On the ancient stone wall to the right of the drawing Arthur had just examined was another panel that made his breath catch in his throat. The scene depicted was essentially the same as the last—the assembly of gods in their cosmic council—but with one crucial difference: that tiny, insignificant cloud from before was not so insignificant anymore.
’What the hell?’ Arthur stood transfixed, confusion and shock etching themselves across his features as he leaned closer, the torch trembling slightly in his grasp.
The cloud had grown, expanding to engulf several of the divine figures at its edges. The gods appeared distorted where the cloud touched them, their once-clear outlines blurring and melding with the encroaching mist. What had seemed like an artistic afterthought in the first panel now dominated the composition, transforming from background element to apparent threat.
Arthur raised an eyebrow in confusion as he moved on to the next panel, stepping sideways along the wall, his boots scraping against the dust-covered floor. The sound echoed in the chamber’s oppressive silence.
It was this third panel that really sent him reeling into shock. There was so much happening on this section of the wall that Arthur struggled to process it all, his eyes darting from one apocalyptic scene to another as he tried to make sense of the narrative.
There was a drawing of something that looked unmistakably like a planet exploding, rendered with surprising detail for such ancient artwork. Fragments of the world spiraled outward from a central cataclysm.
Next to this scene of planetary destruction, an entire section of wall was dedicated to what appeared to be other worlds. There were at least a hundred small drawn planets arranged in spiral patterns reminiscent of galaxies. Some were intact, others showed signs of damage or destruction similar to the first. The sheer scale of devastation depicted made Arthur’s stomach clench.
And to the right of those was the grandest drawing in scale, covering a section of wall nearly twice Arthur’s height and spanning several arm lengths across. It was depicting a scene so chaotic and violent that it took him several moments to comprehend what he was seeing.
’A war... a war of the gods.’ The realization dawned slowly, spreading cold dread through his chest.
It was a mural of deities locked in mortal combat—gods killing gods in a conflict of cosmic proportions. The artists had spared no detail in portraying the brutality: divine beings impaled on celestial weapons, others torn apart by forces that defied mortal understanding, some transformed into monstrous versions of themselves as they fought. Arthur counted dozens, perhaps hundreds of divine figures engaged in this apocalyptic struggle.
And at one end of the battlefield, the cloud was there... growing. In this panel, it had expanded to the size of a small mountain, engulfing entire battalions of gods who seemed to be fleeing from its advance rather than fighting it. Unlike the other combatants, the cloud had no discernible features—no face, no limbs, no weapons—yet it appeared to be winning the war through sheer, inexorable expansion.
The next segment of the wall showed the aftermath. The war was no more, and only a few gods remained drawn on the stone surface—the sun and nature deities among them. They stood in what appeared to be a defensive circle, wounded but defiant. The cloud was shown at the edges of the image, held at bay but not defeated, like a tide temporarily retreated but poised to return.
Arthur’s eyes moved eagerly to where the next panel should be, anticipation building as he prepared to discover the resolution of this cosmic conflict. But instead of continuing the narrative, he found only fractured stone and empty space.
"What!? No, dammit!" Arthur said angrily, his voice echoing off the chamber walls as he slammed his hand against the stone in frustration. The impact sent a sharp pain through his palm and fingers, but he barely registered it.
To the right, where the next segment of drawings was supposed to be, the wall was... destroyed. Most likely damaged in the previous battle, but regardless of the cause, there was no way to finish whatever story this mural told. Jagged edges of stone marked where the carvings had once continued, now reduced to rubble on the floor below.
Arthur looked back at the previous drawings, lost in thought. Questions bubbled up in his mind, and he mentally reminded himself to ask Lara about them later, assuming he ever found his way back to her and the others.
’Lara, shit...’ The thought of Lara and the rest brought Arthur crashing back to the grim reality of his situation. His shoulders drooped visibly as his gaze drifted back over to the headless body of Jonas. The prospect of having to tell the others about their dead friend made him feel physically ill, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead despite the chamber’s stuffy air.
He swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that had risen in his throat, and shook off the feeling after a couple of moments. There would be time for grief later—if there was a later. For now, he needed to focus on surviving and finding a way out of this cursed temple.
Arthur decided to examine the rest of the room, looking for anything of note in all the other drawings.
Sadly, after a while of inspecting, he didn’t seem to find anything of use. The fruitless search left him in an even more sour mood than before, lost in silence as he found himself staring at the altar in the middle of the room again.
Then, suddenly a sound pierced the veiling silence of the room.
The heavy door at the chamber’s entrance was being opened, stone grinding against wood as it swung inward.
Arthur’s body tensed immediately, adrenaline flooding his system. In one fluid motion, he summoned his sword. He gripped the hilt tightly, knuckles white with pressure, whilst spinning around swiftly to meet whatever was coming into the room. His stance was wide, blade raised defensively, prepared to face another horror.
But once he saw what—or rather, who—stood in the doorway, his grip immediately loosened, and every muscle in his body relaxed... even more than they had been a moment before. The tension drained from him so suddenly that he nearly staggered, the sword’s tip lowering to point harmlessly at the floor.
His eyes glistened with held back tears as a shallow, disbelieving smile spread across his face. He stared at the dirty and blood-spattered figure before him, unable to fully process that this wasn’t some cruel hallucination born of grief and isolation.
"Aziel..." The name came out as little more than a whisper, fragile with hope.
Aziel walked in slowly, scratching the back of his head awkwardly with his usual grin plastered across his face as he came closer. Despite the dirt, dried blood, and what looked like electrical burns marking his skin, he moved with the same casual confidence Arthur remembered.
"Dude... you’re alive?" he asked sarcastically.
Arthur couldn’t help himself—a choked giggle escaped his throat, halfway between laughter and a sob. A single tear forced its way down his cheek, cutting a clean path through the grime on his face.
"...Yeah."