Single for Eternity
Chapter 102: A Story

Chapter 102: A Story

Inside the tomb, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. Gone was the chaotic clamor of battle, replaced by an oppressive stillness that settled over everything like a heavy shroud.

The air was motionless, damp, and chilling—so cold it bit into my skin despite my resistance to most temperatures. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was eerie, unnatural. It reminded me of the calm just before an execution.

From the outside, this place had the grandeur of a long-forgotten palace—massive spires, archways carved with ancient artistry, and banners now frayed with the passage of time.

But stepping through its threshold revealed a stark contrast. The inside was not some magnificent hall or throne room, but a series of narrow, winding corridors carved from age-worn stone.

No undead greeted us here. No spectral arrows flew. Just Einar, walking ahead with his back turned to me, his living armor swaying with every step.

The blackened, pulsing surface of it seemed more alive than ever—as if feeding off the silence itself.

I followed him, my footsteps quiet yet purposeful. Hearing my approach, Einar glanced over his shoulder.

His scarlet eyes were narrowed, scanning me with an unreadable mix of caution and calculation.

"Let’s just ignore the anomaly," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "Unless you know something I don’t."

I caught up to walk beside him, matching his pace. "No," I said, my tone neutral. "I don’t know anything about this place."

He gave a curt nod but said nothing more, his focus shifting back to the corridor ahead.

As we moved deeper, I let my fingers brush against the stone walls. Cold and damp, they felt ancient, as if they’d absorbed centuries of pain and memory.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed the carvings—reliefs etched deeply into the walls, telling a story without words.

They depicted a civilization, likely the one that once thrived here. Villagers were shown in scenes of harmony—tending to crops, worshiping beneath the stars, dancing in celebration. A quiet, serene life.

Then a new figure appeared in the murals. It was different—covered entirely in fur, faceless, and towering. The villagers welcomed him with open arms, offered him food and shelter. He was not feared, at least not at first.

Time passed in the carvings, and the fur-covered figure grew closer to a child—playing with him in forests, chasing fireflies beneath the moonlight. The scenes were warm, endearing.

But then the mood changed. The next carving showed the child’s parents confronting the furred man. Their faces were twisted in fear and anger. They trapped him, sealing him within the trunk of an enormous tree.

The next scene was brutal—symbols of fire, scalding pain, and something dark being sealed within the bark.

Days turned into weeks. Seasons passed. No one came for the furred figure.

And then, one day, something emerged from the tree.

He was no longer covered in fur. His skin was warped, amalgamated with what appeared to be bark and ash. His eyes were hollow. Just standing, let alone moving, seemed to cause him unbearable pain.

My brow furrowed as I ran my fingers over the last panel. There were no words, but the agony carved into the lines spoke volumes.

This wasn’t just a warning—it was a chronicle of betrayal. Of transformation. Of something sacred turned wretched.

The corridor ended there, abruptly. In front of us were two arched entrances, each leading deeper into the tomb’s heart. The paths were similar—equally foreboding and unwelcoming.

Einar stopped beside me, exhaling a long, weary sigh. He tilted his head toward me, the dim torchlight catching on the sharp edge of his jaw.

"What do you think?" he asked. "Which way leads to Malthorn?"

I eyed both passages, but they were indistinguishable in their gloom. "Hard to say," I admitted. "But if we want to cover ground faster, splitting up might be the best option."

He turned to face me more fully, brow arching. "Yeah, easy for you to say. If I run into Malthorn on my own, I’ll be paste before I can even blink. Let me tag along with you."

There was no fear in his voice—just a cold understanding of his own limitations. Still, his pride was clearly bruised having to admit it.

I studied him for a second longer, noting the way his armor subtly twitched—almost like it was listening in.

"Fine," I said, hand resting casually on Dissonance’s hilt. "Stay close. I won’t be responsible if you fall behind."

He smirked faintly. "I doubt I will."

Together, we stepped into the left corridor, deeper into the darkness. The air grew colder, thicker, and something ancient stirred from the shadows ahead.

