Lyra pressed her back tighter against the shattered stone, heart hammering against her ribs, ears straining to catch every sound in the oppressive dark. The air seemed to grow colder with each step that approached.
A figure emerged from the gloom. Tall, robed, face hidden beneath a cracked and tattered hood. Red light flickered where its eyes should have been.
The skeleton halted, stiff as a snapped branch.
The figure halted a few paces away, the folds of its tattered robe whispering against the stone. From beneath the cracked hood, two red embers flared to life, eyes, ancient and unblinking, burning like dying stars.
"Lost, aren't you?" the figure rasped.
There was a hard edge under the words, a bite of mockery too sharp to miss. As it spoke, one skeletal hand lifted, fingers weaving into a stiff, purposeful shape. A weak glow leaked between its knuckles, painting thin, broken patterns across the ground.
The light caught a cracked porcelain mask under the hood, one side split wide. Through narrow slits where eyes should have been, the faint red slits watched her without blinking.
A thin slit marked where the lips should have been, set into her broken face like a cruel afterthought. The split mask twisted slightly with the creak of worn hinges, a rigid, unnatural motion. Through the gray, fractured surface, the two red coals stared at Lyra.
"You need not run," it continued, the light from its palm growing brighter until it lit the hollow of its hood.
"Lost, filthy thing," it said almost kindly, almost mockingly. "What do you hope to find here?"
The red eyes pulsed once, and the creature's light bled outward, staining the ruin in a sickly pallor. Then, without a word, it raised its other hand. The long, skeletal fingers wove another stiff, deliberate seal in the air, and a second glow sparked to life. This one softer, warmer.
The heavy air shifted. Warmth brushed against Lyra's skin, pulling a sharp hiss from between her teeth as the ache in her ribs dulled and the burning throb in her limbs loosened its hold.
The figure watched her through the cracked mask, voice curling with mockery.
"Even the broken can be made useful," it said, voice steady. Its chin dipped slightly, studying Lyra. "Can you even speak? You come crawling into my house without so much as a word. Have you forgotten your manners, or were you never taught any?" The cracked mask caught the flickering light as turned away, voice trailing like a blade dragged over stone.
Lyra shifted her stance, knees stiff, boots scraping against the grimy stone. Her gaze stayed locked on the robed skeleton ahead, jaw tight. The voice from under the cracked mask came dry and sharp, the shape behind it moving with slow, deliberate steps, each one speaking of something old and broken, but still seems to be dangerous.
"Where... where am I?" Lyra rasped, her voice catching like broken glass in her throat. She blinked against the weak light, trying to focus. Around her, the cracked walls sagged inward, shelves buckled under their own weight, rusted chains dangling like dead vines. Dust clung to her skin, thick and suffocating. The place reeked of mold and rot. Somewhere deep in her gut, she recognized the layout, a storage room once, long abandoned and left to rot beneath the earth. She shifted her weight uneasily, the ground slick with filth.
Paused, its cracks split across the old mask, tilting as if considering her. A molten glow flared behind the mask, burned steadily.
"In a place you don't belong," the woman said, her tone dry. "In my house, little one."
The robed shape said no more, just gestured for her to follow.
Lyra staggered to her feet and followed.
For a heartbeat longer, Lyra stayed frozen, staring at the flickering graveglass shards set into the broken walls.
The woman moved ahead without looking back, the glow of her palm lighting the cracked floor. Her voice drifted back, rough and almost disinterested. "I suppose you deserve a name," she said. There was a hesitation, a brief silence that stretched just long enough to make Lyra wonder if she'd speak again. Then, without turning, the woman added, "Cerys."
Lyra swallowed, throat raw. "Lyra," she managed, her voice small in the heavy dark.
Her gaze darted around the room as she moved to follow. Half-sunken skeletons littered the edges of the passage—some armored, some little more than rags and bones. Shards of broken graveglass jutted from the floor and walls like rotten teeth.
She hesitated. "The skeletons..."
Cerys didn't slow. "Yes," she said simply. "Pretty useless now."
Cerys lifted her glowing hand higher, the soft light stretching down the cracked passage. Lyra noticed the woman moved confidently, as if she didn't need the light at all, as if she was only keeping it burning for Lyra's sake. The shadows slithered back along the walls, broken stone and scattered bones revealed with each careful step.
