Chapter 16: The Voice in the Dark (Greece)

The darkness of the secret chamber enveloped John like cold water, and the faint light filtering through ceiling cracks trembled like the breath of ghosts. The stone walls stared at him with spirals coiling like snakes, stars glinting in the half-light, and silhouettes of women holding lyres, scrolls, and masks. The altar in the center, taller than the one he’d seen before, stood like a silent sentinel, carved with a sun symbol surrounded by nine rays. The metal disc with an engraved star, clutched in John’s hand, felt heavier than it should, as if it carried the weight of centuries. The air was cool, heavy, scented with damp stone and something ancient, elusive. From above came sounds — the footsteps of pursuers, muffled voices echoing like hammer strikes. The Order of Shadow was near.

“Looks like someone could use some help…” The voice that shattered the silence was low, melodious, but laced with a sharp edge of mockery, as if its owner laughed at the very idea of John’s presence. It reverberated from all directions, as if the walls themselves were whispering.

John froze, his fingers tightening on the disc, the flashlight in his other hand swaying, casting trembling shadows. His heart pounded, but the adrenaline surging through his veins drowned out fear. “Who are you?” His voice was sharp but controlled, forged in the crucible of Varanasi. “Show yourself.”

“Show myself?” The voice laughed, clear as silver bells, but with a haughty note. “You barge into my home, mortal, and demand I come to you? Bold. Or foolish.” A pause, as if the voice savored his reaction. “Who are you to step here? Another hunter of secrets that will crumble to dust in your hands?”

John felt sweat trickle down his temples, mingling with the dust settling on his skin. His eyes narrowed, scanning the walls for the voice’s source, but the shadows only danced under the flashlight’s beam. “I’m here for the truth,” he said, his voice cold as steel. “About the Muses. About the Order of Shadow. About what’s been hidden for centuries.”

“The truth?” The voice sharpened, like a blade scraping stone. “Truth isn’t a trophy you can claim. It will burn you if you’re not ready. And you, mortal, look like someone afraid of his own heart.” A short, sharp laugh echoed through the chamber. “Tell me, what drives you? Glory? Revenge? Or perhaps the tears of a red-haired girl begging you to stay?”

John clenched his teeth, his fingers trembling at the mention of Lucy, but he refused to let the voice hook him. The cold stone of the altar under his touch reminded him of her tears, but he pushed the memory aside. “My reasons are none of your business,” he snapped. “I know there’s something here I need. And I won’t stop until I find it. Not you, nor they, will stop me.”

The voice fell silent, as if appraising him. The shadows on the walls seemed livelier, the spirals appearing to shift under the flashlight’s beam. “Bold words,” the voice finally said, mockery mingling with curiosity. “You’re not the first to come here with such claims. Many have fallen, crushed by the weight of truth. Why do you think you’re different? Your blood doesn’t smell divine. Your heart pounds like a frightened animal’s.”

John took a step forward, his boots scraping the stone floor. “I don’t claim divinity,” he said, his voice steady but resonant with strength. “But I’ll withstand anything you throw at me. I came for answers, and I’ll get them. Even if I have to break these walls.”

Silence fell, heavy as the air before a storm. Then the voice laughed, softer this time, almost approving. “Very well, mortal. Your resolve… is intriguing. Perhaps you’re worthy of seeing more. But remember: truth is a labyrinth, and not all emerge alive.”

A sudden grinding sound tore through the silence, and part of the wall opposite the altar shuddered. Stone slid apart, revealing a narrow passage exuding cold and a whisper like a distant chorus. John’s flashlight beam fell on steep stairs descending into deeper darkness. The steps were roughly hewn, their edges worn by time, and the walls shimmered with the same spirals and stars that seemed alive. John gripped the disc, feeling its chill, and stepped into the passage. His heart pounded, but he didn’t hesitate. This was the path his grandfather had whispered of — the path to truth.

The stairs were narrow, the air thick, scented with damp and stone. The flashlight beam swayed, catching carved symbols: silhouettes of women with lyres, masks, scrolls. Each step echoed like a stone falling into an abyss, and John felt goosebumps from the whispers rising from below. He descended cautiously, his boots slipping on worn steps, sweat trickling down his back, mingling with dust. The shadows behind him seemed to quiet, but he knew the pursuers hadn’t retreated.

