. But we don't have a choice."
They descended slowly, each foot sending little puffs of dust flying. The lower they descended, the colder it became, the stone walls closing in on either side. Flickering torches provided a faint light in rusty iron brackets, their pale flames struggling to illuminate the space.
They came out at the bottom into a huge room lined with great shelves, their surfaces weighed down with dust and cobwebs. The air was deadly silent.
But something was wrong.
MC's gut twisted as they searched the room with their gaze. Father Paul and Father Gabriel were nowhere to be found. The basement was empty.
MC muttered a low, strained tone to Jake. "Are you sure they came in through here?"
Jake nodded vigorously. "We actually saw them enter." His brow creased in worry as he scanned the basement with his gaze. "It's not like they just… vanished."
MC crossed their arms, a shiver of uneasiness tracing along their skin. "Didn't you listen to that red-headed wimp announce they were coming down here?"
Jake's face darkened. "Yeah. I know I heard them. So where the devil are they?"
The stillness was oppressive. It seemed to weigh in around them like something physical.
Jake took a few tentative steps forward, his boots scraping along the cold stone. "There's gotta be some secret door or something."
MC let out a sudden breath. "Well, staying here isn't going anywhere."
They began to explore. MC trailed their palms along the rock hard, unyielding walls, checking for crevices or indentations. Jake moved toward the bookshelves, swishing away spiders' webs and patches of dust as he investigated the rusty wooden build.
Then—
Click.
Jake stiffened. Their fingertips had brushed something—a tiny, almost imperceptible button that lay between bits of wood part of some very old bookshelf.
MC turned to him. "What was that?"
Jake did not answer. He pressed the button again.
The bookshelf groaned, its corners oozing dust as it moved on rollers like a hidden door and revealed a narrow passageway behind it.
A staircase wound down into blackness. The air that crept up from below was soggy, stinking of burning wax and something harshly metallic—blood?.
"Great," MC growled, voice sharp. "Guess we found out where they were going."
They noticed a rack of priest robes hanging nearby—presumably left behind by someone who hadn't worn them for a while.
MC swiped one and tossed it to Jake. "Put this on. We'll be less noticeable."
Jake pulled it over his clothes, smoothing the fabric. It fit amazingly well—presumably one of the younger priests'.
MC took his cue, pulling the hood over his own head before dashing back through the passage.
The staircase seemed to go on and on into infinity. Torch flames cast grim, waltzing shadows up the chill stone walls.
MC breathed and led the way forward. Jake followed behind him.
The moment they had crossed into the room, the bookshelf creaked shut behind them.
MC and Jake spun about, eyes staring.
The door was gone.
A heavy silence fell between them.
No going back now.
…
"How long have we been walking?" Jake complained, his voice low in the empty halls. "It feels like we've been walking forever, and we haven't even seen anything yet."
His voice bounced off the damp stone walls, consumed within seconds by the oppressive silence of the underground maze. The odor was thick with the scent of mildew and dust and something metallic—blood, maybe. Each step sounded a muffled thud resonating along the passageway, the only indication they were still moving.
MC groaned, raking a hand through already disheveled hair. "Too long," he admitted, his annoyance strained to the breaking point. "These halls are meant to seal others out. We should have expected this. But still. we must be close to something, don't we?"
Jake let out a sharp breath, half-laugh, half-frustration. "Define 'close.' We've only uncovered dead ends and rotting walls." He kicked a dislodged rock, saw it fly down the path. The echo seemed to linger too long, as if the walls were pulling the sound in. He shivered. "I don't even know if we're gonna find whatever we came here for."
"Time's running out," MC snarled. "We can't be wasting time getting lost down here. Forget getting answers—let's get out. We can make a different plan later."
Jake didn't complain. He was as nervous, following behind MC, hoping he'd think of something though it was excruciatingly clear that they had no clue where they were going.
Then, before Jake could protest by opening his mouth, MC's arm swung out, wrapping around his wrist in a vice grip. In one smooth motion, they yanked him back, shoving him behind a huge stack of old wooden crates.
A voice—low, but recognizable—cut through the silence. "Is everything in place? We need to begin making arrangements so that everything goes smoothly."
Jake was motionless. MC placed a hand on his chest, warning him silently to stay still.
"Of course, Father," was the response. "We have all the gear we require. Now, it's just a matter of getting everything into place before we kidnap his entire family."
Jake's breath stuck in his throat. Slowly, he dared to peer over the crates, his gut roiling as he spotted two men emerging from a darkened passageway ahead of him. Father Gabriel and Father Paul.
