The doors groaned as they swung inward, the sound echoing through the chamber beyond like the death rattle of some ancient beast lurking in the darkness.

Cold air rushed out to meet them, but it carried no stench of decay.

Instead, Nero's nostrils filled with the scent of spices— ones used to preserve the integrity of the dead and resist the foul odors of rot and decay, perhaps.

The scent was sharp, almost medicinal too. Perhaps they were herbs he couldn't name but he did recognize the aromas from the apothecaries in Gor, back when he had to place his parents in the ground when such places had existed.

The scent here was stronger than anything he had ever perceived though.

This meant the preservation was thorough. Clinical, even.

Sergeant Vane stepped through without hesitation, his boots clicking against cobble that had been worn smooth by countless footsteps.

Nero followed, still limping as his gaze traversed through the dark. With every other breath, his ribs ached with a dull pain.

Nothing but a minor disturbance now that his curiosity was piqued...

The chamber stretched before them, incredibly vast.

The ceiling disappeared into shadow somewhere far above, and the walls extended in both directions until they too were swallowed by darkness. Rows upon rows of stone slabs lined the floor, each one bearing a body wrapped in crimson cloth with the insignia of the crucible braided into the threads. And above each slab, mounted on simple iron stands, a candle burned.

The flame, amber and glowing in the darkness, flickered gently. Soft like a mother's caressing hands, it brought golden illumination to the black hidden beneath the ground.

There were thousands of them. The light they cast was steady, unwavering as a constant presence in a place that should be choked full of despair, decomposition, and death.

Nero's breath misted before him as he took another step inside.

The cold here wasn't natural.

It pressed against his skin like a heavy weight, seeping through his clothes and settling deep within his bones.

He activated his Heretic Eyes without thinking.

The world seemed to shift.

Ein Sof flooded his vision and his eyes widened.

These were not the thin, scattered threads he usually saw, but rather, a concentrated torrent of energy. It flowed through the stone beneath his feet, spiraled up through the iron candle stands, and pooled around each wrapped body like a second shroud.

The density was staggering and it pressed against the edges of his mind until his head throbbed.

He deactivated the Eyes quickly, wincing as blood threatened to spill from his nose.

"This place spans the entire foundation of the Red House," Sergeant Vane said quietly. His voice had lost its harsh edge.

"It is directly above the dungeons. It is the final resting place for those within the Blood Lotus Regiment, the one in which I, and every one of my ancestors have lived and died for. Every Templar who falls in service to the Crimson Crucible is brought here."

Nero wiped his nose with the back of his hand and glanced around again. The candles stretched endlessly into the dark.

"How many are there?" he asked.

"Thousands. Tens of thousands? Perhaps even a hundred thousand. The Red House is ancient and has existed since the City of Liedenstorm was created. I cannot be too sure."

Nero's gaze drifted to the nearest candle. The flame didn't move, nor did it waver. It simply was.

That was when he noticed something odd.

"The candles," he said. "They don't burn down."

"No. They do not."

Sergeant Vane walked forward, his footsteps echoing in the vast chamber. Nero followed, his eyes fixed on the flames.

"Why?" Nero asked.

The Sergeant stopped beside one of the slabs. The body atop it was wrapped tightly, the crimson cloth pristine despite what must have been years, decades, perhaps— of lying here in the dark. The candle above it burned with the same steady, golden light as all the others.

"Because the light is not fed by wax or oil," Vane said. He stared down at the wrapped corpse, his weathered face unreadable. "It is powered by the soul of the fallen. They guide themselves through the afterlife, even in darkness. So long as the flame burns, the soul endures."

Nero frowned. "And when it goes out?"

"Then the soul is lost, consumed by the darkness of the world, and is gone forever."

The silence settled between them, broken only by the faint sound of Nero's breathing.

He looked around again, more carefully this time. Most of the candles still burned. But not all of them.

Here and there, scattered throughout the endless rows, he saw darkened stands. Empty holders where flames had once burned. The slabs beneath them were no different from the others. They were still wrapped and arranged with the same care, but the light above them had died.

Nero counted twelve in his immediate line of sight. Then stopped counting.

"How many have gone out?" he asked quietly.

Sergeant Vane didn't answer immediately. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, something dark passed across his face.

"More than there should be," he said finally.

Nero's chest tightened. The cold pressed harder against him, and he pulled his arms close to his body.

"Come," Vane said, turning away from the slab. "There is something I want to show you."

They walked deeper into the crypt. The rows of bodies stretched on and on, each one identical to the last. Crimson cloth. Iron stands. Steady flames. The scent of herbs grew stronger, layering over itself until it was almost cloying.

Nero's eyes drifted to the candles as they passed.

The light of the candles that burned filled his vision. This made the smaller patches of darkness scattered around far more distinct.

For some reason, he thought of Lawson. Then of Garrick. Of all those who had fallen in the wilderness. And then, Obed...

The man had fallen to Templar's blade just at the outskirts of the city. What had become of his soul? Had it been picked up by one of the four Kings? Was it drifting aimlessly through the empty wastelands?

Nero didn't know. He also didn't want to find out.

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