In the shadowed depths of the Sixth Tier crypt, the revered sanctuary was rich with history on display. Carved tombs and faded mosaics adorned the walls. Sculptures of time-lost people that looked eerily different from the people of Shrine. Madark held his sister Mira close as she let out a soft yelp. He loosened his grip and kissed her forehead. Madark didn't know much about the catacombs on the sixth tier of Shrine. He had never made this trek, certainly not after the recent history of the First and the Sixth nearly destroying the city. He found it strange that as a child he heard the tales of the barbarians of the Sixth. Their menacing great swords and violence were legendary. But they weren't home. At least not the living members of the Sixth, they were engaging whatever foreign threat was attacking Shrine while Madark, the other children, the infirm and elderly all hid inside of their catacombs. Many families sought refuge in the lower mausoleums, nearest to the door, and further down, where the line between Sixth and Seventh seemed to blur. Madark and his sister Mira were late to arrive, having come all of the way from the first tier. His legs were exhausted, but still managed to find an empty mausoleum near the upper reaches of the catacombs, a small crypt area where several tiny mausoleums stood.
The remnants of the stone sarcophagus were empty. Possibly desecrated centuries before Madark's arrival. Any remains of the original inhabitants turned to dust or were unceremoniously dumped into the pit.
Madark perched himself upon a step and cradled Mira. From his elevated shelter, he saw the myriad of glowing torches and people congregating. It was still early evening when Madark entered the catacombs and he regretted not bringing anything to keep a fire going. Some light from the levels below made its way upward. Madark could see the people below. The elderly seemed nervous, but the majority of children laughed and played games without a care, jumping from tomb-to-tomb or searching for one another in a morbid game of hide-and-seek.
Madark scanned the doorway as more people continued to enter. The number dwindled slowly and eventually stopped. Madark had hoped to see someone he knew. He wanted someone to talk to, or at least someone that could respond with more than smiles and strange noises. He looked down at Mira and smiled.
“It's okay. I'll protect you.” He said, bouncing his baby sister on his knee.
Then a whistle screeched out followed by a loud snap. Everyone in the catacombs froze. Mira seemed to be the first child to start crying as the whistle lingered. Moments after the snap, a deep rumbling could be heard. Madark stood up and held Mira close. It seemed like several minutes had passed. Hushed speaking could be heard and some nervous laughter. They began to speak louder and more confidently. And then another whistle. This one was more prominent and the rumble that followed seemed significantly closer. There was now complete silence in the tomb, apart from children trying to comfort their younger siblings. Continued assaults on the city continued to radiate a high-pitched ringing through Madark's ears, a disorienting whistle that reverberated and bounced inside the walls of the crypt.
The initial signs of the siege were subtle – a fine dust drifting down from the crypt's ceiling, like a silent herald of doom. Small chips of stone began to clatter to the floor, forming a sporadic and unnerving drumbeat. Madark's heart thudded in his chest as the gravel beneath his feet vibrated, an ominous dance to the rhythm of war. Has the Sixth Tier failed? Madark thought. Were there enough tombs to house all of the dead if they did. How many have already died? He thought of his family. Particularly his sister who protested she was too old to be hiding with the children. Then he thought of his father, Commander of the First. Would the First go and help the Sixth? Or has the First failed also?
The attacks grew closer with each passing moment, the ancient walls of the crypt groaning in protest. Hairline cracks snaked across the stone, mirroring the city's despair. Then, a direct hit shook the very foundation of the catacombs, sending a deafening roar and a cascade of debris tumbling down. Madark could feel a strange sensation, an irritation in his lower legs and feet. An itch that seemed erratic. He ignored it. Perhaps the shaking or the dust.
From below, a strained and unfamiliar voice called out, "Stay inside! Stay down!" The warning did little to quell the rising tide of panic that surged through the huddled masses as muffled screams could be heard.
Peering out from their small refuge within the Sixth Tier mausoleum, Madark surveyed the crypt. Flickering candles and torches dotted the space, casting respectful shadows over the ancient walls. Clusters of children and families, echoes of the city's once vibrant life, huddled together in fear, seeking solace in this historic bastion.
