The silence that followed was thick—deafening in its contrast to the chaos that had come before. The walls of the chamber, still pulsing with that strange, ancient rhythm, now seemed subdued, almost mourning. Quinn sat beside Brock, cradling the
bat in his hands. Its fire had dimmed, but the tendrils of shadow still curled around it like smoke.
"That was too close," Quinn muttered, his voice cracking with exhaustion.
Brock winced as he touched his shoulder, the wound from the dark spear still smoldering with residual heat. "Whatever that thing was, it was guarding something... or stalling."
Quinn turned to him sharply. "Stalling? For what?"
Brock didn't answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the pedestal where the orb had once rested. It was gone. Or rather—it had cracked wide open. Only a few jagged shards remained, scattered across the floor like broken teeth. From the center of the pedestal, a thin fissure now ran into the floor, glowing faintly.
"Look," Brock said, pointing. "A path."
Quinn groaned as he stood. "Because of course there's a secret passage under the orb. Why wouldn't there be?"
Brock gave him a tired smirk. "It's never easy, is it?"
With one last breath, they descended.
---
The passage beneath the pedestal led into darkness deeper than anything they'd faced so far. The branded glow of Brock's hand cast just enough light to guide them forward, but the air had changed—thicker now, like walking through smoke laced with memory.
The stone walls were tighter, slick with condensation and engraved with unfamiliar runes. These pulsed in erratic patterns, unlike the rhythmic harmony they'd seen earlier.
"They're... out of sync," Brock whispered.
"Like something's broken," Quinn added, running his fingers along one of the runes. It pulsed wildly under his touch and went dark.
Suddenly, the corridor widened into a new chamber—an oval room with a vaulted ceiling, at the center of which a spiral staircase descended into black mist. Chains hung from above, swaying slightly though no wind blew. At the base of the staircase stood a figure, unmoving.
"Is that... a person?" Quinn asked.
They crept forward cautiously. As they neared the figure, details sharpened—a humanoid shape, cloaked in tattered robes, their face hidden beneath a bronze mask carved with twin spirals.
"Pilgrims..." the figure rasped, their voice thin and metallic. "You've come... too late."
Brock took a step forward, tensing. "Who are you?"
"I was... Keeper of the Cradle. Now merely its shadow." The figure lifted a pale, skeletal hand. "The Cradle is ruptured. Malakar is only the first... The Convergence has begun."
Quinn's grip on the bat tightened. "We stopped your gaunts. We'll stop the rest too."
The Keeper tilted its head, as if amused. "The gaunts are echoes. Not even a fracture of Malakar. The true awakening is beneath. The Altar was only a seal now broken."
Brock moved closer. "What do you mean 'the Convergence has begun'? Tell us how to stop it."
"You don't stop a wave," the Keeper said. "You either drown... or ride it."
Suddenly, the Keeper's body seized, spasming as veins of black energy shot through its limbs. It let out a soundless scream, and the runes on the walls pulsed wildly. In a burst of shadow and light, the Keeper vanished—leaving only the bronze mask clattering to the floor.
"Brock," Quinn said, voice shaking, "what the hell is happening?"
Brock picked up the mask. It felt cold and heavy in his hands, like it had been submerged in ice for centuries. "I think we're heading into the heart of it."
Quinn hesitated but then snatched the mask from Brock's hands, securing it around his neck with the attached string.
He turned to the spiral staircase, mist swirling below. "We go down," Brock said.
"Wait!" a hoarse but familiar voice called out from behind. Jolting to look back, Brock threw his fists up, and Quinn grasped his bat.
They were met with Harrow, dripping in blood, accompanied by three men trailing slightly behind. "I found three survivors from the outbreak," he said.
"You're alive!?" Quinn screamed at the top of his voice, his voice cracking.
One of the men behind Harrow suddenly clutched his head and dropped to his knees. "What's happening to me? First the apartment, now this..." he groaned.
