The stairwell sealed behind them with a low, grinding sound, the stone folding seamlessly back into place. No seam remained—just wall. Smooth. Silent. Final.
Lucan stood motionless at the base, breathing shallowly. The artifact in his hand pulsed in a slow, rhythmic glow—like it was waiting for him to decide whether to move forward. Beside him, Lyra scanned the chamber cautiously, one hand resting on the hilt of her concealed blade.
The underground hall was nothing like the symmetry of the chamber above. This place was warped—broken. It felt like a scar carved into the earth, not built, but torn into existence. Pillars leaned at impossible angles. Fractured stones floated weightlessly in the air, defying both gravity and logic. Ribbons of dim light snaked through cracks in the floor, vanishing into the surrounding darkness.
At the center of the chamber stood a single pedestal—circular and cracked, rimmed with deep scorch marks like it had once housed something volatile. The stone around it looked melted, warped the way sand turns to glass under a lightning strike.
Lucan approached with caution, each footstep echoing oddly in the broken geometry of the room. As he neared, the key pulsed more rapidly. The pedestal responded—its surface flaring with glyphs that shimmered like vapor trails. They slithered upward, crawling up the twisted columns and into the fractured dome overhead.
Lyra frowned, her gaze flicking along the leaning pillars and fractured walls. "Why do all these places feel like they're watching us?" she muttered. "Even here… it's the same."
Lucan didn't respond. He felt it too. The air wasn't just stale—it was aware. Not still, but listening. Or worse… breathing.
Then, with no warning, a presence bloomed behind the pedestal.
No sound. No flicker. One blink—and it was simply there.
Not human.
A shadow shaped like a figure—wrapped in black and gray. More silhouette than form, with sharp outlines that didn't blur even when it shifted. Its eyes were voids. Not just black—voids. They swallowed focus the way a dying star swallows light.
Lucan froze, gripping the key tightly. Lyra had already half-drawn her blade.
The figure didn't move. But its voice filled the space.
"You followed the resonance. You drew from the forgotten blood."
Lucan's voice came slow, cautious. "Who are you?"
The figure tilted its head. "Not who. What. I am the trial."
Lucan glanced at Lyra. "What kind of trial?"
The figure extended a long-fingered hand, palm up. Resting in it was a small black box, no larger than a coin purse. Smooth, matte, and yet it radiated unease—an ancient discomfort that crept across Lucan's skin like cold fingers sliding over bone.
"Take it." the figure said.
Lyra took a half-step forward. "Lucan—"
But he was already moving.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached out. The box felt impossibly light. No seams. No clasps. Just an object that felt older than the room itself.
It opened without a touch.
No mechanism. No resistance. Just will.
Inside, nestled in a shallow depression, was a bead.
Pitch black. Perfectly round.
It shimmered faintly—not with reflection, but as if it drank the light around it and bled sensation in return. Fear. Curiosity. Instinct. Something inside it felt… aware.
Lucan stared. "What is it?"
The figure's voice softened. "The hunger. The seed. A shard of the memory that once governed evolution."
Lyra stepped closer. Her voice was sharp. "Lucan, don't—"
"I can hear it." he whispered. "It's humming."
The figure lowered its hand. "Consume it. Or leave. There is no second offering."
Lucan hesitated.
His instincts screamed—not to refuse, but to be careful. This wasn't poison. This was something ancient. Deeper than fear. More primal than choice.
He picked up the bead.
It was warm. Felt alive. The instant it touched his skin, something inside it twitched.
As he was about to ask how to consume it.
The bead pulsed—then leapt.
Straight into his mouth.
Lucan gagged, instinctively trying to spit it out—but it was already moving. It slithered like a creature across his tongue, crawling toward the roof of his mouth.
His eyes widened in panic.
One hand clawed at his throat.
The other shoved a finger inside his mouth, trying to catch it—but it was too late.
There was no pain.
Just a sensation worse than pain.
The bead drilled through the soft tissue of his palate and into the base of his skull.
Lucan collapsed to his knees with a muffled choke. His fingers clawed at his scalp as if trying to rip the intrusion out of his head. Lyra screamed his name and dropped beside him, grabbing his shoulders to keep him from hurting himself. But his body convulsed like he'd been struck by lightning.
Then—stillness.
No blood. No wound.
Just Lucan, frozen on the floor. Mouth agape. Eyes wide.