They moved purposefully, their robes brushing the ground as they moved forward, their voices low and persistent. The capering torchlight threw flickering, shaking shadows on the stone walls, distorting their faces into ugly parodies of themselves.
"That's good," Father Gabriel remarked, his voice with a soft authority. "Is everyone ready? I have to deliver the good news."
Father Paul nodded. "They're waiting. We're just about ready to begin."
MC and Jake remained frozen behind the crates, their minds racing to process what they'd just heard.
"What the hell…?" Jake whispered, his voice barely audible. "They're planning to kidnap my entire family?"
MC's eyes were following the direction the priests had taken. "I knew something was off about them," they whispered. "But I didn't expect this. Gabriel's in charge of whatever this is—and it's a hell of a lot worse than I thought."
Jake swallowed. "So what do we do?"
MC clenched their fists. "We follow them. We have to know exactly what they're doing."
In a flash, without a word uttered, they dissolved out of hiding, chasing the priests ahead of them. Footsteps were measured, calculated. Every nerve endings in their own bodies cried silently to run—get out of this hellish maze and go no further back. But too far had ventured into this so they could return empty.
They chased the corridor until the passageway widened into one huge chamber. The magnitude of it took the air out of MC's chest.
A hundred people—maybe more—were grouped together in the quiet, talking in whispers. They weren't just waiting. They were waiting for something. Their eyes fluttered towards the elevated stone platform at the far end of the room, where a festively decorated altar sat, its surface stained.
A voice pierced the muted hum. "Honestly, I have no idea why we're all here. How big of a deal is this, anyway?"
"What do you mean?" another sneered. "The freaks are still working, aren't they? Good. I don't want to see them."
MC's stomach twisted. Freaks? What in the name of the devil did that mean?
"Shut it," a third voice cut in. "This is important."
A hush fell on the chamber. Then—
"Everyone, look upon our Father!"
All eyes turned to the platform.
Father Gabriel stood tall at the altar, Father Paul at his side.
"Sisters and brothers," boomed Gabriel's voice, somber but commanding, "we are on the threshold of a historic moment in our history."
Silence. No one broke it. His voice was law.
"As you all know, Father William passed away yesterday. And as it is our duty, we must fulfill his part of the bargain." Gabriel's gaze swept across the crowd. "He did so much for the Children of the Ceaseless Watcher, and now we must do the same to prepare ourselves for what is next—tonight, at midnight."
A murmur of understanding went through the cultists. They understood. MC and Jake did not.
One of the priests hesitated, then raised his hand. "Shall we summon the other group to join us? Since this is such a defining event, we might need all the help we can find."
Gabriel considered. "That won't be needed. If their entire company failed simultaneously, people would suspect. We have sufficient men."
MC's head was spinning. Children of the Ceaseless Watcher? This was not a cult. This was worse.
Then—
"Alright," Gabriel announced. "Everyone to your stations. We have much to prepare."
MC glared at Jake. "This is seriously bad. We need to stop them before—"
"MC…," Jake's voice was tense with terror.
MC's forehead creased. "What?"
Jake did not answer. He was frozen—rigid, eyes staring at something in the distance across the room.
MC looked in the direction he was staring.
Father Paul was glaring directly at them.
His eyes went wide in recognition—then set in a scowl of rage.
He whirled to Gabriel, saying something in his ear.
Gabriel's face darkened.
"Get those two!" his voice boomed, echoing through the room. "NOW!"
Every head turned.
Every cultist eye fell on them—hostile. Unforgiving.
MC didn't even have time to process before the room exploded into chaos.
"Well," MC said, attempting to put on a sheepish grin. "I guess that's our cue to leave."
Jake gripped his wrist. "You don't have to tell me twice."
Then—
They ran.
And behind them—
The entire cult gave chase.
MC and Jake rushed down the spiraling tunnels, sore lungs, thundering feet off the damp stonework ground. Dust-fogged air, reeking of hot smoke from the flickering wax lights in brackets spiked against walls. Every silhouette danced, every switch further in. Left, then right—left once more, always attempting the turn around. But all tunnels were identical. Ancient carvings stared down at them on the walls, their blank eyes mocking them with their futile try to escape.
They were lost.
Of course they were. They had been lost the second they had walked into this damn place.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! MC's mind shouted. His chest pounded the air as he forced himself onward despite the jagged agony cutting across his ribs. How did things end up here?
The plan had been reckless, but desperation blinded men. A rapid change of clothes. A bowed head. He had really thought that would be enough? That he could walk into a cult of lunatics and not get caught? That was the kind of arrogance that killed.
And now, they were paying the price.