Mira's cries, a heart-wrenching contrast to the surrounding chaos, continued unabated. Madark, channeling memories of his mother's soothing touch, rocked her gently. He shifted her weight in his arms, bouncing her slightly – motions of comfort learned from a time of peace. This familiar action was his silent vow to keep her safe, a blend of desperation and instinct as Madark's mother had shown him when she was preparing dinner. “You need to protect your sisters, Madark. Both of them. They will always need your help.”
As he swayed with Mira, Madark tried to keep his mind occupied. He tapped his feet and bobbed on his heels. Some relief to the strange scratching sensation. His thoughts wandered through the lore of the Sixth Tier crypts. Tales of hidden passages and secret exits woven into the history of these hallowed grounds now seemed like distant echoes. The thought of the legendary warriors who once honored these halls filled him with a mix of awe and a haunting sense of urgency.
Yet he could not block the sounds of children crying and nervous prayers. Madark found this deeply unsettling. Only the Second Tier had any sort of religious ceremonies he thought, for the children of Shrine to be praying, they must be horrified. Or perhaps the dust and vibrating is making them itch as well. Another whistle-snap-vibration. This one seemed almost directly above. Panic began to take control. The chorus of crying made Madark begin to cry.
"Please, stop crying," Madark whispered, his voice barely audible over Mira's sobs. He wasn't sure if the comment was meant for Mira or himself as the tears streamed down his cheeks, blending with hers. In that moment, his tears were not just born of fear or sorrow, but also of a fear of everyone and everything and everyone he knew being dead or destroyed in the city above. Madark started to get angry. Why is this happening? He was told he had to protect his sister. He was told he is to be Commander of the First one day. Future commanders do not cry. Anger will keep him alive. He had to survive – for her sake.
Madark ignored the strange sensation scratching at his heels and knelt down, anticipating the next volley. But nothing came. A long period of silence. Minutes passed. Then several more passed. The scratching began to get worse. Madark stood and bobbed on his heels while trying to cradle his sister.
Was that laughing? Madark moved to the door. The people below seemed to be cheering. Some cried for help from injuries sustained from falling debris, but people seemed to be emerging from their shelters.
He looked down at his baby sister. “I think we are going to be okay.” A inch and a scratch at his calf as his whisper faded into the air another barrage struck, this time, its sound far more terrifying than anything that had come before. The whistle-snap was instant and the horror persisted well after the crash, a nightmarish symphony of destruction as rocks fell and mausoleums crumbled in on themselves. Madark's heart raced fear; he clutched Mira tight and dashed towards a corner, their last refuge as their mausoleum entrance became blocked by falling debris.
In those harrowing moments, the world seemed to collapse around them. The once-sturdy walls of the Sixth Tier crypt, a testament to centuries of honor and bravery, now gave way to the relentless assault. Dust and echoes filled the air, a tangible cloud of history and sorrow.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the last rock fell, and a haunting silence settled over the crypt. Madark and Mira had survived, pinned into a very tight corner, a small pocket of safety in the midst of chaos. Their breathing, rapid and shallow, was the only sound in the immediate vicinity.
But this silence was soon broken by another sound, distant yet unmistakable – the faint, chilling chorus of screams coming from deeper within the crypts. The cries of those less fortunate, their fates sealed by the unforgiving stone, resonated through the hallowed halls. Each scream seemed to tell a story of loss, fear, unmet destinies and pain. A disturbing pain.
Madark felt a shiver run down his spine, a mix of relief and horror. Relief that he and Mira were alive, but horror for those trapped, their screams a stark reminder of their grim reality. He held Mira closer, as if his embrace could shield her not just from the physical debris, but from the tragic truth of their situation.
