Ravenbreath

The Runes Must Hold

He carves because he must. Every mark is a tether, every line a lullaby for something older than sleep. The Keep has grown colder—not in temperature, but in silence. Runes flicker where they once glowed steady. The arc-lines pull against the stone like muscle beneath skin. He blames the weather, or time, or madness—but still, he carves. A shift in rhythm. A hum out of sync. The kind of silence that means something is listening.

There’s movement, too—shadows where there should be none, laughter in distant halls, and misplaced boots near unlit stairwells. He dismisses it as his mind unraveling… until one of the keystone runes loses its light entirely. Now, he works faster, hands raw against the stone, desperate to maintain what feels like unraveling thread. Somewhere above, a dog chases sounds only it can hear—and below, something begins to pulse.