Even worse, MC's stamina was near exhausted. His legs were like lead, drags, every step driven by sheer will. His body was failing him, kept together by a combination of adrenaline and hysteria. He knew it couldn't continue. His limbs would collapse on him sooner or later. He'd hit the ground. And then—
He never got to complete the thought.
"MC, be careful!"
Jake's voice ripped through the chaos.
MC barely had time to shift before one of the hundreds of ghostly figures which lined the corridor suddenly tore itself loose and fell crashing down on top of him. He rolled over and struck hard on his side as the centuries-old relic burst in the earth, pieces scattering every way. Thick, choking dust filled the air.
The ground trembled under their feet like the earth itself was trembling. A low, ominous moan spread its way along walls, dislodging further pieces from the ceiling.
MC coughed, rubbing wildly at his streaming eyes. What in the blazes is happening? The entire tunnel was collapsing. But was it doing so naturally, or—
His eyes flickered back over the horde of cultists still pursuing them. Their screams were deafening now, their torches casting wild, dancing shadows against the crumbling walls.
They are them. Their stampede, their fury—shuddering the foundations of this place.
Jake dragged MC to his feet and grabbed him by the arm. "Come on!" He shoved him towards the nearest exit—a small stairway chiseled into the rock. With no hesitation, he scooped up a shattered broomstick, wedged it between the handles of the enormous wooden doors, and shoved them closed.
It was a weak barricade. It would not hold.
Maybe a second or two at most.
"Come on, MC!" Jake was already racing down the spiral staircase. "That's not gonna last forever!"
MC ground his teeth together and pushed forward, ignoring the searing pain in his legs as he followed. The staircase was thin, near, winding down in reeling spirals. Each hastened step sent scattering loose stones before them. The air grew colder with each turn, filled with the odor of wet stone and something dry, something rank, like the earth itself had been allowed to rot.
And then—
They came out at the bottom.
And all in MC chilled.
Dead end.
His stomach churned and he lurched to a halt, nearly bumping into the wall ahead of him.
"What…?" He could barely speak. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out all else but the rush of his own ragged breaths. His frantic, crazy eyes scanned the stone about them for some kind of exit.
"No. No way. Ain't no way this is a dead end."
It was.
Jake slowly, shakily inhaled before exhaling rapidly. He turned wordlessly and collapsed on the steps, bending forward, arms on knees.
"Just give up, MC." His voice was hollow. "There's no point."
MC turned back at him with a barely suppressed fury burning within his chest. "Excuse me?"
"There are hundreds of them," Jake complained, staring dumbly at the ground. "And just us two. Even if we get away, now they know who we are. They'll chase us. They'll kill us." He short, harshly laughed. "Well—they'll kill you. They'll only kidnap me."
MC curled his fists into tight balls that his nails pressed into his hands. His eyesight became indistinct—not with fear, but with fury.
Are you fucking kidding me?" He shook, more amazed than angry. "You pleaded with me to come and help you! I did not want to be here, anyway! And now you wanna quit?"
Jake remained silent.
MC gritted his teeth, turning his head aside, forcing himself to think. His fingers ran up and down the cold stone walls, searching for. There had to be something. A door. A lever. Something. There was no reason some individual would construct this staircase to an end.
"I am not leaving like such a wretched beast," he growled.
A sound of cracking tore through the room.
Wood. Breaking.
The cultists had broken through.
Heavy footsteps clomped down the stairs above. The voices, previously distant, were now horrifying close—growing louder by the second.
MC's heart thrashed in his chest. He backed away from the stairs, frantically sweeping the small room with his eyes.
Think. Think. Think.
Nothing. No windows. No doors. Nothing.
"Get up!" he shouted at Jake. "Help me look for something—anything!
Jake winced at the desperation in MC's voice before springing to his feet. He tore through the wreckage of furniture, tearing open crates, sending aside useless rubbish.
MC fought to breathe, to focus.
Why would someone build this if there was no way out?
Then—
His gaze landed on something that took his breath.
A carpet.
A very good carpet.
His entire body stilled.
Why on earth would there be a rug in an empty room?
Unless…
MC ripped it away, kneeling.
Hidden beneath mounds of dust and dirt—
A wooden hatch.
His heart nearly stopped.
"Jake!" he shouted, grasping the handle in both hands. "I found something!"
Jake whirled around, eyes wide as they landed on the path of escape. But when he saw what was below—nothing but black emptiness—his face turned white.
"There are no torches there." he whispered.
MC gulped hard, turning back toward the stairway.
The cultists were hot on their heels.
They had no option.
The two of them stood at the edge, staring out across the void, as the thunder of running feet filled the hall.
And then—
They jumped.