Cursed-Soul-Chapter 23: Chains Beneath Ash-

Meanwhile, above...

The factory was quieter than usual, though tension hummed in every corner. Vael stood near the edge of a maintenance scaffold, just below the upper piping system. From here, he could see the main hall, the loading bays, the guard rotations.

He'd spent all day gathering information. Watching. Not acting. Yet.

They had taken Keiran and Selara. The other chosen workers too. That hooded figure... whoever they were, had thrown everything into chaos. But the plan had to move forward.

And Vael wasn't going to let his friends rot in the dark.

He flicked a flame from his finger, just enough to illuminate the edge of a map he'd sketched on scraps—a route through the underground from what he'd remembered during the earlier infiltration.

There's a path, he thought. They were taken down. If I go down the western chute near the venting core... I might be able to reach them.

It was madness. He knew that. But what choice did he have?

He tucked the scraps into his coat. The fire in his veins simmered.

Hold on.

Back underground...

Time had blurred. Minutes? Hours? There was no sun here. No clocks. Just the slow grind of anticipation.

Selara had finally sat. Keiran was half-dozing, his thoughts hazy. The whispers had faded, but the memory of them clung to the back of his skull.

Then—footsteps.

Real this time. Loud. Deliberate.

A torch flared down the corridor. More followed. Six guards marched down, boots striking the stone with cruel rhythm. One of them carried a ring of keys. Another held a ledger.

Behind them... Armon.

He wasn't in robes now. Just his dark coat. His gloves were missing. And his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing pale, scarred forearms.

His eyes met Keiran's. And he smiled.

"You're quieter than expected."

Keiran didn't speak.

Armon stepped close to the bars, his presence like a stormcloud. "You're not the first to resist. But you're the first to resist this well. That makes me curious."

Selara stood again. "If you want obedience, you won't get it here."

"Obedience?" Armon chuckled. "No, no. I want understanding. And loyalty. The kind that survives pain. That's why you're here."

He gestured to the guards. "Take them. Separate cells."

Selara lunged at the bars—but too late. The keys turned. Rough hands grabbed her. Keiran tried to reach her, but he was yanked the other way, down another corridor.

"No!" he shouted. "Selara—!"

She disappeared around the bend, her voice muffled, struggling. Then silence.

Keiran fought every step, but the guards dragged him through a narrow passage, then down a spiral stairwell into an even deeper level. The air was thicker here. Almost impossible to breathe. Rot clung to the walls.

They threw him into a room.

Stone. Chains. No windows. One torch.

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The door shut. Locked.

Keiran lay there, breath sharp. Shoulders heaving. Every part of him wanted to scream.

But his voice caught in his throat—because he heard it again.

The whisper.

Closer now.

It didn't come from the walls.

It came from inside.

He pressed his hands to the ground. His skin buzzed.

There—across his forearm, something faint shimmered beneath the skin. A glowing shape, like a brand. Almost like a crown.

Keiran's heartbeat slowed. His thoughts sharpened.

Something was waking up.

And it was inside him.

The cell stank of damp stone and old blood.

Keiran sat with his back against the far wall, arms draped over his knees, eyes half-lidded as the darkness pulsed with a rhythm he couldn't place. The mark on his arm—faint and flickering before—now glowed with a dull, sullen crimson. It pulsed like a wounded heartbeat, each throb pulling on something deeper than flesh.

Selara slept lightly beside him, curled beneath the threadbare cloak one of the other prisoners had offered. Even in sleep, her brow remained furrowed, lips parted as though caught mid-word. The chill in the air gnawed through their bones, but it wasn't the cold that kept Keiran awake.

It was the whispers.

They slithered along the stone like mist, weaving between the iron bars, through cracks in the floor and walls, brushing against his skin like breath. He couldn't understand the words—but the feeling behind them was growing clearer with each hour.

Remember. Return. Reclaim.

He wasn't sure if the voices were memories, dreams, or something far worse.

A sudden clang echoed down the corridor. Chains rattled. A scream, sharp and raw, cut through the dark—then silence swallowed it. The other prisoners stirred, huddling closer to the walls, muttering prayers in broken tongues.

Selara's eyes snapped open. Her hand immediately reached for the blade she no longer carried.

