It did not take long for Art’s eyes to readjust to the darkness. Soon, he was able to discern the path ahead, leading him deeper into the temple carved into the rockface.

He had expected the intricate stonework to diminish as the structure extended into the dense rock. On that assumption, he had been tremendously wrong.

It had only grown more impressive. Despite his severely limited vision, the grand features of the hallways and ceilings were still apparent enough to astonish him.

He could make out statues perched atop lintels high above, their silent, unchanging gestures guiding him forward. More outstretched arms and sultry poses lured him deeper, their allure both captivating and unnerving.

Time seemed to dissolve as he ventured further into the temple until, at last, he arrived at an antechamber.

The cold stone floor sloped away from him, revealing a vast space beyond. Art’s eyes, now fully adjusted to the dimness, allowed him to discern much more detail.

High archways stretched across the ceiling of the enormous rectangular chamber, supported by thick pillars adorned with elaborate engravings. Between each pillar sat great fireplaces, their wide hearths spilling onto the stone floor.

Art imagined how the room might have once looked—filled with worshippers devoted to some strange deity, the fires roaring and casting a blazing orange glow that danced across the vast space.

As his feet carried him further in, his gaze fell upon a single, magnificent statue.

At the far end of the chamber, elevated on a platform of murky black marble, lay the tremendous figure of a woman.

Art stopped, positioning himself at just the right distance to take her in fully.

She was nearly eight feet long, sprawled across a stone chaise carved with such mastery that its surface seemed as though it would yield like plush cushions to a touch. Her left arm draped lazily over the end of the chaise, pointing absently into the distance. Her right hand rested over her face, obscuring all but a single eye and a sharply defined brow.

So little of her face was visible, yet Art felt certain she was beautiful.

And still, that was not what intrigued him most.

Two gigantic wings unfurled from her back. At first glance, they appeared leathery, yet closer inspection revealed an impossible smoothness, as though they might feel like silk to the touch. Each wing ended in a razor-sharp tip.

Art stared, rendered thoughtless by her presence. Of all the artistry he had encountered in this place, this single statue was the most exquisite.

He lingered, gazing into her solitary, exposed eye. Its uncanny realism unsettled him, and finally, he broke the silence.

“What are you? An angel?”

Silence.

Gods, look at me. Talking to a bloody statue. As if I couldn’t be any more unhinged. Right—an exit. That’s why I came here in the first place. At least give me a way out.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

His eyes darted around the room, seeking an exit. When he realised the only way out was the path he had entered, his heart began to race. With a resigned sigh, he sat on the marble platform, his back to the statue and his gaze fixed on the doorway.

Morrigan could arrive at any moment. He had known that when he entered. She wouldn’t chase shadows forever; eventually, she would double back, find the passage, then the cave, and finally, the temple.

Right on cue, footsteps echoed from the darkened doorway before she emerged.

“Gods, I was beginning to think you might actually survive!” she quipped, her tone cheerful as she strode into the hall.

Art stared at her, utterly speechless.

“Anyway,” she continued, “once I pictured your father opening a box and your pretty little head rolling out... oh! I wanted you even more!”

She stopped a mere few metres away, tilting her head as she raised her curved blade toward him.

“What? No more running? Giving up already?”

He took a deep breath. “I’ve nowhere left to run.”

Seated on the cold stone, Art looked up at her. He might have appeared imposing in another life—a lone figure perched before an awe-inspiring sculpture, as if it were a throne. But his utter lack of combat ability betrayed him.

His heart pounded as Morrigan resumed her advance. Fear and adrenaline sharpened his senses—the dim room grew brighter, her footsteps louder, the glint of her blade more dazzling.

Her coattails, muddied from the chase through the forest, scraped against the stone floor. Art’s attention narrowed to her every movement.

Then, she was upon him. Barely a foot away, yet she didn’t strike. Instead, she leaned closer. Memories of their encounter in the carriage rushed back to him—her grotesque jaw unhinging, widening impossibly, revealing salivating fangs.

She wanted to finish what she’d started.

Stories of brave warriors’ deaths filled his mind. His father had always described them as fearless in the face of doom, but that seemed absurd.

How could anyone not be afraid? There’s too much left to do.

The realisation hit him with crushing weight.

This is how I die.

The conclusion burned through him—a life, albeit brief, lived improperly.

Please, don’t let this be how I die.

Her warm breath ghosted against his neck, unbearable now. He flinched as her fangs grazed his skin, twisting his head left in a desperate attempt to prolong his life.

His eyes, seeking escape from her visage, caught something they should not have. Inches away, descending toward his left shoulder, was a downturned stone hand.