Then—
He inhaled sharply.
The air crackled around him.
Something deep inside his chest shifted. Twisted.
Something new had curled beside his soul…
And begun to breathe.
Lucan remained kneeling for several moments, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Lyra hovered close, hands clenched but unsure where to place them—how to help. She had seen him wounded, broken, nearly killed in that otherworldly space above. But this… this was something she couldn't see. Couldn't touch. It was happening inside him.
"Lucan." she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Can you hear me?"
He didn't respond immediately. His eyes were wide but unfocused, staring at the floor like it was a void threatening to swallow him whole. Then slowly—painfully—his fingers flexed. He pushed himself up, shaky but breathing steadily again.
"I'm… here." he said hoarsely, though his voice didn't sound like his own.
Lyra's eyes flicked to the pedestal, then to the shadowed figure still standing beside it, utterly still, as if watching for signs of rejection. When she spoke again, it was sharp and controlled. "What did it do to you?"
Lucan didn't answer right away. His hand went to his chest—then froze. There was something there.
A faint warmth.
He pulled the fabric of his tunic aside and saw it: a mark, etched just above his heart. Not a wound, not a burn. A symbol. Circular. Spiraled. Almost like the artifact's core design. It pulsed once beneath the skin, dim and steady, like a heartbeat not his own.
The moment his fingers grazed it, something stirred.
A voice. Inside his mind. Not a thought. Not memory. A presence.
"You have bound the seed. One use remains today. Choose with consequence."
Lucan flinched. He staggered slightly, grabbing a nearby stone jutting from the ground to steady himself. Lyra caught him before he could fall again.
"What happened?" she pressed. "Lucan, what's going on?"
He looked at her—and this time, his eyes were clear. Focused. But there was something else in them. Something deeper. Wilder.
"I heard it." he said. "It spoke to me."
"The figure?"
He shook his head slowly. "No. Whatever it was...it's...it's alive. It's in me now."
Lyra pulled back, just slightly, as if the words had physical weight. "Alive?"
He nodded. "It said… one use remains today. That means it can be used—its power. But it warned me. It said to choose with consequence."
Her voice was quiet. "What does it do?"
Lucan stared down at his hands. The veins beneath his skin looked darker for a moment—tainted. Then they faded again.
"I don't know." he admitted. "Not fully."
The figure spoke again. Its voice was distant now, echoing from the edges of the room like a memory surfacing. This time, the translation hummed into Lucan's skull automatically. Lyra heard only guttural murmurs.
"The bound parasite is a relic of the Hollow Core. A catalyst once used by your ancestors to survive the Spiral collapse. It demands pain. Blood. Death. Feed it weekly—or it will feed on you."
Lucan winced. "It's saying...it needs death. One kill. Every seven cycles. Otherwise it turns on me."
Lyra stared at him, horrified. "You mean it's some kind of parasite that eats...people?"
He shook his head, but the motion felt hollow. "No. Not exactly. It feeds on pain. On death. It doesn't need to consume bodies—it just needs to… witness. To feel it through me."
"That's twisted." she said, voice sharp. "You're saying if you don't kill something—someone—once a week, it punishes you?"
Lucan nodded grimly. "That's what it meant."
The mark on his chest throbbed again.
"Unfed parasites induce fragmentation. Hallucinations. Memory erosion. Host pain. Accelerated decay."
He shuddered. "If I don't...I'll start losing myself. Memories. Identity. My body might turn against me."
Lyra's expression darkened. "Then we find a way to remove it."
Lucan looked at her.
"No," he said. "I chose this."
The chamber remained dim, but a new corridor now shimmered open beyond the pedestal—one they hadn't noticed before. Not a door, but a slit in space itself. The air bent at its edges. A slow gust of cold wind pushed through, like the breath of something old exhaling.
Lucan took a step forward, but Lyra caught his arm.
She said, "I get that you think this is destiny or part of some inherited path, but this thing—this 'trial'—it's wrong. You could've died."
He didn't argue.
"I know." he said. "But it's part of the inheritance. The Remnant said my body was already changing. This just accelerated it."
She narrowed her eyes. "So what now? You use it and hope it doesn't eat you alive?"
"I don't have a choice. Not really. If what they said is true… this parasite is just the first layer."
Lyra folded her arms, glaring at the shifting corridor ahead. "And the rest of these 'layers'? What—more parasites? More trials?"
