CHAPTER 1571: STORY 1571: THE MAW BELOW

The fissure swallowed them whole.

At first, the descent was nothing but black—a silence so thick it seemed to press against their ears, their lungs, even their thoughts. The crimson veins in the stone pulsed faintly, but their glow was swallowed quickly by the abyss. Step after step, the survivors moved downward, their breaths the only rhythm keeping them tethered.

Kael led, blade raised though its cracked light flickered weakly, illuminating little more than jagged walls slick with some tar-like sheen. Behind him, Elara kept close, clutching the boy to her chest. His glow sputtered in her arms, every pulse a fragile heartbeat fighting the darkness.

The widow stumbled, catching herself against the stone. Her ruined voice rasped with bitter humor. “Feels like walking down a throat. Hope we like what’s waiting in the belly.”

The scarred woman’s grip tightened on her spear. Her breathing was shallow, ribs groaning with each step. “If it swallows us, we cut our way back out.”

The farmer tapped his drum softly, uneven beats echoing in the void. The sound came back warped—drawn out, smothered, as if the air itself tried to choke it silent. He muttered, “Even rhythm’s dying here.”

The fissure shifted beneath them, the path slanting deeper. With every step, the walls seemed closer, closing like jaws. The veins glowed brighter now, casting sickly red across their faces. Shadows writhed along the stone, twitching like muscles under skin.

Then came the sound.

At first, only a faint whisper—like distant voices carried through water. Then sharper, closer, splitting into countless tones. They weren’t words but fragments: half-screams, half-chants, voices of the dead and the broken, echoing endlessly.

Elara froze, clutching the boy tighter. His glow flickered violently, reacting to the chorus. “They’re here,” she whispered. “All the ones it’s taken.”

Kael’s jaw clenched. He raised his blade higher, though its cracks bled sparks instead of light. “Not just taken. Bound.”

The whispering swelled, a tide of fractured voices overlapping until they became unbearable. The widow pressed her palms to her ears, blood seeping between her fingers. “They’re inside—” she gagged, coughing red.

The scarred woman stabbed her spear into the wall, anchoring herself. Her ribs clicked like hollow reeds, but she forced her voice through clenched teeth. “Don’t let it claim your silence. Answer it.”

Kael roared, slamming his blade against the stone. The sound rang sharp, discordant, cutting into the tide. The farmer struck his drum harder, irregular beats colliding with the voices.

Elara bent her head, whispering into the boy’s ear. His chant returned, broken but steady, weaving a jagged counter-thread through the air.

The fissure convulsed. The walls rippled as if recoiling, the red veins flaring brighter. The whispers warped into a shriek—not of triumph, but of recognition.

The Unborn’s voice surged from below, thunder rolling through marrow and stone:

“You descend into my throat. Then choke on the voice of what you’ve made.”

The ground split beneath their feet, the descent ending in a vast cavern where darkness itself pulsed like a living heart.

And there, in the hollow core, the true maw of the Unborn waited.