The magic within
“This place is small. Weak. You bury yourselves in stone and bone, thinking yourselves safe. But stone is soil. And soil feeds the roots.”
At that, the fissure widened. Black veins spidered through the walls, sprouting thorns growths of bone and ash, writhing as though alive. The floor buckled. Tombs shattered. From one sarcophagus spilled a monk’s skeletal remains — only to twitch, black vines threading through its ribcage like sinew.
The dead began to stir.
One rose on broken limbs, jaw unhinging in a scream without lungs. Another clawed free, clutching a rusted sword. Shadows wove through them like marionette strings, and one by one, they turned toward the living.
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