Chapter 13 The Last Guardian

Jameson remained motionless.

His eyes stayed fixed on the footprints leading into the darkness.

They were fresh.

The layer of dust covering the stone floor had been disturbed only recently, and the prints were far too large to belong to him.

Someone else was inside the catacombs.

His first instinct was to turn and leave.

Then he remembered there was nowhere to go.

The passage leading back had sealed itself behind him, and even if he found a way out, the High Council would still be waiting above the mountain.

Taking a slow breath, he followed the trail.

The corridor grew narrower with every step.

The crimson crystals became fewer until only darkness surrounded him. Fortunately, his eyesight had changed since awakening beneath the Blood Altar. Although the light was weak, he could still make out the path ahead.

The footprints ended before an enormous bronze door.

Jameson stopped.

The door was unlike anything he had seen before.

It stood nearly twenty feet high and was covered with intricate carvings of wolves, ravens, serpents, and dozens of unfamiliar crests. At the center was a single symbol.

A crown resting above a drop of blood.

The same symbol that had sealed the High Council's scroll. It had been pressed into the crimson seal carried by the High Council's envoy. His fingers tightened at his sides. "So they knew this place existed," he murmured.

"They know the symbol," a voice said from behind him. "They've forgotten what it means."

Jameson spun around. A man stood several steps away, and Jameson hadn't heard a single footstep, hadn't sensed anyone approaching at all. It was as though the stranger had simply appeared out of the dark.

The man looked no older than thirty, but something about him felt deeply unsettling. Silver hair rested against weathered black armor that clearly belonged to another age, and a faded crimson cloak hung from his shoulders. A sword sat quietly at his side. His crimson eyes stayed fixed on Jameson, unblinking, and neither of them spoke for a long moment. The silence stretched out between them until Jameson finally broke it.

"Who are you?"

The stranger ignored the question entirely. Instead he took one slow step forward, and Jameson's muscles tensed on instinct. Another step followed, and the man stopped just outside arm's reach, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied him.

"Your blood," he said quietly.

Jameson frowned. "My blood?"

The stranger kept studying him, his expression calm on the surface, but something in his eyes had shifted. Confusion, plain and real. "No," he said, shaking his head once. "That shouldn't be possible."

Jameson stepped back instinctively. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The stranger looked straight into his eyes. "I believe you."

That answer caught Jameson off guard more than an accusation ever could have. Before he could say anything else, the stranger moved, and Jameson barely registered it happening. One moment the man stood in front of him, and the next he was standing right at Jameson's side, a cold hand closing around his wrist. Not painfully. Just firm.

The stranger stared down at the scar left behind by the Blood Altar, his thumb brushing lightly across it, his eyes going distant for a moment, as if the touch had pulled up some old memory. Then he let go.

"You survived," he said.

Jameson rubbed at his wrist. "I shouldn't have."

"No," the stranger agreed, glancing toward the bronze door. "You shouldn't have."

Jameson studied him carefully. "You know what happened at the altar?"

The stranger said nothing.

"You know why I'm here?"

He still didn't respond.

Jameson let out a slow breath. "You've answered none of my questions."

A faint smile crossed the stranger's face. "And yet you've learned something."

"What?" Jameson asked, frowning.

"You're no longer alone."

Before Jameson could make sense of those words, the ground beneath them trembled. A low rumble rolled through the corridor, and dust sifted down from the ceiling above. The stranger's faint smile vanished instantly, and his hand dropped to the sword at his waist. The air itself seemed to grow heavier around them.

Jameson looked toward the bronze door. "What was that?"

The stranger didn't answer. Another impact shook the corridor, stronger than the first, and the bronze door shuddered hard against its massive hinges. Jameson took an involuntary step back. Something enormous had just struck it from the other side.

A second impact followed. Then a third, each one sounding powerful enough to bring the whole passage down on top of them.

Jameson's breathing quickened. "What is behind that door?"

The stranger finally spoke again. "Stay behind me." He drew his sword, and the crimson blade caught the faint light spilling from the crystals lining the walls. Jameson had never seen a weapon like it in his life. It looked less like forged steel and more like blood that had somehow been given a shape and left to harden.

The stranger never once looked away from the door. "I hoped it would sleep longer," he said quietly, almost to himself.

The bronze door groaned under its own weight. Ancient locks buried deep within the stone began releasing one after another, each one letting out a heavy metallic click that echoed down the corridor. First one, then another, then a third, until Jameson lost count of them entirely.

A narrow gap slowly opened between the doors. Darkness poured out through it, thick and total, and along with it came the unmistakable scent of fresh blood, sharp enough that Jameson's stomach turned.

The stranger's grip tightened on his sword. And for the first time since Jameson had met him, something like real worry settled over his face.