The First Relic

John pushed himself off the steps, rolling his shoulders as he began walking back toward the Sepulcher.

"Thank you."

The voice was soft, sincere. Gracious. John grunted. "You sound happy about this."

"I am."

"Glad someone is," he muttered.

She didn’t respond. Just let him grumble to himself as he cut through the winding alleys, his path slow and deliberate.

The city was quieter now, the hour growing late, most honest men in their beds, most dishonest ones finishing their work.

The torches along the outer walls of the Sepulcher still burned, the light flickering against the blackened stone, making it look even more like a mausoleum.

John’s eyes found the illusion spot immediately. It was still there, rippling ever so slightly, a sliver of unreality stitched into the fabric of the prison.

But this time, it was guarded.

Two Argent Sentinels stood before it, their postures tense, their grips tight on their halberds.

John stopped a few paces away, considering. He could kill them. Easily.

The night was quiet, the walls of the Sepulcher thick enough to swallow screams. But before he could decide, the voice in his head spoke again.

"Please."

He sighed. "Now what?"

"Do not kill them on my behalf."

John exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "That’s going to make this difficult."

"I know."

"You could’ve told me that earlier."

"I didn’t think I had to."

John rolled his jaw, considering. Fine. No killing.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t hurt them a little.

He took a slow breath, adjusting his stance, shifting the weight of his body, letting his posture relax into something careless.

The two Sentinels straightened as he approached, their armor glinting in the dim torchlight. “Halt.”

John didn’t stop. They gripped their weapons, shifting slightly.

"You’re not supposed to be here," one of them said.

John let his voice drop into something gruff, familiar. "Neither are you."

The Sentinels frowned. John kept walking, stopping just a few paces from them.

“Got orders,” he muttered. “Priest sent me back in.”

One of them snorted. “The priest didn’t send shit.”

John shrugged. “You want to go wake him up and ask?”

The two guards exchanged looks.

Then, the first one laughed. “Nice try,” he said, shaking his head. “Turn around, soldier. Go drink, go fuck, go pray. But you’re not going inside.”

The second one smirked. “Unless you’ve got a letter from the Oracle herself, you’re about as useful to us as the piss stains in the latrine.”

John sighed. “Fine.”

Before they could react, he grabbed their helmets and smashed their heads together. There was a loud, metallic CLANG, followed by the dull thud of **** bodies hitting the ground.

John stepped over them, shaking out his hands. "That works too," he muttered.

The voice was silent for a long moment.

"Thank you."

John rolled his shoulders. "You better hope whatever’s inside is worth it."

Then, with one last glance at the fallen guards, he stepped through the illusion.

The Black Sepulcher was silent. John moved through the darkened halls, his boots barely brushing the stone. There were no torches here, only the faintest glow of runes carved into the walls, flickering with weak, pulsing light.

"I don’t know where I’m going," he muttered under his breath.

"I do," the voice answered.

John paused. "How?"

"I… don’t know."

He sighed, rolling his shoulders. Great. "Then why should I trust you?"

"Because you already have," she said, simply.

John huffed. "Fine. You’re leading. Where to?"

She spoke softly, guiding him through the empty corridors, her directions calm but certain.

"Left here."

"Down this passage."

"Through that archway."

Each time, John followed, his body moving before his mind could argue. And each time, he felt an odd sense of familiarity in her voice as if she had walked these halls before. As if she had been here long before the Black Sepulcher became a prison.

"You sound sure of yourself," he murmured as he rounded another darkened corner.

"I am."

"But you don’t know how?"

A pause. "No."

John clicked his tongue. "Real helpful."

"I am trying," she said, almost frustrated now.

"Try harder."

She didn’t respond. Just led him deeper. "Stop."

John did.

Ahead of him, the hall stretched forward, ending in a single door. It was featureless, no carvings, no markings—just a slab of dark wood set into stone. But something about it felt wrong.

The air was heavier here, the weight of it pressing against his skin. A thick, foul smell hung in the corridor, like rotting incense and old blood.

