The deeper they moved into Zaul’Tor, the colder it got—not in temperature, but in presence. The air felt heavier, like it was watching.

  They reached the central sanctum, where the floor had collapsed into a massive chasm. Floating above the pit was a massive sigil, broken into fragments. Each piece pulsed with residual energy—part flame, part void.

  Seris stepped closer, her grimoire hovering beside her.

  “This is a lock,” she whispered. “And it’s breaking.”

  Kaelen narrowed his eyes. “Can we stop it?”

  “No,” Seris said. “But we can delay it.”

  Nyra, kneeling by a nearby pillar, pulled something from the shadows—a corpse, twisted and fossilized, holding a jagged dagger etched with the same symbols from their vision.

  “That’s not just a body,” Nyra muttered. “That’s a warning.”

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  Suddenly, the air ripped open. From the shadows of the chasm, wraithbound husks climbed upward—corrupted souls, their mouths stitched shut, bodies cloaked in charred rags, dragging bladed limbs.

  Kaelen raised his sword. “Finally.”

  Seris’s flames ignited, bright and furious.

  “I’ll hold the sigil. Don’t let them reach me.”

  Nyra vanished into the shadows.

  The battle began.

  Kaelen carved through the husks, his blade cleaving with explosive force, but for each he downed, two more emerged. Seris channeled unstable fire into the air, trying to stabilize the fractured sigil. Runes flared around her, glowing brighter—and then began to shatter one by one.

  A husk broke through.

  But before it could reach her, it dropped in silence—Nyra stood behind it, blood dripping from her blades.

  “I said don’t let them reach her,” she whispered. “Not even one.”

  The sigil pulsed violently.

  A final crack split it open—just slightly—and from within, a whisper echoed through the chamber:

  “You awaken that which sleeps…”

  Seris collapsed, her flame flickering.

  Kaelen rushed to her. “Seris—?”

  Her eyes opened slowly. “It knows we’re here.”

  escalation. I wanted you to feel the pressure—the god isn’t just a looming presence anymore, it’s aware of our trio. The sigil breaking represents more than just a magical fail-safe weakening—it’s the start of the countdown toward something irreversible.

  silent horror. The stitched mouths of the husks, the oppressive atmosphere, the whisper at the end—all of it’s meant to say: you’re no longer in control. Even Seris, who usually commands fire like a second limb, is overwhelmed. That vulnerability matters.

  “Not even one”, that’s a seed for a future reveal—there’s more behind her protective instinct than she's letting on.

  Chapter 7 is war.

  [Abdulla Alsaidi]