The bone door pulsed.

Elias counted the rhythm—eleven slow beats, then silence. Eleven beats again. Like a heart counting its last moments. The skeletal hands fused to its surface gleamed in the fungal light, finger bones splayed in final, desperate resistance.

Lira wrung water from her braid, her movements tight with controlled panic. "They didn't just open it." She kicked a pebble at the door. It struck the bone surface and stuck, dissolving slowly. "They fed themselves to it."

The box in Elias's backpack purred, its vibrations syncing with the door's rhythm. That slitted eye from his dreams blinked against his spine, watching through layers of canvas and skin.

"Smart girl," the box crooned in Elias's mind. "But not quite right."

Lira froze. "It's talking to you now?" Her knife was out, the edge hovering near Elias's jugular. "What's it saying?"

Elias swallowed. The truth tasted like bile. "That you're wrong about how they died."

A wet crack echoed through the cavern. One of the skeletal hands detached from the door, hitting the stone floor with a clatter. The finger bones twitched, then scuttled toward them like a spider.

Lira crushed it under her boot. "Explain. Fast."

The box sighed, its breath slithering through Elias's thoughts:

"The guardians didn't sacrifice themselves. The King took them. One by one, through their dreams. Just like He's taking you."

Elias's vision doubled again—the cavern overlayed with the circular chapel from his nightmare. Eleven melting figures in their chairs. The twelfth, empty. Waiting.

Lira grabbed his face, her calloused thumbs pressing into his cheekbones. "Stay with me. Whatever it's showing you—"

Thud.

The sound came from behind the door. Something heavy shifting.

Thud.

Closer.

The remaining skeletal hands trembled, their bones vibrating like plucked strings. Then—one by one—they pushed.

The door groaned open a finger's width.

Black fluid oozed from the gap, smoking where it touched stone. The stench hit Elias first—rotting incense and something sweet beneath, like overripe mangoes left to ferment in a coffin.

Lira backpedaled, dragging Elias with her. "We need to—"

The box screamed in Elias's mind, the sound shredding through all thought. His knees hit stone as visions tore through him:

—A priestess in 16th century garb, screaming as her own shadow peeled from the floor and swallowed her whole—

—A Spanish soldier plunging his bayonet into the door, only for the metal to liquefy and crawl up his arm—

—Father Mateo as a young man, weeping as he nailed the box shut with trembling hands—

The last image lingered: the box, newly sealed, whispering to Mateo in the voice of a dead friend.

Lira's slap brought Elias back. Blood trickled from his nose, hot and metallic. The door stood open now, the gap wide enough to slip through. Inside, only darkness. And that breathing sound.

The box's voice dripped with false sympathy: "You see now? The guardians failed because they feared the King. But you..." Its tone shifted, almost admiring. "You fed Him a Firebrand like it was merienda."

Elias's hands shook. He'd thought the box a prison. A weapon. But the truth slithered colder:

It was an invitation.

Lira pressed her back to his, her machete raised. "We can't outrun this." Her voice held no fear, only grim calculation. "So we go through."

Elias stared at the door. At the darkness beyond. The box hummed approval against his spine.

Somewhere deep in the cathedral above, Sister Rosa's shotgun boomed—once, twice—before being cut off by a sound like tearing velvet.

Lira exhaled sharply. "Now or never, Silang."

Elias took the first step forward. The box's hunger surged, joyous. The door's edges rippled in response, the bone reshaping itself into something disturbingly like a smile.

Behind them, the underground river erupted—not with water, but with shadows that moved against the current.

Lira didn't look back. "Remember," she muttered as the darkness swallowed them whole. "Don't say His name."

The door slammed shut.

Inside, the Hollow King waited.