"Inviting someone into your house, and the host doesn't show?" Christian muttered, scanning the cave's strange interior under the pale shimmer of moonlight.
"Not exactly prime hospitality."
The walls were damp stone, etched with sigils—some faded, some still glowing faintly.
A dozen pale figures loomed at the entrance like sentinels carved from frost.
From the strange, archaic voice that had summoned them here, Christian had assumed this would be a meeting.
But with no sign of their host, just a crowd of hollow-eyed dead watching silently, he was left improvising.
"They're not attacking," he said quietly to Charlize, "which means they want something. Or someone."
Charlize didn't respond at first. Her hand was in his—ice cold and trembling. He squeezed it gently.
"We're not in immediate danger," Christian added.
"If they wanted us dead, we wouldn't be standing."
She nodded slowly. "Right. Yeah. You're right."
Her breath still shook, but she was recovering. The presence of so many spirits had overwhelmed her at first, but Christian's calm helped anchor her.
The cave was nothing like a film set. It was too real—earthy, echoing, and alive with a low hum, like wind moving through bones.
"Why the hell did I agree to come here?" Charlize asked suddenly, voice tinged with accusation.
"Was this in the script? Because I'm ready to call the Screen Actors Guild."
Christian gave a dry chuckle. "You think I wouldn't have bailed if I could? But running through a field of a hundred ghosts didn't seem like a solid plan."
Charlize crossed her arms, shivering in her thin sleepwear. Without a word, Christian slipped off his coat and draped it over her shoulders.
"Didn't realize you were still in pajamas," he said, rolling up his sleeves like he was preparing for a bar fight instead of an exorcism.
A moment later, the silence cracked.
"Who?" a voice hissed from the depths of the cave—no longer disembodied, but coming from somewhere real. Something real.
"Wrath Lord"
Charlize froze. Christian turned toward the back wall of the cave.
Two golden eyes appeared in the blackness—glowing, hungry, ancient.
"There you are," Christian said. His voice was steady, but his posture shifted, coiled and ready.
Charlize gasped, instinctively gripping his arm, and her hand brushed against something inked into his skin.
A rune. Old and jagged. Not decorative. Functional. Dangerous.
"Wrath Lord?" she repeated, confused, staring at the tattoo.
She didn't understand its meaning, but she'd seen it before—etched into a seal Christian had once drawn to banish Alexis.
It wasn't some theatrical mark. It was part of the real magic he never talked about.
"Yes," the voice answered her, echoing from the darkness.
"Impressive… I didn't think anyone still remembered the old rites. Or had the nerve to bind the dead with true names."
The figure remained in shadow, but those eyes were fixed on them—Charlize most of all.
She shuddered.
Christian didn't flinch.
"Still not seeing a welcome mat," he said.
"You dragged us here. You want to talk? Then talk."
The voice seemed to sneer. Then it turned, barking toward the cave entrance.
"The rest of you—leave."
The pale figures at the cave's mouth didn't hesitate. One by one, they dissolved into mist, fading like memories at dawn.
Charlize swallowed hard. "What... what is that thing?"
Christian exhaled slowly. "That," he said, "isn't just a ghost."
He stepped forward once, eyes never leaving those inhuman lights in the darkness.
"That's something worse."
At that moment, Charlize noticed something strange—the dozen ghosts that had been guarding the entrance of the cave began to retreat, their pale forms huddled close together as if they'd just glimpsed something far more terrifying than themselves.
A whispered command from the hidden voice was all it took to scatter them like frightened birds.
"Well," came the voice from the shadows, dry and amused.
"When faced with a Wraith Lord, even angels would hesitate. I must admit, you outsiders are an interesting breed. I don't know where you learned cloaking rites, from those old grimoires, but it's impressive."
Despite the hint of admiration, there was no fear in the voice. It belonged to something that still believed itself superior.
He murmured something under his breath, just loud enough for Charlize to hear—something that sounded like, "Brother of the Hollow Crown…"
And he smiled to himself like he knew a joke no one else did.
"He's not a Wraith Lord," Christian finally said aloud.
"But he's good at borrowing what's left of one. Wraith Lords were once rulers of the liminal realm—devourers of lesser spirits, guardians of the veil. Pity they were erased, swallowed by time like the old gods and monsters that came before. Makes room for pretenders like you, doesn't it?"
The yellow eyes narrowed in the dark.
"Still remember us, then?" the voice asked, with something between curiosity and suspicion.
"People like me do," Christian said evenly, staring straight into that ancient gaze.
"Some of us keep the old names alive. Some of us dig where others are afraid to look."
He paused.
"I've studied the banned scriptures, the fractured lore buried under cathedrals and burned in inquisitions. I've walked through ruined monasteries and read what's left in blood on the stones. So yeah… I know about you. About the kingdom that once called itself holy. About the abominations it crafted in the name of some twisted salvation."
Charlize stiffened beside him. She had no idea what any of that meant—but she could tell from the weight in Christian's voice that it wasn't good.
The eyes in the dark didn't blink.
"So," the voice said slowly, "you're not just another exorcist meddling in things you don't understand. You're the kind of fool who does understand—and meddles anyway."
Christian cracked his neck and gave a half-shrug.
"What can I say? Curiosity's a hell of a drug."