The other survivor staggered backward, eyes wide with terror. "I—I can't feel my face," he whispered, his voice trembling.
Brock stepped forward cautiously. "Something's wrong with them."
Harrow nodded grimly. "They've been exposed to... something. We need to get them help."
The man who had whispered he couldn't feel his face stopped walking for a moment. Then the man collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing violently. His eyes rolled back, and a groan noise escaped his lips before he fell silent. The group stood in stunned silence, the only sound the ragged breathing of the remaining survivors.
Quinn took a step back, his grip tightening on the bat. "What the hell just happened?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Harrow knelt beside the fallen man, checking for a pulse. After a moment, he shook his head. "He's gone," he said grimly.
Brock looked at the other survivor, who was now trembling uncontrollably. "We need to get them help, now," he said.
Harrow stood, his expression grave. "We need to move quickly. Whatever this is, it's progressing fast."
The group gathered their belongings and prepared to move out, the weight of the sudden death heavy on their minds. The outbreak was evolving, and they needed to stay ahead of it to survive.
Harrow mentions their may be a research station ahead to heal them before abruptly a scream came from behind
"I'm not dying today!" a man launched past them kicking up dust. Letting out a sigh and almost a slight laugh Harrow utters "that's nny" this enough to bring light to the current situation
Quinn bursts into laughter, the sound ringing out like a bell. Brock quickly joined in, his chuckles loud but not able to overtake Quinn's. The other survivor couldn't help but laugh along, their amusement evident. Even Harrow let out a soft giggle, a rare smile on their lips.
After a moment the laughs stop and the last survivor looks over to Brock "Can we get to know each other" he said very shyly stuttering. "I'll start my name is star" putting his hand out for a hand shake
"I'm Brock and this is Quinn" Brock says, putting his hand out and looking back towards Quinn. "Yo" Quinn says putting up a peace sign
Harrow adds a quick sentence or too Assuring he know him and nny after this moment Brock speaks again "alright, so let's go continue down the path and go find nyy"
Suddenly, the mist from the staircase began to rise, swirling around them with an unnatural speed. The air grew colder, and whispers echoed from the depths below.
"God, there so loud" star screams falling to his knees
"You're gifted too?" Brock mumbles but is unheard by Star due to how loud the voices are
Harrow turned to the group. "We need to move, now. Whatever's down there knows we're here."
As Star stands they decide to descend the staircase as more fog rises growing thicker by the second and the voices stop.
"Let's go finish this and find nny" Brock says with determination
Brock nodded, leading the way as the remaining group continued their descent into the unknown, the weight of the mask around Quinn's neck growing colder with each step.
They strut into a cathedral-like cavern. The ceiling stretched high above into nothingness, and glowing pillars of obsidian spiraled toward it like claws. Pools of dark liquid dotted the floor, reflecting distorted images of the duo as they passed.
In the center of the space stood a monolithic gate—its surface made of the same black crystal as the orb, now whole again, pulsing, waiting.
Quinn felt it first—a pressure behind his eyes, like a headache blooming with purpose. "Something's calling," he said, gasping. "Right behind the gate."
Brock clenched his fists. "It's the Convergence. The flame and the shadow... it's trying to merge through us."
Suddenly, a tremor shook the chamber. The pools rippled. The gate responded with a low hum.
From the darkness, shapes emerged—not gaunts this time, but echoes of Quinn and Brock themselves. Distorted, half-shadow, half-flame. Their own faces, twisted into masks of rage.
"This is what the Cradle does," Harrow said. "It reflects. Tests. You fight to open the gate."
"That's us" Quinn groaned stuttering every word
The echoes attacked in unison—shadow-Quinn striking with a mirror of the flaming bat, flame-Brock unleashing waves of searing heat. The chamber erupted in combat.
Quinn dodged his echo's first strike and countered with a sweeping blow. The bats met with a sound like shattering glass. His echo laughed, a cruel, hollow mimicry of his own voice.