The cathedral's wrought-iron gates shrieked as Lira forced them open, her boots slipping on blood-slick cobblestones. Elias stumbled after her, the lead-lined pouch bouncing against his hip with every step. The box inside had gone disturbingly still after consuming the Firebrand—no vibrations, no whispers. Just a silence that felt like held breath.

Four armed clerics materialized from the shadows, their black cassocks blending with the predawn gloom. The leader—a nun with a shotgun and a scar bisecting her nose—leveled the barrel at Lira's chest. "Lira Santiago," Sister Rosa spat. "Excommunicate and demon-sympathizer."

Lira wiped soot from her face, grinning. "Miss me, sister?" She kicked the pouch. It slid across the stones, coming to rest at Rosa's feet. The moment the lead fabric brushed the nun's boots, the box inside screamed—a sound like grinding bones that shattered nearby stained glass. Pigeons exploded from the bell tower in a panic of wings.

Rosa crossed herself, her shotgun wavering. "Sacred heart protect us."

Elias grabbed Lira's arm as the clerics surrounded them. "What the hell was that?"

"The box tasting her fear," Lira murmured. "It's learning."

Father Mateo awaited them in the confessional, his face a mosaic of candlelight and shadow. The box sat between them on the wooden bench, its silver nails now weeping black tears that burned smoking holes in the oak. Through the iron grate, Elias watched the priest's fingers tighten around his rosary.

"It spoke to you," Mateo said. Not a question.

Elias flexed his bandaged hand. The Firebrand's breath had seared away his fingerprints. "It said 'thank you.'"

"Lies." The priest's breath fogged the screen. "The Vessel doesn't speak. It consumes."

Lira leaned against the confessional wall, picking blood from under her nails. "Then why's it getting stronger? That thing ate a Firebrand like merienda."

A shadow crossed Mateo's face. "Because the Maligno King is waking. And His hunger stirs the Vessel." Outside, the cathedral bells began ringing on their own—a dissonant clangor that shook dust from the rafters.

Elias's sleep that night was thin and fitful. The stone cell they'd given him smelled of mildew and old incense, the pallet beneath him lumpy with broken straw. When exhaustion finally dragged him under, he dreamed of twelve chairs arranged in a circle. Eleven were occupied by figures with melting faces, their features sliding like wax. The twelfth chair—carved with Elias's name—stood empty.

"Sit with us, brother." The nearest figure reached out, its fingers elongating into smoke. "The King remembers His promises."

At the circle's center, the box sat with its lid slightly ajar. Something moved inside—not the squirming darkness Elias expected, but a single human eye, its pupil slit like a cat's. It blinked.

Elias woke choking.

Something was in his room.

Not Lira. Not the priests.

Moonlight revealed the lead pouch in tatters on the floor, its lining shredded as if by claws. The box sat squarely on his chest, its weight pinning him to the pallet. As he watched, horrified, a black vein extended from its underside, snaking toward his throat.

The door burst open. Lira stood framed in the archway, her machete gleaming. She took in the scene with a soldier's calm. "So it's chosen you," she said quietly. "Just like it chose the others."

Elias opened his mouth to reply—and the box sang.

The sound was beautiful. Horribly beautiful. A choir of children's voices harmonizing with the death rattle of a thousand throats. Lira clapped her hands over her ears, blood trickling between her fingers. Elias couldn't move. The black vein reached his jawline, its touch icy.

Then—silence.

The box tumbled to the floor, inert once more. From the corridor came the sound of running feet and shouted prayers. Lira wiped her bloody ears on her sleeve, her face grim. "We need to leave. Now."

Elias stared at the box. "It showed me something. Eleven people... like guardians."

"Not people." Lira yanked him upright. "Failures. The box's last eleven bearers." She kicked the lead pouch aside. "And you're number twelve."

Somewhere deep below the cathedral, a drum began to beat. Not wood on hide, but something fleshy—a great heart pumping in the dark. The stones vibrated with each pulse.

Lira's grip on his arm tightened. "That's not the bells."

The box trembled in response, its nails screeching against the floor as it turned toward the sound.