Something dark pulsed behind that door.

John exhaled through his nose. "Well," he muttered. "That’s fucking ominous."

The voice did not disagree. "It is here," she whispered.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

John tilted his head slightly. "What’s inside?"

"I don’t know."

John sighed. Of course not. Still, he rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers. No turning back now.

"Alright," he muttered. "Let’s see what was so godsdamned important." The second John’s hand touched the door, pain.

It ripped through him like lightning tearing through a tree, burning through muscle, bone, and marrow. His breath caught, his knees buckled, and he collapsed against the cold stone floor, his fingers still locked to the wood.

Something was pulling at him. Not his life. Not his soul. His blood.

He could feel it, could sense the way it danced across the door’s surface, curling in unseen patterns, drawn forth by something old, something hungry. It was drinking him. The door had no chains. No locks.

It didn’t need them. Because it demanded a different kind of key, and it had just taken it from him.

A final pulse, a deep, throbbing pull from within his veins—

THUD.

The door swung open. John gasped, gripping his forearm, his body aching, sweat slicking his skin.

The pain was gone. But the weight of whatever he had just done remained.

Slowly, he looked up. The chamber was empty. Dark. Featureless.

The only thing inside was a ring. It lay on the cold stone floor, centered perfectly, as if someone had placed it there with care.

A small, simple thing. Something about it felt massive. John’s breath slowed.

The voice inside him whispered. "Approach it."

He hesitated. Then, forcing his body to move past the ache, he took a step forward. Then another. And another until he stood over the ring.

He knelt, picking it up. It was pure black.

Polished, but void-like, a metal so dark it swallowed light instead of reflecting it. He turned it over in his fingers. There were engravings along the surface, subtle, unseen at first.

Black-on-black. Hidden, but not erased. It was old. And it had waited.

"Put it on."

John’s jaw tightened. "That’s a shit idea."

"Put it on."

Something in his body shifted. A compulsion, faint but unyielding. His fingers moved, despite himself. He slid the ring onto his finger.

Nothing. No pain. No power. No change.

Just silence.

He exhaled, shaking his head. "So?" he muttered. No answer. "You gonna tell me if this was worth bleeding for?" Nothing. "Hello?" Still nothing.

The voice was gone. He frowned.

Looked down at the ring on his hand. It felt… normal.

But it wasn’t. He knew that much. He just didn’t know why.

John exhaled slowly, shaking out his fingers, rolling his shoulders. The ring sat calm and unmoving on his hand.

Whatever power it held and its purpose, it gave nothing away, and the voice—the one who had led him here, the one who had pleaded for this?

Gone.

No whispers. No murmurs. Just silence.

John clicked his tongue in irritation. "Of course."

He had bled for this thing, had let his own body open a door that should’ve never been opened—and now? Now, he had nothing to show for it.

He sighed sharply, straightened, and turned toward the door. Time to go.

John retraced his steps carefully, moving back through the twisting corridors, his instincts sharp, his body moving on muscle memory.

The air was sharper, more awake, like the place itself had stirred from some long, uneasy slumber.

He slowed his steps, pressing himself into the shadows of an archway, listening.

“…Gone?”

The words were snapped in disbelief. "Impossible. We had six men watching him."

"Had."

A sharp clatter of steel. "Sir Aric Thren is missing."

A pause. "Find him. Now."

John’s breath stayed steady, but his mind moved faster. They’d discovered the escape. Which meant they were on high alert. Which meant his way out was about to become a lot harder.

"Fuck."

He moved quicker now, his steps still silent but his pace urgent, pushing toward the exit before the full weight of the Sepulcher locked down.

He slipped through the same hidden passageway, his body sliding through the illusion like a knife through silk.

The two guards he had knocked **** were still out cold. Good.

Sentinels were emerging from the Sepulcher, some heading toward the noble districts, others spreading into the city, their hands tight on their weapons.

They were hunting. He had to move. Fast.