A sharp pain clawed at Madark's inner thigh. He screamed. Nearly dropping Mira, Madark pushed himself further against the wall. In the heart of the Sixth Tier crypt, surrounded by the remnants of the once mighty Sixth Tier warriors, Madark realized the true extent of their calamity. The crypts, which had stood for centuries as a symbol of strength and honor, were now a tomb for many, their echoes carrying the final cries of the fallen.
Then soft purple glow emerged from the ground, that hovered as mist clings to a lake. The glow slowly intensified as it cast an otherworldly light over the crumbled stones of their shelter. Initially, Madark's heart leaped with hope – perhaps rescuers with some strange lantern – but something about the hue of the light seemed unnatural, unsettling. It wasn't the warm flicker of torchlight he had expected; it was something else, something he had never seen before.
As Madark's eyes adjusted to the glow, a sense of awe overtook him, his mind struggling to comprehend the sight. The light didn't just illuminate; it seemed to pulse, to breathe. And then in this surreal luminescence, shapes began to take form – shapes that defied the ordinary physics of light and shadow.
Protrusions emerged from the glow, contorting and twisting as if the very fabric of the air was bending. The first distinct shape was a gnarled toe with a hideously curled toenail. Madark recoiled in disgust. And then the remainder of the foot emerged, but not like any foot Madark had seen. It seemed misshapen, each subsequent toe with long, curled toenails, the skin carried the same purple hue, it seemed immaterial. Ghostly. Lacking weight or permanence.  Then more feet appeared, each one more deformed than the last, reaching out as if they were trying to step into his very world. The toes squeezed methodically as if fingers on a hand trying to grasp the handle of a potter's mug.
Madark's initial relief turned to frozen terror. These were no rescuers. The very air around the shapes seemed to shiver with an unspeakable malevolence as trails of thick, purple-hued smoke dripped away. The screams from the other parts of the crypts escalated, no longer just cries of fear or pain, but sounds of pure, unadulterated horror. Were they also seeing this? Madark called out for help. His scream caused Mira to cry.
He clutched Mira tighter, her small frame trembling against his chest. Madark knew he had to protect her, from falling rocks or from things far more sinister. He could feel her tiny heart pounding against his own, a rapid drumbeat in the midst of an unknown nightmare.
As the twisted, reaching shapes drew nearer, the purple glow intensifying around them, Madark could only watch in horrified fascination. What were these things? Where had they come from? The air itself seemed to warp and twist around them, reality bending in ways that his mind could not grasp.
They inched closer. Madark had nowhere to run. And then they began to pinch. First it was as if Medina were pinching him, playful yet, irritating. And then, they became more hostile as Madark's anxiety grew. Pinch. Pinch. Scratch. The nails felt as if he were being cut. Sharp, thin scratches as if he ran his calf along a splintered reed. Scratch. Pinch. Scratch. The scratches continued, viciously tearing into his calves. Madark screamed in both horror and pain as the pinching led to even more scratching. The feet were feasting and Madark was the bait as the feet moved around him like a school of fish, each vying for its turn to take a bite.
Madark bent over and tried to swipe them away, his hands and fingertips felt as if they were being sheared. He cried in agony, holding up to examine his hands. They were fine. No visible injuries, yet it felt as if frostbitten. Madark reached down again, this time more violently, he swung at the feet. In doing so, he lost his grip on Mira as the child tumbled. The feet moved from Madark's lower legs and dove on onto the child. Her cries were silenced almost immediately. Perhaps from the fall or the shock and pain. Madark stood in the corner as he watched the apparitions circle around Mira. Madark stood frozen for a second. He wanted to run. He wanted to seek help. But no one was coming. Madark screamed and threw himself on top of Mira, raising her up as  the feet seemed even more ravenous now. All Madark could do was stare at Mira, unable to move, unable to feel the pain, he saw his baby sister's lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
Madark roared. A roar made his throat raw. He threw himself to the ground, the fall felt like an eternity to Madark, who wished to reach her sooner. He wanted revenge. He began smashing his fists into the cold, unforgiving stone. The apparitions did not yield, seemingly ignoring his assault as they continued to claw at Mira's body and his own fresh, untapped limbs.