Chapter 26: The Keeper and Escape Plans

The black fire didn’t fall like rain; it slashed through the air like sharp claws. Each droplet sizzled upon hitting the water, creating clouds of dark steam that stung Camela’s throat.

The Keeper tilted his mask toward the sky, whispering, “Impossible…”

Vincent hand cupped her face gently, his breath warm against her skin. However, his dark, calculating eyes were fixed on the flames.

Camela attempted to pull away. “What’s going on?”

The Keeper stepped back, his robes dragging through the rising water. “The sky burns only when the chains are broken.”

Vincent grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the nearest pillar. “Cover your head.”

The Keeper’s massive form remained still, but his eyes shone brighter, like two raging storms. “Do not run. The fire does not burn the chosen.”

“I’m not chosen,” Camela hissed.

Vincent looked at her sharply. “You are now.”

A wave of black fire splashed against the floor, sizzling and hissing like acid. Where it touched the water, shadows screamed and melted, their fingers retreating into the depths.

“That’s…helping us?” she asked unconvinced.

“For now,” Vincent replied quietly.

Another wave surged, closer this time. Heat brushed her cheek and she flinched, but Vincent's grip stayed firm on her arm.

“Don’t move,” he whispered.

The Keeper’s voice thundered. “Time is still running out, Fox. The kiss…or the shadows will claim her.”

Camela felt her heart racing as her fingernails dug into her palms. She wasn’t going to let this happen—not like this.

“Vincent,” she whispered urgently, “if you kiss me, you give them what they want.”

He stayed silent.

Her nails scraped against the stone wall behind her until one broke—a jagged edge had caught in a crack. She pressed harder, feeling the crack widen.

A plan flashed in her mind.

Leaning closer to Vincent, she lowered her voice. “When I move, distract him.”

“You think I’ll just…”

“Do it,” she cut him off.

Vincent's eyes narrowed but he gave a slight nod.

The Keeper stepped forward, his huge shadow spilling over them. “Choose.”

Vincent turned fully to face him. “I’ll choose when you tell me why you want it.”

The Keeper gave a deep and cold laugh. “A kiss seals the name. A name seals fate.”

“Whose fate?” Vincent questioned.

“Both,” the Keeper replied.

Camela's fingers worked fast. She pushed her broken fingernail deeper into the crack, twisting and scraping as bits of stone crumbled away.

The Keeper tilted his head, curious. “What is she doing?”

Vincent stepped in front of her as he replied, “You talk too much.”

This caught the Keeper's attention. The shadows hissed and rose higher, reaching towards Camela’s ankles but another burst of black fire made them retreat.

She dug harder, her fingertips stinging with effort. The crack opened just enough for her to fit two fingers inside. Cold air seeped through from the other side.

“It’s a hole,” she whispered to Vincent.

He glanced back and noticed it too; his eyes sharpened with focus.

Camela worked more quickly, pushing through the pain in her fingertips as she continued to dig deeper into the hole.

The Keeper took another step, “No more delays.”

Vincent acted swiftly. He grabbed Camela by the waist, spun her toward the wall, and pushed her to the hole.

The Keeper roared, “Stop them!”

The shadows pounced forward, but Vincent kicked at the nearest one, his boot sinking into its formless head.

Camela clawed through the narrow hole, her fingernails scraping painfully against rough edges. She felt her dress catch on something sharp and she ripped it free.

“Go!” Vincent shouted urgently.

A piercing scream echoed through the air again—a sharp sound that wasn't human. The shadows paused, their hands hovering in the air.

Seizing the moment, Vincent urged her, “Run.”

Camela hesitated for a moment before he grabbed her wrist and pulled her along. The water around their ankles felt ice-cold, and the smell of ash and metal clung to every breath.

Behind them, the Keeper's voice thundered. “You cannot leave the gate alive!”

Vincent didn’t look back. “Then we’ll leave it dead,” He replied.

They arrived at the far side of the stone platform. Vincent stopped and knelt, pushing the shallow water aside to uncover an old iron grate. The bars were rusty, nearly falling apart.

“Help me,” he requested.

Camela knelt next to him, her dress soaking instantly. She reached for the grate but then stopped in her tracks.

One of the bars was already loose, and stuck between the rust and the stone…was a fingernail.

It was long, black, and had a crack down the center.

She swallowed hard. “This isn’t…human.”

Vincent’s jaw clenched. “Then whatever escaped through here didn’t come by itself.”

The shadows began to move again, slower this time but with purpose. Their hands extended outward, fingers stretching creepily.

“Lift it,” Vincent instructed.

Camela grabbed the loose bar and pulled hard. It came free with a screech of metal.

Beneath the grate, a dark tunnel sloped downward with water rippling along the ground.

Vincent was the first to jump in, landing in a crouch. “Let’s go,” he urged.

Camela followed, feeling the cold water bite at her legs as she lowered herself in. The tunnel was so narrow that she had to bend forward to fit.

