Chapter 12
The stones surrounding the castle were, of course, not of any known mineral. Their grooves were not carved by hand but rather shaped by something—a form born from essence before the concept of creation even existed.
This was a place, a spatial construct that predated the primordial explosion, far surpassing the birth of the first light. It might very well have transcended literal antiquity, older than the central point where protected ideas resided as the reason and the why behind all existence.
This was no designed architecture. Instead, it had grown in unison with the subtle pulse of time's sprout, ever since existence first unveiled itself.
The male head of Nebetu'u fell silent, his discordant voice stifled as he was shackled by the awareness of where they stood. Meanwhile, the female head remained calm, though now a cold light gleamed in her eyes.
A revelation.
The massive stones were nothing less than the primary supporting components of the structure, an ancient castle erected when time itself was first inscribed, slowly overgrown by white moss, eerily resembling the creeping slowness of algae in the cracks. Disgustingly organic to some, yet undeniably vital, the presence of these organisms reinforced the building's framework, signifying that nature itself had a hand in preserving the castle's endurance.
Every strand of moss clinging to the stone's surface was part of a prayer, an unbroken chant of glorification to the Almighty.
Yet beneath this steadfastness lay something unsettling. At times, the male head of Nebetu'u, one of the two conjoined heads, felt a throbbing pain, sharp and repetitive, as if struck by an unrelenting migraine.
The ache came without warning, gnawing at his consciousness, turning the world around him into a swirling haze. Perhaps it was an omen, or mere exhaustion. But within this sturdy castle, saturated with hymns, the dizziness felt more like a faint whisper, a string of quiet words from something far greater, something yet unrevealed.
Nebetu'u stood rigid, frozen before a towering door ten meters high, the boundary between them and the hidden chamber. The door, colossal even against the surrounding structure, was inescapable, evoking the sensation of being ushered toward a gateway to another world.
A threshold separating the known from the unimaginable, where imagination and reality blurred.
The supporting pillars soared even higher, twenty meters upward, as if piercing the sky, forming a majestic frame capable of holding thousands of worshippers at once.
With a firm motion, Nebetu'u pushed the door, expecting it to open without resistance, as if acknowledging what awaited inside. Yet the moment a sliver of light sliced through the darkness beyond, their body froze. The gaze of each head captured something, a snapshot of an oath so startling it choked their breath, involuntarily driving their heartbeat against their ribs.
Not a single sound existed, denying any possibility of movement, only an ever-thickening silence, growing heavier the longer they stood there.
Motionless.
In the corner of the room, stillness and quiet prevailed. Several black candles stood upright, their flames small and serene, barely flickering, as if shielded by the silence itself. Quartz crystals scattered around reflected the dim light, fracturing the darkness into pale, softly glimmering fragments.
Every inch of the chamber was occupied, filled with faint whispers of light drifting slowly, dancing among the shadows, weaving subtle patterns across the floor and walls.
The candles were clearly not ordinary.
Upon closer inspection, their flames remained unnaturally steady, never flickering, never wavering, burning with a will of their own. The smoke did not rise but instead coiled languidly around the wax, like a silent serpent slithering in place.
The quartz crystals, their surfaces impossibly clear and cold, captured every spark of light, refracting it into prismatic shards that occasionally flared brighter before dimming once more.
At the center of the chamber, shrouded in a somber aura, stood a haughty metal statue of a raptor, its ten intricately carved heads facing different directions, as if watching every inch of the room with ceaseless vigilance. Its onyx eyes gleamed faintly under the candlelight, seemingly alive, holding within them unspoken dark knowledge. Positioned directly opposite the entrance, it stood as the final sentinel, an immovable barrier to any who dared venture deeper without permission.
Along the surrounding walls, a deep blue tapestry hung in grandeur, adorned with strange, interwoven symbols forming the image of a man in his most sacred form—his body perfectly proportioned, his face serene, his hands raised near his chest in supplication, his head bowed in reverence.
The irony was piercing. Here, in a place where dark power dwelled, hung the religious ideal of mankind, worshipping doctrine, condemning the chaos wrought by satanic followers. Yet more terrifying was the illusion of movement. At times, the carved wings around the figure's arms seemed to tremble, rising and falling in a silent rhythm, as though the statue itself were breathing.
And with every "beat" of those wings, new feathers emerged—always in even numbers, never odd, as if the universe itself rejected imbalance. Two, four, six… metallic quills grew slowly, stretching like living shoots, reinforcing the unsettling truth that this was no mere statue, but an entity bound by laws beyond mortal comprehension.
The room exuded an elegance that felt almost artificial—a thin veneer masking something far deeper, something beyond the gloom. Occasionally, a mysterious draft would pass, carrying the scent of incense—warm and potent, a blend of traditional spices and something sharper, like aged metal or forbidden roots burning.
The fragrance filled the air, creating a deceptive calm, a false serenity laced with unease. Every breath carried a warning disguised as peace.
Beneath their feet, an expansive geometric carpet sprawled, its patterns maddeningly complex, lines intersecting at impossible angles, forming spatial illusions that shifted if stared at too long. Its design flowed like a river, guiding the eye toward a large wooden box at the far end of the room.
The box, its surface etched with faint carvings, held something within, objects whose shapes could only be guessed from the shadows glimpsed through its seams.
And there, atop its surface, lay blackened granules, resembling compressed charcoal or stones steeped in darkness too long. Beside them rested a cleanly severed head, no signs of struggle, no trace of fear, as if parted from its body with terrifying precision. Other organs lay arranged neatly, far from "filthy," preserved in a state of disturbing purity.
No blood.
No chaos.
Only carefully kept fragments, deliberately maintained in their most pristine form.
To be continued…