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“How are we supposed to dig it out?” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

Zahara stumbles forward, nearly collapsing onto the sand in front of the building. Elm moves to steady her, but she waves him off and sinks her hand into the sand.

“Everyone back away,” she warns, her voice strained.

The ground vibrates beneath us, and the sand shifts, rolling away from the stone walls like water retreating from a shore. Zahara sways, her face pale, but Elm drops beside her, lifting his hand. A breeze kicks up, summoned by his wind magic, and helps push the remaining sand away. His magic isn’t powerful, but it works. Slowly, the building emerges, revealing smooth gravestones scattered around it, their surfaces untouched by any inscriptions.

When the doorway is mostly clear, Zahara collapses onto the ground, gasping for breath. Sweat glistens on her brow, her energy spent from the magic and blood loss.

“Marshalla, get her awake. Jake, watch their backs. One of you stay here with them—the other, come with me and Reign,” Elm orders, his voice sharp with authority.

I follow Elm to the stone structure, hoping it really is the catacombs. It certainly looks the part. Together, we heave at the door, muscles straining until it finally gives way, scraping open just enough for us to slip through.

Inside, a heavy stone sarcophagus rests in the centre of the room, surrounded by half-burned candles, thick cobwebs, and layers of sand. The air feels stale, heavy, like it hasn’t been disturbed in centuries.

Darkness presses in around us, so I summon a flame, a glowing orb flickering at my fingertips. The warmth barely touches the cold draft swirling through the room, the chill sinking into my bones. Something about it feels wrong. The hairs on my arms rise, a shiver running down my spine.

Elm tenses, his gaze darting between me and the other prisoner. There are no windows, no other doors—so where is the draft coming from?

“There aren’t any books here. And how do we even know which one is the right book?” the prisoner mutters, frustration lining his voice.

“Just keep looking. It’s probably in the sarcophagus,” Elm says.

The prisoner heaves the sarcophagus lid open, and with a low rumble, a hidden door slides open at the back of the room. Beyond it, a staircase spirals down into darkness.

“It’s here!” the prisoner exclaims, pulling a thick, old leather-bound book from inside the sarcophagus.

As soon as the book leaves the coffin, the candles surrounding us blaze to life, only to sputter out moments later, plunging the room back into darkness. The prisoner stumbles back, body convulsing violently. The book slips from his hands, slamming onto the stone floor with a hollow thud that echoes through the chamber.

Elm and I gasp in unison.

The prisoner’s eyes turn completely black, blood dripping from the corners of his eyes and leaking from his ears. Foamy crimson spills from his nose and mouth as he collapses to the ground, his skin fading to an unnatural gray.

“Elm… What was tha?—”

“I... I don’t know,” Elm stammers, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as if trying to block out what he just witnessed. “It must be a blood curse—punishment for anyone who opens the sarcophagus and touches the book. But we have what we came for. There’s no reason to go down those stairs.”

I nod, the weight of the situation sinking in. “What could be in this book? What’s so important that the King and Princess Vanna needed it—and dangerous enough to be cursed?”

Elm’s face tightens with unease, confusion clouding his expression. His hands rest on his hips as he stares at the book, brows furrowed. “I have no idea, but we shouldn’t touch it directly—or open it.”

“Agreed. Hand me your satchel.”

Elm passes his bag to me. I empty my supplies into his and hand him the now full satchel. Using my empty one, I scoop the cursed book inside and sling it over my shoulder.

“Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

We step out of the building, and the other prisoners look up. Marshalla is the first to notice us, rising to her feet.

“Where’s Larry?” she asks, her eyes scanning the two of us.

I shake my head at Marshalla.

“Shit. He was a good kid,” she mutters, pressing a hand to her forehead and staring at the ground. “I can’t wake her yet. She needs to rest, and then I’ll try again.”

I start to walk over to them but the sand beneath my feet begins to tremble violently. A giant double headed serpent dives out from the sand. James told me to beware of snakes, but this is not just a snake. It has two heads—each big enough to swallow me whole. Its tan and brown body is thicker than a tree trunk.

One of the heads strikes before anyone can react, swallowing Zahara whole in a single, horrifying gulp.