The Keeper's voice echoed from above them. “There’s no light at the end of the tunnel.”

Vincent smirked up at him. “Perfect. That means you can’t come after us.”

The Keeper didn’t respond, only releasing a low, creepy laugh that sent shivers down Camela's spine.

They hurried through the tunnel, and the air was filled with the scent of damp stone and decay. Occasionally, something brushed against Camela's ankle.

“Please tell me you’re not leading us to somewhere worse,” she whispered anxiously.

“That depends on your definition of worse,” Vincent replied.

The tunnel sloped down until the water reached their knees. Camela's foot struck something hard, causing her to trip. Vincent caught her just before she fell into the water.

“Be careful…” he paused, squinting at the wall in front of them.

Stuck in the stone were many nails—not metal ones, but fingernails. Some were broken, some long, and others coated with chipped red polish. All of them were embedded deep in the wall as if they had been scratched there by frantic hands.

Camela’s stomach turned, causing her to feel a wave of nausea. “What…what is this?”

Vincent lightly touched one nail, his face showing no emotion. “A map,” he replied.

He traced a line through the nails, following a pattern she couldn’t see. He stopped at a spot where a cluster formed a circle. Without saying anything more, he pressed his palm against it.

The wall creaked as a small, round door swung open, revealing a dry tunnel beyond.

“After you,” he said with a grin.

Camela shot him a worried look but stepped through anyway, eager to escape the disturbing wall of nails.

The new tunnel led to a small chamber lit by a single lantern swinging from the ceiling. In the middle of the room was a wooden table covered in scattered papers, ink bottles, and strange black feathers.

Vincent shut the door behind them.

Camela looked around. “What is this place?”

“A forgotten staging groom,” he replied as he approached the table. He picked up a piece of parchment filled with detailed sketches—drawings of the wedding gate, the Keeper’s mask, and the shadows.

Her gaze caught on one alarming detail: a rough drawing of a woman in a bridal gown…with nails driven into her hands.

She took a step back. “Vincent…what exactly do you plan to do?”

He paused before answering, rifling through the papers. Finally, he met her gaze.

“I’ve been tracking the Keeper’s cycle. He can’t maintain control over the gate without the names he has taken. If we destroy the vessel that holds them, the gate collapses.”

“And where is that vessel?”

Vincent smiled slightly. “Inside the Keeper’s chest.”

Camela felt her heart race. “You mean…”

“Yes. I’m going to kill him.”

Before she could respond, the lantern flickered and went out.

The room was engulfed in darkness. Water started seeping in from beneath the door.

Vincent grabbed her hand firmly. “We need to go. Right now.”

The door creaked open, but instead of water, thick shadows poured in. They were twisting and whispering in countless voices.

From behind it, the Keeper stepped forward, his mask faintly glowing in the dark.

“Do you think you can hide in my own house?” His voice was almost soft, which felt more threatening than if he had shouted.

Vincent positioned himself protectively in front of Camela. “You’ve held onto your throne for far too long, old man.”

The Keeper tilted his head slightly. “And you’ve kept your bride far too close.”

Before Vincent could react, the shadows pounced at them.

Camela screamed as one wrapped around her ankle, pulling her toward the water pooling on the floor. She clawed at the floor, her nails scraping until one painfully bent back.

Vincent pulled out a narrow black dagger from his coat and slashed at the shadow. It hissed and drew back.

The Keeper turned to face him. “Ah, so you did steal it.”

Vincent smirked confidently. “Looks like you’ll have to reclaim it.”

The shadows surged once more, but this time Vincent didn’t fight. He pushed Camela toward the open crawlspace in the wall.

“Go!”

She hesitated. “Not without you!”

He gritted his teeth. “Camela…GO!”

With reluctance, she crawled inside. Behind her, she heard the clash of steel and the whispers of shadows.

The tunnel inclined steeply, forcing her to dig her nails into the stone for balance. Her heart raced so loudly that she could barely hear the battle behind her.

Then—silence.

“Vincent?” she called out.

No response came.

A shadow loomed over the tunnel entrance as the Keeper’s voice slithered in like oil.

“Run as far as you can, little bride. You’ll find the gate again; they all do.”

She hurried forward, ignoring the pain in her fingertips.

The tunnel ended at a narrow grate. She pushed against it, it gave way, and she fell out into the cold night air.

She landed on the wet grass, with the sound of waves crashing close by. The air was filled with the smell of salt, not rot.

For a moment, she thought she had found freedom.

Then she noticed them—figures standing at the cliff's edge. There were dozens of them, all dressed in torn wedding gowns. Their faces appeared pale and blank, and their nails were as dark as the shadows.

One of them stepped forward, tilting her head slowly. “Welcome to the shore, sister,” she said.

Camela’s breath hitched in her throat.

From the cliff behind them, the sea roiled black—and something began to rise from its depths.

The figure surfacing from the water was massive, hunched over, and wearing a crown made of nails.

It turned its head toward her, and even though it had no eyes, she could feel its gaze piercing through her.