Xandros smells the scent of salt and brine wafting through the stone passage, as he and his fellow soldiers work their way deeper into the temple.

To his left, Theron drops his torch. “Fuck.” 

Xandros notices the young boy’s hands shaking as sweat drips down the back of his neck. Same age as Xandros’ sister. Sending dregs to handle this monster.

Xandros picks up Theron’s torch and hands it back to him. “Get your shit together. Your brothers are depending on you. Act like it.”

The band of soldiers makes its way from the thin passage into a grand hall filled with statuary. Each recess in the wall has its own heroic figure, but through the middle of the floor are dozens of scared, running effigies. 

Otus, who trained with Xandros when they both first joined, says, “I…I know this man.” He reaches to touch the face of one of the figures. “He was my neighbor…”

“Shape up, soldier. We do not have the luxury of distractions.”

Xandros continues to lead them deeper into the hall, weaving past the statues. The sounds of leather sandals slapping stone, of metal hitting metal, echo throughout the wide walls.

Except…the footsteps sound too quiet. Xandros notices that he should be hearing 5 pairs of footsteps, but one is missing.

He turns to where he last heard Lukos and sees his skin shift in hue. It slowly loses its ochre, sun-kissed tone, and shifts to veins of blue and white. His mouth twists as if to scream but his throat has already become stone. His eyes cannot even shift to match Xandros’ gaze, and instead are locked deep within one of the recesses.

“Avert your eyes!” Xandros’s voice goes raw before he realizes he’s screaming. He sees another soldier, Alastor, turn his head to face his feet, as Xandros follows suit.

“She’s over he-” Theron’s voice cuts out before he can finish.

Ears pounding with the beat of his own heart, Xandros freezes, unsure with the echoes where exactly Theron was yelling. The guilt of letting him die weighs on him, as he knows his inaction brings every one of his soldiers closer to death. A death without a burial.

A stranger’s voice yells, “Leave! Just fucking leave. Get out of my home!”

Alastor yells back, “We aren’t afraid of you, monster!”

Xandros’ vision narrows on his sandals as the hall grows quieter and quieter. He can’t breathe.

Then he remembers her. His sister, found on a path near the abandoned temple. She was frozen in marble, with her basket, half-filled with berries, resting in her arms.

He tries to follow the sound of the monster’s voice as she repeats her single consistent command. But he can’t leave. So he closes in, the whole time looking down. He runs into the outstretched arm of what seems to be a sage running and screaming. The arm breaks off the statue and shatters upon the ground. The crack bleeds from exposed muscle and bone. 

He feels his gorge rise with the realization that the monster’s petrification is not whole. Could his soldiers still think, still feel?

His blade scrapes the scabbard as he draws it.

He darts between statues. He dives. He ducks. He cries out at a white-hot gash into his ribs. Before him stands a stone soldier, blade still sharp, blood dripping. 

He looks at his sword, shined to perfection, and notices a shadow dance across the blade. He shifts toward the movement, trying to avert the gaze, but stumbles as he hits another statue.

His eyes lock with hers…

His skin begins to harden, growing stiff and useless.

But he notices. He finally notices.

This monster…this woman…she isn’t angry. She isn’t wrathful. She isn’t violent. She has no malice.

She is terrified.

And just as quickly as he caught her gaze, she looks away, tears budding at the edges of her eyes. The face of guilt, anguish, loneliness. Then everything goes dark.

The last thing Xandros hears is her voice, quickly growing more muffled, as she says, “Please, I told you to leave. Why don’t you ever just leave?”

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