They started early the next morning. The fog was still thick, as if it hadn't moved overnight.
Pao's Lanternmark burned faintly under his shirt. Not a sharp pain—just heat. Persistent and rhythmic, like a warning that hadn't yet decided what to say.
He and Erwan set out again, working their way west of the square. The buildings here were older. Smaller homes, storage shacks, and sheds with warped doors that groaned when touched.
They moved slowly, clearing house after house.
The first two had nothing new.
The third was different.
Inside, dust still covered everything—but the back room smelled of old smoke. On the floor was a crude symbol burned into the wood. A large circle with seven points. There was ash around it, but no fire damage beyond the mark itself.
"Fresh," Erwan said, kneeling beside it.
Pao nodded. "Ritual site. Looks like it was burned from inside out."
He pulled out a notepad and sketched the mark.
"Whoever made this wasn't drawing from the world's current state," he muttered. "This is anchored magic. Deep source. Older than the Guild."
"You're saying it's forbidden?"
"I'm saying it's dangerous."
They left and headed farther west.
Near the edge of town, past the fields that had long since dried up, they found a half-buried shed. It had no windows, just a crooked wooden door and walls almost covered in moss.
Pao pushed the door open slowly.
Inside was a chair, a table, and a floor of packed dirt.
No sign of struggle. No blood.
But on the table were objects:
A bowl of dried black liquid.
A mask carved from animal bone.
A thick page torn from what looked like an old Guild codex—but the writing had been defaced and rewritten by hand.
Pao leaned closer.
The replacement text read:
"To tear the lungs from God, break the breath of man."
Erwan grimaced. "I don't like that."
Pao didn't answer.
His Lanternmark flared.
Hard.
"We're not alone," he said.
Erwan turned, sword half-drawn.
"Where?"
Pao whispered, "Every direction."
Footsteps echoed from behind the trees near the field.
More footsteps from the side street behind the chapel.
Then from the square.
Four. No—five.
Moving fast.
"Back inside," Pao said. "Set up a defense."
They slammed the door, turned the table on its side, and crouched behind it.
Erwan loaded a bolt into his crossbow and checked the line of sight through a gap in the wood.
"Front and right," he said. "They're coming in pairs."
Pao readied two glyph tags.
One for repulsion. One for stun.
The door cracked open.
A cultist stepped through—robes torn, eyes wide, holding a staff of tangled bone and iron.
Behind him came another—smaller, with long fingers blackened from repeated inkwork. His mouth moved even before he crossed the threshold.
"Chanting," Erwan warned.
"Take the caster."
Erwan fired.
The bolt struck the smaller one in the shoulder. He spun sideways, hitting the wall hard.
The staff wielder lifted his weapon and slammed it down.
The ground trembled, and the dirt floor split with a web of black cracks.
Pao threw his repulsion tag—Verun Kaa—and blasted the man back.
He hit the far wall and dropped his staff.
Then the windows blew out.
From the fog, three more cultists climbed through, chanting in unison. Their hands moved in jerky, unnatural gestures. One dragged a curved blade made from what looked like petrified horn.
Pao cast Val'zen, and a ward burst outward, stalling two of them mid-swing.
Erwan tackled the third before he could raise his weapon. They hit the floor hard, rolling. Erwan drove the hilt of his sword into the man's ribs and knocked the wind from him.
One cultist tried to speak—but his mouth overflowed with tar-like liquid.
It splashed toward Pao like tendrils.
He ducked, rolled forward, and cast Juren-Tal at close range.
The glyph hit.
The cultist spasmed violently and dropped.
Only one was left standing—the smallest, still half-conscious from the bolt.
Erwan moved to finish it, but Pao raised a hand.
"No," he said. "This one talks."
They bound him quickly and dragged him outside.
The square was quiet again.
The fog hadn't cleared.
But the wind had stopped.
The world felt frozen.
They moved the prisoner to the stone jailhouse and locked him inside.
He woke by dusk.
Pao sat across from him, journal in hand.
"You're not going to die here," Pao said. "You're going to answer."
The man coughed. His eyes were glassy. Dried blood streaked his lip.
"You think you stopped anything?" he asked.
"You've already lost three towns," Pao replied. "If Drevos Hollow was your fifth…"
The cultist smiled.
"Then we're almost done."
"What are you awakening?" Erwan asked.
The man looked at him like it was obvious.
"The one beneath."
Pao leaned forward. "What's beneath this town?"
"A breath."
"What does that mean?"
The cultist looked at the Lanternmark glowing faintly through Pao's shirt.
"You already know."
Pao wrote in his journal later that night:
"Drevos Hollow confirmed as a site of ritual sacrifice. Group of five cultists attacked while we investigated outer perimeter. Combat confirmed use of forbidden summoning and dark magic. All castings matched patterns found beneath warehouse and chapel."
"One cultist captured. Statement confirms this town is the fifth of seven 'breaths'—each tied to weakening a sealed entity. No name given. Claims final breath will complete the release."
"Lanternmark reacted during contact. Pain recorded during enemy chants. Indicates presence or awareness from deeper force below town."
He stopped.
Then added:
"We are not observers anymore. We are inside the ritual."