As we moved deeper into the tomb, the temperature dropped further, frost beginning to bite at the edges of my vision.

Yet it wasn’t the kind of cold that numbed the body—it was colder in a different sense. Spiritual. Ancient. Like walking through a place that had long since been abandoned by the gods.

The corridor we chose was wider than the previous, its ceiling higher and arched, supported by rib-like pillars that reminded me of the structure of a beast’s skeleton.

The faint glow of ghostly blue aether lined the grooves of the walls, pulsating with a slow, steady heartbeat, as if the tomb itself were alive... or dreaming.

I stopped again, my eyes drawn to another series of murals etched deep into the walls. Einar, to his credit, noticed my pause and waited without a word, his expression unreadable but his eyes scanning the walls as well.

This set of carvings continued the story.

The malformed man—the one who had once been the furred stranger—was now roaming the ruins of what was once a thriving village.

But it was no longer the same. The murals showed homes collapsed in ash, villagers reduced to nothing but skeletal remains.

The skies, once carved with stars and birds, were now empty, etched in streaks of darkness, as if a great calamity had torn through the heavens.

And yet, in the center of this ruin... the malformed man stood still. Watching. Mourning.

At his feet knelt a boy—the same child who had once played with him under moonlight.

But now the child was different too.

His eyes were hollow. His mouth open in a silent scream.

The next sequence showed the malformed man lifting the child in his arms... only for the child’s body to unravel into threads of mist—his form disintegrating into nothing.

Below this was a symbol—a circle ringed with twelve spokes, its center depicting a flame enclosed in roots. Beneath it, strange text was engraved in runes I couldn’t decipher.

"Do you recognize that?" I asked Einar, pointing to the symbol.

He stepped closer, his eyes flickered with something as he examined it. "That’s... not from any known school of necromancy," he muttered. "But it feels familiar. Like a seal of some sort. A prison, maybe."

"A prison meant to hold something that once lived in harmony," I said softly. "But it changed."

"No," Einar corrected. "It was changed. Something did this to him. To all of them."

He wasn’t wrong. There was intent behind the carvings. Not random suffering. No, this was a punishment. A curse. Someone had made sure this place became a tomb, not just for bodies, but for memories.

We pressed on. More corridors split and branched from the main one, but something instinctive—perhaps the aether, perhaps something else—guided us forward along the central path.

Eventually, we reached what looked like a library, though it had long since fallen to ruin. Stone shelves lined the walls, most of them shattered or empty.

Scrolls and books lay scattered on the floor, long decayed. Only a few glyphs glowed faintly on what remained intact.

Einar approached one such shelf and lifted a blackened scroll with care. "Still warm," he muttered.

I frowned. "From what?"

He unrolled the scroll carefully. There was a single phrase on the surface, pulsing with an unnatural light.

"Let that which was scorned rise beyond death. Let the Fur-Keeper become Lord of Silence."

I blinked, then repeated the phrase aloud in my mind. "Fur-Keeper...?"

Einar exhaled slowly. "The malformed man... that must’ve been Malthorn. Before all this."

My lips parted slightly. I’d all assumed Malthorn was born a monstrosity—an Undead Lord raised through dark ritual or cursed birth.

But this?

He was once a stranger welcomed by people... befriended by a child... and betrayed.

I turned toward the back wall of the ruined library, where another carving dominated the surface. It was not a mural, but a shrine.

At the center stood a lone tree, scorched and split, with skeletal branches stretching like arms. Beneath it, engraved in delicate lines, was the malformed man. Kneeling. His arms wrapped around nothing.

Alone.

Even the dead had forsaken him.

Einar’s voice came from beside me, softer than before. "This isn’t a tomb... not really. It’s a memory."

I nodded. "And a prison. Not just for Malthorn. But for every sin committed here."dood

But before we could even process anything the malformed man opened his eyes.

Staring directly at us.

And the next moment our vision blurred.