Lucan didn't answer. He didn't know.
The figure behind them slowly began to dissolve. Bits of its form flaked away like ash caught in a slow wind. As it faded, one final echo rippled through Lucan's mind:
"This is not power. This is burden."
He exhaled through his nose, steadying his thoughts.
"Come on." he said finally. "Let's move before this place decides to test us again."
Together, they stepped through the new corridor.
The path they followed was narrow and made of strange metallic stone—slick, but not slippery. Like walking on the blade of a massive sword. Veins of energy snaked along the walls, tracing their movement, shifting in color the deeper they went.
Lucan's head throbbed once. Then again. But it wasn't pain—it was attention.
The parasite was awake. Watching. Thinking.
He could feel it brushing against his thoughts like fingers tapping a glass jar. Curious. Quiet. Hungry.
Lyra noticed his expression tightening. "It's doing something again, isn't it?"
He nodded. "It's just… present."
"Can it hear me?" she asked, half-joking, half-serious.
Lucan's gaze lingered on her. "I don't know. But I think it understands what I care about."
She didn't ask what that meant. She just looked away.
At the end of the corridor, a figure appeared.
Lucan froze.
It looked like him.
Older. Scarred. Its body was veined with shifting black light, and its eyes glowed pale silver—void of emotion. The air around it bent slightly, like gravity was holding its breath.
The echo raised a hand.
Lucan didn't think—he reacted.
The parasite surged, instinct slamming into his limbs. A pulse snapped outward from his palm—space compressing, then rupturing in a tight shockwave.
The echo shattered like brittle glass, vanishing before the fragments hit the floor.
Lyra had drawn her blade but hadn't moved. "What the hell was that?"
Lucan, breath ragged, looked down at his hand. "It wasn't me."
"Then what was it?"
He hesitated, then said slowly, "It was it."
He flexed his fingers, still tingling from the shockwave. "It didn't feel like something I triggered. More like a reflex. A defense mechanism."
Lyra narrowed her eyes. "From the parasite?"
Lucan nodded. "It surged through me. I didn't even think—just felt it build and release. Like it reacted to danger on its own."
He looked at his palm, still faintly warm. "It compressed space before it struck… like it folded something inward and released it outward. A rupture."
He paused, thinking.
"I'll call it… Rift Pulse."
Lyra snorted. "That's what you're calling it?"
Lucan gave a short, breathless laugh. "Got a better name?"
She shook her head, exasperated but amused. "You're ridiculous. Childish."
"Maybe." he said, still smiling faintly. "But it fits."
The corridor opened into a rounded, quiet chamber. Broken carvings lined the walls—ancient depictions of spirals, collapsing stars, and chained titans. A cracked plinth sat at the center, long abandoned.
Lucan sat down slowly.
Lyra didn't. She paced.
He stared at his hand. "I don't know how to stop it."
"Can you control it?" she asked, turning sharply.
"Not yet." he said. "But it… listens. For now."
"That's not enough." she snapped. "It's not a weapon. It's alive. It wants something."
Lucan looked up at her. "It feeds on pain. Death. I can feel it waiting—waiting for me to act."
"And when it gets impatient?"
He met her eyes. "I won't let it take from you."
Lyra walked closer, her voice flat. "If it tries… I won't hesitate."
"I know."
She paused. Her hand hovered near her blade again—but she didn't draw.
"I'm not leaving." she said quietly. "But if you lose yourself—if it takes over—"
"Then stop me." Lucan said.
They locked eyes. Nothing soft. Just shared weight. Silent resolve.
He stood again.
The key in his hand had gone dark, but under his shirt, he felt a slow warmth blooming across his chest—just over his heart. A pulse, steady and waiting.
As they turned to leave, a whisper curled behind Lucan's thoughts—no words, just intent.
"Feed me… or I will feed on you."
He exhaled slowly, forcing his body to relax, but the tension didn't leave. It had simply moved inward, coiling in the pit of his soul like a waiting storm.
Behind him, the chamber faded into stillness. As if it had delivered its burden and would now rest until the next heir dared to descend.
The stone door ahead unsealed with a low, grinding groan, revealing the next passage—dimly lit, vast, and waiting.
Lucan stepped forward without hesitation.
Lyra followed.
The shadows pressed close again, but this time, they weren't empty.
They were watching.
And something inside Lucan...was watching back.
[End of Chapter 18]