Nero went absolutely still as his eyes darted around, every muscle locking into place.
Sothing had passed through the edge of his vision. Not fast enough to be dismissed outright, but not slow enough to be clearly tracked either. It was the kind of movent that existed in the margin between certainty and instinct, the sort that demanded attention without offering proof.
His breathing slowed, controlled and shallow.
The silence inside the ruin pressed in on him, heavy and unbroken. No shifting stone. No scuttling. No distant wind. Even the faint sounds from the forest beyond the walls felt muted here, distorted, as though the structure itself absorbed noise and refused to let it escape.
The eyes of the Heretic opened fully as he swept his gaze across the hall again. The world sharpened, edges clarifying as lines of residual Ein Sof revealed themselves faintly against stone and webbing alike. He saw no active flow, no surge of intent or bloodlust directed at him, no telltale distortion that suggested imminent violence.
Nothing.
He waited several seconds longer, then another few after that. His muscles remained tense, coiled and ready, but his mind began cataloguing the lack of evidence with practiced discipline.
Perhaps it had been nothing. Or perhaps whatever was watching him knew how to remain still, patient enough to let uncertainty do its work.
Nero pushed the thought aside for now. He could not afford to freeze every ti the ruin played tricks on his perception. Exploration ca first. Answers would follow later, if he survived long enough to claim them.
He moved on.
The deeper sections of the castle revealed just how thoroughly it had been stripped. Stone floors were bare, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of exposure and passage. Wall sconces had been torn out entirely, leaving only broken holes where tal fixtures had once been anchored. Even decorative carvings had been chipped away in places, either by looters or by the slow, patient violence of ti.
There were no furnishings. No remnants of banners. No tal, no glass, no worked wood. Even nails were absent, pried free with care.
This was not the result of decay alone. This was systematic removal.
The Church’s hand was evident in that. Nero had read enough reports to recognize the pattern. Anything that could be repurposed, studied, or sanctified would have been taken centuries ago. What hunters had not claid afterward had been devoured by the Garden itself, reclaid piece by piece.
The webs were the most unsettling part.
They stretched across corridors, ceilings, and doorways, layered thick enough that light struggled to penetrate them fully. In so places they ford sagging curtains. In others they were pulled taut, anchored to walls and stone pillars with disturbing precision, like structural supports rather than traps.
Earlier, when Nero had tested one with the tip of his knife, he had felt the resistance imdiately. The silk did not tear. It flexed, resilient and alive beneath the blade.
Whatever spun these webs had done so with intent.
As he passed through another hall, he counted the shapes embedded within the strands. Dark silhouettes, wrapped tightly and suspended from ceilings or walls. So were humanoid. Others were not, their proportions warped and unfamiliar.
Cain suspected they were corpses, long dead and preserved by the silk, catalogued like trophies.
The air here slled faintly tallic beneath the rot, a stale scent that reminded him of old blood left too long in the open. It clung to the back of his throat and lingered with every breath.
He kept his knife ready as he moved deeper, avoiding contact with the silk wherever possible. Each step was deliberate. Each shift of weight controlled, asured to avoid vibration.
The architecture suggested this area had once been administrative or residential. Smaller rooms branched off from a central corridor, their layouts repetitive. Nero checked each one briefly. Empty. Stripped. Webbed.
In one room, he found the remains of a collapsed bookshelf embedded in the wall, its stone supports fractured inward. The shelves themselves were long gone, but faint rectangular impressions remained where books had once been stored.
Knowledge had lived here once.
Now it fed sothing else.
Nero reached a stairwell that spiraled upward. The steps were uneven, partially collapsed near the top, but still passable. He climbed slowly, testing each stone before committing his weight, listening for any change in the ruin’s silence.
The second level was worse.
The ceiling had partially caved in, allowing vines and roots to snake through openings in the stone. Sunlight filtered in weakly, illuminating drifting motes of dust and silk. Here, the webs were thicker, layered so densely that they obscured entire sections of wall and ceiling alike.
Movent tugged at his attention again.
This ti, he caught more of it.
Sothing shifted above him, near the ceiling.
Nero stopped and tilted his head upward.
The Heretic Eyes caught it then. A faint distortion in the webbing.
Still no bloodlust.
Nero continued moving, though he adjusted his path to keep sightlines open. He needed space to react if necessary. He needed room to fight.
At the far end of the level, he found what appeared to have once been a chapel or ceremonial chamber. The layout was symtrical, with a raised stone platform at the far end and broken columns lining the sides. The webs here ford complex patterns, almost deliberate in their placent, as though mapped with care.
The bodies were more nurous.
He counted at least seven, suspended at varying heights. So were wrapped so tightly that only vague outlines remained. Others had partially decayed, bones visible through gaps in the silk.
Two wore the remnants of armor.
Templars.
The insignia was faded, but unmistakable. The sight tightened sothing in Nero’s chest, sharp and unwelco.
These were not recent deaths. The armor styles suggested at least several decades had passed. Possibly more.
He turned away from the bodies and scanned the chamber.
That was when he felt it.
A subtle shift in pressure. A tightening sensation at the base of his skull, familiar and unmistakable.
Bloodlust.
Nero pivoted just as sothing dropped from the ceiling.
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