The altar throbbed under his hand, as if some malignant heart still tried to beat within it. The veins of black stone trembled, light pulsing faintly like a last breath refusing to fade. Asher closed his eyes, extending his will deeper—not with his weapon, but with the force that had silenced the chamber.
The altar resisted. A shadow pressed back against him, oily and cold, whispering in fragments of voices that bled together: "Devour... chain... open..." It was the same madness he had heard in the cult leader’s cries, but rawer, older.
Asher’s grip tightened, his aura flaring. The last traces of blood that clung to the altar walls shivered, peeled free, and raced into his palm. The whispers grew louder, shrieking, as though he was tearing a tongue out of the darkness itself. The veins across the altar split apart, black ichor spilling from within.
Then something struck back.
The altar cracked open further, a violent jolt surging through it. Shadows spewed upward like smoke, twisting into the shape of a chained maw that loomed above him. The air bent under its presence, the taste of iron flooding his mouth.
It wasn’t the beast he had slain. This was something greater—a fragment of the true Maw, straining to push through.
The scythe’s edge glowed brighter in answer, feeding on the storm of blood still hovering faintly in the air. Asher’s eyes narrowed, his voice steady and cold.
"You lost your vessel. You won’t have me."
The shadowed maw lunged, chains snapping loose as it tried to clamp down on him. Asher raised the scythe and drove it into the altar’s core.
The impact shattered the chamber. Light burst from the wound, not crimson but a harsh silver, ripping through the shadows. The maw shrieked, pulling back as if burned. Chains recoiled, snapping into nothing. The whispers collapsed into silence.
The altar finally broke, collapsing inward like glass shattering in reverse. Its glow guttered out, leaving only cold rubble and a yawning black tunnel where it once stood.
Asher stood still, hand resting on the scythe’s haft. His chest rose and fell steadily, though his veins still burned with the echo of that alien will pressing against his.
The tunnel ahead breathed faintly, cold air drifting from it. Whatever lay beyond was not empty.
He stepped forward once, the sound of his boot echoing into the dark. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he cleaned the blade of his scythe and let it rest against his shoulder once more.
The rubble still steamed faintly when Asher’s boot pressed down on a cracked tile that shouldn’t have moved. A grinding sound rolled through the floor, stone shifting against stone. Slowly, a seam split open at the far side of the chamber. Dust rained down, revealing a narrow passage hidden behind the altar’s bulk.
Asher’s eyes narrowed. The scythe’s tip dragged lightly along the stone as he walked toward it. Inside, the air changed—cooler, damp, and threaded with the faint hum of power. He followed it until the passage widened into a small antechamber.
At its center pulsed a portal.
It wasn’t like the crude spell-gates he had seen before. This one was carved into the floor itself, a circle etched with runes that twisted in ways the eye didn’t want to follow. Shadows bled from the edges, while its center glowed faintly, pulling at him like a tide.
He stood at its edge for a long moment, cloak stirring in the unnatural wind. His instincts screamed caution, but his blood burned with curiosity. Whatever lay beyond was tied to the Maw—and if he wanted answers, this was the path.
Then, from the tunnel behind him, a scuff of stone.
Asher turned slightly, eyes narrowing as a lone cultist staggered into view. Unlike the others, this one wasn’t armored. Her mask was cracked, robes torn, blood leaking from a wound at her side. She froze upon seeing him, panic flashing across her face.
In a blur, Asher was there. His hand snapped out, gripping her wrist. The woman struggled, whispering half-mad prayers to the Maw, but his strength held her still. He leaned closer, fangs glinting in the portal’s dim light.
"Your blood will do."
She screamed once, cut short as his teeth sank into her neck. Her body stiffened, then weakened as the life drained from her. The portal flared brighter, feeding on the act, shadows writhing around its edge.
Asher let her drop, her corpse dry and pale, nothing but an empty shell. Wiping his mouth, he whispered an invocation, shaping the blood within him. His form shifted, his features warping until the pale face of the cultist stared back from the hood. Her scent, her aura—everything about her identity now cloaked him.
Now Raymam, one of the Maw’s flock.
He straightened, pulling the mask into place. His scythe dimmed, its glow hidden beneath the folds of his cloak.
Without hesitation, he turned back to the circle. The portal’s pull deepened, beckoning him into shadow.
And this time, he stepped in.
The sensation of crossing the portal was like sinking through ice—sharp, suffocating, then suddenly gone.
Asher’s boots struck solid ground. He straightened, eyes scanning.
The place was not a cavern, nor any natural chamber. He stood inside a colossal hallway carved of black stone, its ceiling lost in shadow, its walls lined with towering statues. Each one was a grotesque depiction of the Maw—jaws overlapping, eyes carved in jagged spirals, chains wrapped around broken figures at their feet. The air reeked of ash and blood, thick enough to sting the throat.
Ahead, the hall stretched on, lit by braziers of pale green fire. Cultists walked the corridor in disciplined lines, some masked, others bare-faced with eyes burned black by ritual. None spared him more than a glance. They saw only Raymam—bloodstained, weary, but alive.
Asher’s borrowed mask hid the faint curl of his mouth. His disguise was perfect; the stolen essence of the cultist’s blood cloaked him like a second skin.