The silhouette hung suspended from a thick, fibrous cord of living shadow that writhed like an unsevered umbilical cord connecting it to the sky. It had no face—only a shifting vortex of dense smoke where a head should be, and two massive hands ending in sickle-shaped talons that scraped against the iron ribs of the greenhouse.
Panic ruptured the remaining composure of the guests. A group of wealthy dignitaries threw their weight against the locked mahogany doors, their expensive suits tearing as they beat frantically against the unyielding wood. The air pressure plummeted violently, sucking the breath from their lungs and leaving a metallic taste of copper and cold ash on every tongue.
Clara arched higher off the floor, her jaw unhinged in a silent shriek. The black decay had crawled past her wrists and was now swallowing her forearms, leaving hollowed-out cavities of gray soot in its wake. Yet, her eyes remained fixed on Helena, wide, pleading, and entirely lucid through the torment.
Helena stood frozen between Victor’s protective stance and the altar. Her heart hammered against her ribs—a healthy, vibrant rhythm that felt entirely foreign after seven years of hollow numbness. Her legs were strong. Her muscles obeyed her command. But every breath tasted like betrayal.
«Helena, don’t listen to him!» Victor yelled over the deafening roar of the descending entity. His hand whipped out, sliding his pistol free from its leather holster with a metallic click. «It’s a trap. Both of you get behind me!»
«You can’t shoot smoke, protector,» the boy whispered, his voice cutting cleanly through the chaos without a hint of fear. He didn’t look at Victor; his luminous, ancient eyes never left Helena. «The ledger demands a signature in blood, and only the blood of the debtor can wash the page clean.»
The shadow creature dropped. It landed with terrifying weight on the central marble table, shattering the thick stone into a thousand jagged pieces. A shockwave of freezing wind swept across the pavilion, extinguishing every decorative torch and sending white linen tablecloths fluttering like dying ghosts into the air.
Helena looked down at her feet. Beneath the shattered marble, a faint, amber-colored glow pulsed through the mortar lines, tracing an intricate runic circle that spiraled directly toward the base of the heavy wooden altar. It was a language she had never learned, yet her mind instantly translated every jagged symbol: A life for a life, a limb for a limb, eternity for an hour.
Clara choked, coughing up a spray of black dust that dissolved before it hit the floor. «Helena… the… the dagger…» she wheezed, her voice reduced to a dry rattle. «Under the… third… stone…»
Helena’s breath hitched. She looked at the altar, then back at Clara, whose chest had stopped rising. The decay had reached her collarbone. Another ten seconds, and there would be nothing left of her older sister to save.
«Move!» Victor shouted as the shadow creature turned its faceless void toward them, raising a massive, clawed hand and sweeping it sideways.
A blade of compressed air sliced through the room, shearing the top half of a marble pillar cleanly off its base. The heavy stone block hurtled directly toward Victor and Helena.
Victor reacted instantly, tackling Helena to the ground just as the stone crashed into the iron framing behind them. Dust and pulverized mortar blinded them, filling the air with a thick, suffocating grey fog.
Through the haze, Helena scrambled to her hands and knees. Her fingers brushed against a loose paving stone near the altar—the exact spot Clara had indicated. Without thinking, she jammed her fingers into the narrow gap, ignoring the sharp edge of stone that sliced open her index finger.
Bright red blood welled from the cut, dripping down onto the amber runes. The moment her blood touched the glowing script, the entire floor violently shuddered.
The shadow entity hissed—a sound like steam escaping a boiling engine—and froze mid-stride, its massive talons hovering inches above Victor’s head.
From beneath the altar, a heavy metallic grinding echoed, as if a massive iron vault door was finally sliding open after a century of silence. A plume of white vapor billowed upward, smelling sharply of ozone and old parchment. And out of the dark recess beneath the stone, a pale, slender hand reached up—not a monster’s claw, but a human hand wearing a silver ring identical to the one Clara wore on her thumb.