The crypt beneath the church was colder than death.
Elian's boots echoed on the stone steps as he descended, torch in hand. Vlad followed close behind, blade drawn, eyes darting into the darkness. Father Luka led them in silence, his hunched figure cloaked in a heavy robe, muttering prayers in a language older than Latin.
The deeper they went, the more the walls changed—no longer carved stone, but bone. Skulls lined the path like watchful sentinels. Elian gripped the torch tighter.
"Are we beneath the Ash Tree?" he asked.
Father Luka stopped. "We're beneath what grew from it. The tree above is a marker. The roots—the curse—spread far below."
The tunnel opened into a vast chamber, circular and echoing. In the center, twisted roots pulsed with dark energy, wrapped around a stone altar. Blood soaked the soil around it—fresh.
On the altar lay a name carved into the stone.
*Elian.*
He froze.
"How?" Vlad whispered. "How is your name here?"
Father Luka's face was grave. "Because you were never meant to survive your birth. You were meant to be the final vessel. The Seventh Son is not just cursed, Elian. He is the key."
Suddenly, the roots writhed. A low, guttural groan echoed from the earth.
And from the shadows, six forms emerged—skeletal, rotting, their faces familiar.
The six sons who came before him.
Elian stepped back, heart pounding.
But the seventh? He clenched his fists.
"I won't die like them," he growled. "I'll end this."
And the roots lunged.
—