Suddenly, a sound cut through the air — sharp as a whip’s crack. Something heavy struck John’s back, and he felt himself falling forward. A pursuer — a shadow in a cloak, face hidden by a mask — lunged at him, their hands gripping his shoulders like a vice. They tumbled down the stairs, stone slamming into ribs, knocking the breath from him. John instinctively drove his elbow back, feeling it connect with something hard — perhaps a jaw. The pursuer gasped hoarsely but didn’t let go, their fingers digging into John’s neck. The stairs battered them both, each impact radiating pain through his bones, blood mixing with dust, the flashlight rolling downward, casting chaotic beams.

John twisted, grabbing the pursuer’s wrist and yanking them down, using his body’s weight. They crashed onto the floor at the bottom of the stairs, stone tearing the skin on John’s elbow, but he didn’t stop. His fist struck the mask, a crack echoing, and the pursuer staggered back but lunged forward again, a knife glinting in the dim light. John dodged, feeling the blade graze his sleeve, slicing fabric. His breath was ragged, sweat stung his eyes, but the strength forged in Varanasi drove him on. He grabbed the pursuer’s cloak, pulled them close, and drove his knee into their stomach. The pursuer wheezed, but clung to John, and they rolled across the stone floor, their bodies locked in a chaotic struggle.

Suddenly, the air grew heavier, as if an invisible hand crushed them both. A magical force, cold and unrelenting, pinned John and the pursuer to the ground, pressing them against the stone. John felt his lungs constrict, as if in a vice, his arms falling limp. The pursuer beside him wheezed, their mask trembling, unable to move. The voice returned, now furious, like an approaching storm.

“Who dares defile this place?” The voice thundered, shaking the walls, dust raining down. “You, mortal, were permitted, but this… this uninvited guest dared to follow!” A pause, heavy as stone.

“Such audacity! Though… it might amuse us.” The walls trembled with the laughter of the mysterious voice, joined by others, a chorus of voices. “Both of you will face a trial. It’s only fair. Besides, truth reveals itself to those ready to seize it. But what are your motives… little girl?”

“Little girl?” John didn’t understand the mysterious voice’s address…

The air quivered, and the pursuer’s mask flew off, as if lifted by an invisible hand. It swayed in the air before crashing to the stone, shattering. John froze, his eyes widening. Beneath the mask was a young woman’s face — sharp features, eyes blazing with anger but also fear. Her dark, disheveled hair clung to her sweat-dampened cheeks. The magical force still held them both, but the voice was silent, as if waiting. Who was she? And what was this trial?

“You will both face the Dance of Unity. The dance of two shadows will determine who is worthy. The body will lead, but the one who seeks power through force will fall. Trust and rhythm are your only path.”

“What is this voice… Where is it coming from…?” The girl from the Order of Shadow was visibly shaken. She still regarded John with hostility, but now they were bound by their shared predicament…

“I think it’s the voice of one of Apollo’s nymphs…” John replied.

“What!? How is that even possible… A ghost? A spirit? What nonsense!” The girl grew increasingly anxious.

“Strange that you’d skulk around the temple hunting artifacts and not expect to encounter something like this,” John shot back with irony.

The magical force released them, and John felt air fill his lungs. He stood, his shoulder throbbing from the fight on the stairs, sweat trickling down his temples, mixing with dust. The girl beside him rose slowly, her movements cautious, her eyes wary. She clutched her side, likely in pain from the fall, but her posture remained tense, as if bracing for another strike. John gripped the metal disc, its cold reminding him of his grandfather’s notebook, but he pushed the thought aside, focusing on the arena coming alive around them.

The stone walls of the chamber shuddered, the floor trembling as if the earth were waking. Flames sparked along the edges, thin tongues of fire dancing, casting golden glints on the spirals and stars carved into the walls. The air vibrated, filled with a whisper like a chorus. From the shadows emerged figures — spirits of ancient Greek myths: nymphs with fluid movements, satyrs with predatory smiles, their silhouettes swaying to an invisible melody. They circled the arena, their hands gliding over each other’s bodies in erotic gestures that made John look away. Their eyes, gleaming like stars, watched him and the girl, as if waiting for a misstep.