"They've started again," she said, voice hoarse. "I heard boots."

Keiran nodded, his jaw clenched. "How long do you think it's been?"

"Can't tell," she murmured. "No sun down here. Just noise and stone."

Another clang. This time, it was closer.

Footsteps approached—measured, echoing. Then a torchlight flickered at the edge of the corridor. Two guards emerged, dragging a gaunt man between them. His face was a ruin of bruises and dried blood. His eyes—what remained of them—were wide with some silent horror.

They threw him into the cell across from Keiran and Selara, where he crumpled like a broken puppet. The guards didn't speak. They turned and vanished into the gloom.

Keiran rose, gripping the bars. "Hey!" he called softly to the man. "Hey, can you hear me?"

No answer.

Then, in the silence, the man began to weep. Not loud—but low and wet, like a child who knew crying wouldn't bring comfort.

Selara stood beside Keiran, voice low. "That's the third one they've brought back tonight."

"They're not coming back the same," Keiran said. "It's like something's... eating at them."

Her hand brushed his, grounding him. "Whatever Armon's doing, it's not just cruelty anymore. It's feeding something."

Keiran glanced at the glowing mark on his arm. It pulsed again—stronger. For a moment, his vision blurred, and the world twisted.

Stone peeled away.

He saw—no, felt—a vast chamber, far beneath them, filled with moving things that weren't quite alive. There was water, thick and black as pitch. An altar carved from bone. A throne with no occupant, draped in chains.

And eyes—watching from every surface, unblinking.

He staggered back.

Selara caught him. "Keiran!"

"I saw..." He swallowed, shivering. "There's something else beneath us. Deeper than this prison. Older than Armon. It's... calling."

Before Selara could respond, a pop of pressure filled the air—like the vacuum left after a scream. The whispers spiked, cascading through his mind like a storm of knives. They spoke now, clearly.

Your blood remembers. The Crown breaks. The Sea stirs.

He clutched his head. The mark on his arm blazed scarlet. Then, as suddenly as it began, it faded, leaving only the slow drip of water and the distant shuffle of feet.

Selara's voice brought him back. "What did they say?"

Keiran looked at her, eyes haunted. "They want me to remember. But I don't know what."

Above the dungeons, beyond the grated corridors and rusted stairwells, the upper chambers of the factory had transformed.

The Selection's second phase had begun.

Armon stood at the center of the grand atrium, surrounded by robed figures and flickering lanterns. Workers were lined up, trembling under his gaze. A great iron brazier crackled at his side, the flames fed with strange, perfumed powder that sent curling green smoke into the air.

He lifted his hand.

"Tonight," Armon intoned, voice rich with false warmth, "we offer thanks. The Threshold was tested. The weak were culled. But it was not enough."

The crowd shifted. Some looked to each other. Others stared at the floor.

Armon continued. "There is unrest. There is resistance. There are lies. And so—new choices must be made."

He gestured to a bound figure dragged before him. Vael watched from the rafters, hidden beneath a veil of shadow, muscles tense as the man was dropped to his knees.

"This man," Armon said, "plotted rebellion. He whispered treason. Let him be your reminder."

With a snap of his fingers, the brazier flared.

A figure emerged from behind Armon—masked, silent. It approached the prisoner and drew a thin, curved blade. The ritual was quiet. Precise.

When it was over, Armon looked to the crowd again.

"Tomorrow," he said, "the third phase begins. The Ascension. Be ready."

Beneath the factory, Keiran jolted awake.

He hadn't realized he'd drifted off. The whispers had grown louder in his sleep—chanting now, rhythmic and ancient. And on the floor beside him, drawn in some faint phosphorescent ink, was a symbol.

A broken crown, encircled by waves.

Selara stirred. "What is it?"

He stared at the mark. Then at his arm. Both pulsed together—same rhythm. Same breath.

"They're coming for us," Keiran said. "But we're not alone anymore."

Far above, Vael pressed a finger to the inside of his coat—where a stolen map, hastily scrawled and marked with paths below the Selection chamber, was tucked safe. He whispered to himself, "Hold on."

And in the depths, beneath ash and echoes, something ancient stirred awake.