Lyra stumbled after her, boots slipping on the grimy floor. "Where... where are we going?" she managed, voice still hoarse.
Cerys didn't turn. Her voice floated back, low and dry. "It's been a long time since I had a guest."
A deep thud echoed from somewhere far beneath them. The floor trembled under Lyra's boots, a brief, jarring shudder that rattled loose dust from the ceiling. Lyra flinched, instinctively glancing around. Cerys, still moving steadily ahead, didn't even pause.
Lyra shifted, boots scraping against the stone. Her chest tightened, breath snagging on her next inhale. "What was that?" she asked, voice thin.
Cerys stopped. Slowly, she turned to face Lyra, the cracked porcelain mask tilting slightly. She watched Lyra without speaking, the silence stretching tight between them. Lyra's legs shook despite herself.
"You should be worried," Cerys said finally, her voice low and flat.
Lyra swallowed. "You're... you're a skeleton," she said, the words stumbling out.
Cerys laughed, a dry sound that barely reached her hidden mouth. "Not really," she said, amused. "I could even be offended."
Lyra hesitated, then asked, "Then... what are you?"
Cerys turned away again, starting forward. "I am the guardian of this place," she said.
"Guardian?" Lyra repeated, still struggling to keep up.
"Keeper," Cerys corrected, her voice drifting back through the dim passage. "I watch over what remains. I make sure worse things don't get out."
Cerys stopped and waited without a word. Lyra, still catching her breath, stumbled up beside her. They stood at the end of the corridor where the floor had collapsed into a gaping hole. Below, black water roared past. its surface flashing under the weak light from Cerys's hand. The current tugged at chunks of broken stone, grinding them against each other with a low, steady roar.
Cerys stood still, watching the water without any sign of concern, while Lyra shuffled her boots against the stone, brushing a hand over her arm where the damp clung.
Another deep, dragging thud rolled through the ground behind them. Lyra flinched, looking back over her shoulder. The dark tunnel behind them pulsed as something heavy moved closer.
Cerys turned, the light in her palm flickering wildly. Cracks spread through her porcelain mask with a sharp, brittle sound. For a moment, the red embers behind her eyes flared brighter, and something else rippled through her frame, twisting her posture.
Her voice came low, rough but steady. "Down here, everything that rots, everything that stirs... it started with the dragons. They left more behind than just bones."
Lyra blinked hard and glanced sideways, lips parting as if to ask something she didn't dare. She shifted her weight, a breath catching low in her chest, the tight pull across her back easing only slightly. Cerys tilted her head slightly, the broken mask catching the light.
"Too slow." she said, her tone flat and without emotion, like stating a simple fact. She glanced back toward the approaching noise, then shrugged slightly, as if none of it mattered much.
Lyra staggered back a step. The river below roared louder, as if stirred by the sudden shift.
Cerys slowly turned her gaze back to the broken gap over the river, her fractured mask settling. She raised her hand high. The current below churned violently, spraying mist into the air.
Cerys gestured toward the river with a stiff, deliberate motion, her cracked mask unreadable. "Jump," she said, her voice cutting through the gloom like a blade. "Or stay and let them have you."
The clicking grew louder behind them as the skeletons dragged themselves forward, bone scraping stone. Lyra crouched lower, shoulders tight, fists clenched hard enough to ache. Dust shifted under her boots. She stole a quick glance back, jaw set, muscles ready to bolt if the ground gave way.
Cerys turned her full attention on Lyra, watching her without a word. For a long, suffocating moment, she said nothing.
"Living blood," she murmured, almost to herself. "Still strong enough."
Her chest hitched with short, sharp breaths. Her boots scraped a half-step backward without meaning to.
"Move, little one," Cerys said under her breath. "You're no use to me dead."
Without warning, Cerys stepped close and shoved her, hard.
Lyra stumbled back with a cry, her boots slipping on the slick stone. She caught a glimpse of Cerys watching her without any urgency, as if this was all part of some cruel test. Before Lyra could steady herself, Cerys shoved her without a word.
As the water closed over her, Lyra caught one last glimpse of Cerys standing motionless at the edge, red eyes burning with something colder than pity.
Hunger.