Part IV of the Spiral Series

The spiral pulled her north.

She didn’t decide. Not really. The artifact simply leaned in that direction, its hum stronger when she faced the mountains, weaker when she turned away. Her dreams ended there too—in jagged silhouettes etched against a dying sky, clouds crawling like wounded things.

She stopped asking why.

On the third day, the silence deepened.

Not just quiet—absence. No birdsong. No wind brushing leaves. Even her own breath seemed muffled, as if the world had turned down the volume on her existence.

It wasn’t altitude.
It was approach.

Something didn’t want to be disturbed.

---

She crested a ridge and saw it: a broken temple, half-consumed by the rock around it like the mountain had tried to swallow it whole. Pillars leaned like fractured bones. The stone steps bled with black moss. Light didn’t quite land right here—it floated, hung, like it wasn’t sure where to fall.

And in the air above the ruin: a spiral.

Not carved. Not painted. Projected—faint, flickering, as if the sky was remembering a shape it wasn’t meant to hold.

The artifact throbbed inside her coat, pressing against her chest with each step like a heartbeat just out of sync with her own.

She descended in silence.

---

Inside, the temple smelled like old metal and wet dust. Not decay—memory. The scent of forgotten things trying to stay relevant. The walls bent in strange ways—straight lines that turned slightly as she walked, always off by a few degrees, until her sense of balance slipped sideways.

Time didn’t work here.

A hallway led into itself. An echo arrived before her footstep. Her shadow stretched behind her, then ahead, then vanished completely.

And then—whispers.

Not words. Tones. Rising and falling in a rhythm that made her teeth ache. The artifact vibrated harder. It wanted something. Or it feared something.

Then she saw him.

A man seated in the center of a circular chamber, bones fanned around him like a ritual compass. He didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just opened his eyes like he’d never closed them.

“I was wondering when you’d arrive,” he said.

His voice was calm. Steady. Too steady.

Carla didn’t speak. She stepped closer, hand hovering over the artifact. Her breath fogged slightly, though the air was warm.

“You’re a keyholder,” she said.

He smiled—not with his mouth, but with his posture. His stillness. His certainty.

“So are you. Or you wouldn’t be here.”

---

His name was Liran.

He spoke like someone who didn’t just believe what he said—he’d built himself around it.

“They called the spiral a prison,” he said, gesturing to the glyphs. “But that was always the lie. It’s not a cage. It’s a cradle.”

The way he touched the stone was too gentle. Reverent. Like it had raised him.

Carla felt her pulse climbing. The air in the chamber shifted—thicker now. Her chest felt tight, like the oxygen was being repurposed for something else.

“A cradle for what?” she asked.

“For the next world. This one was a rehearsal.”

---

Liran reached into his coat and drew something out—another artifact. Smaller than hers, no silver veins. Matte black, split by a single groove that shimmered faintly red. The spiral on it was asymmetrical, sharp-edged. Wrong.

“This one doesn’t twist,” he said. “It just opens.”

Carla felt her own artifact heat up, protesting. Reacting.

“What happens if I use mine?” she asked, already knowing.

“Then you bury it. But it still grows beneath. It gets louder. Smarter. Hungrier.”

The floor beneath them pulsed. Not an earthquake—a breath. The room inhaled.

She took a step back. Liran didn’t move.

“You’ve already let something through,” he said. “Sealing this won’t fix that. It’ll just make you deaf to what’s coming.”

“Good,” she whispered.

And twisted.

---

The world ruptured.

No sound—just pressure, slamming outward. The glyphs ignited in a burst of white. The air tore with invisible claws. Something screamed, not with a voice, but with recoil—a shriek of retreat.

Liran staggered, shielding his face. The bones around him exploded into dust. The spiral projected above the altar shrank inward like a dying eye.

Carla collapsed to one knee, gasping for breath. Both artifacts pulsed once—hard—then went still. Her ears rang. Her skin burned.

She opened her eyes.

Liran was gone. No trace. No blood. Just the afterimage of something that had been there.

And her hand—

Red. Raw. Branded.

A spiral etched into the flesh of her palm—not cut, not tattooed. Emerging. Like it had always been under the skin, waiting to show itself.

Her breath caught. Her pulse raced.

I sealed it.
But I brought something through.

She wrapped her hand quickly, ignoring the pain.

Then she stood. Alone. Eyes on the exit.

There were more doors.

And now, something inside her was learning how to knock.