Page 71 of The Hyena’s Guardian

“It’s time.”

Silence lingered briefly between them after that.

Then Matt adjusted the strap of his rifle and stepped back just enough for the moment to loosen its hold on them both. The chamber returned around Theron after that, the shifting floodlights, the distant groaning beneath the mountain, the operatives gathering equipment near the tunnels ahead.

But the bond never quieted completely.

Theron could still feel Matt beside him through the steady warmth of the connection, constant and grounding in a way the catacombs had not felt in centuries. Even without touching him, Matt’s presence lingered beneath Theron’s skin like something alive and impossibly real.

For most of his existence beneath the mountain, every descent deeper into the prison had felt like walking willingly toward his own grave. Duty had been the only thing waiting for him in the dark. Now Matt walked beside him.

And somehow that changed the shape of the darkness itself.

***

The survivors moved through the catacombs in tense silence while floodlights carved pale paths across the ancient stone ahead.

Vale led the first movement team through the narrowing corridor, with Baptiste close behind her carrying two motion anchors secured against his back like oversized explosives. As Matt had pointed out several times already, that was essentially what they were.

Theron remained near the center of the formation while the injured were kept between the stronger wolves. Matt walked beside him despite repeated attempts from Vale to reorganize the teams more efficiently.

Theron understood the real reason. Matt refused to let him walk alone. He still wasn’t accustomed to the feeling.

The tunnels grew older the deeper they descended. Ancient carvings spread across the walls in widening spirals worn smooth by centuries of moisture and shifting stone. In some places, claw marks cut violently through the symbols as though something trapped beneath the mountain had once tried tearing its way free long before the prison began failing.

The First King’s presence thickened steadily around them.

Theron felt it in the corruption stirring uneasily beneath his skin. The prison was weakening faster now. Every tremor carried more strain through the ancient structure surrounding them, and somewhere below, something vast continued waking beneath the mountain with slow terrible patience.

One of the younger wolves near the rear swallowed hard. “Tell me those noises are normal.”

“They are not,” Theron answered.

Matt glanced sideways toward him. “You know, there are situations where honesty becomes actively unhelpful.”

Despite everything, the urge to smile caught him off guard. It still felt unfamiliar every time it happened.

Ahead of them, the tunnel narrowed sharply before opening into a massive circular chamber supported by enormous stone pillars rising into darkness overhead. Ancient metal rings had been embedded directly into the floor in carefully measured patterns surrounding a deep central shaft that disappeared far below.

The entire chamber hummed faintly. Not sound. Power. The survivors slowed automatically as they entered.

Baptiste stared down at the rings surrounding the shaft. “This is one of the anchor points.”

“Yes,” Theron said quickly.

Matt stepped closer beside him, studying the chamber with visible unease. “Please tell me we are not about to climb into the glowing nightmare hole.”

Theron looked toward the shaft. “Not yet.”

Matt stared at him for a beat. “Was that a joke?”

Theron looked back at him. “No.”

“See? That’s the problem. I genuinely can’t tell anymore.”

Vale motioned the teams into defensive positions while several wolves secured floodlights around the outer perimeter of the chamber. As the pale beams spread across the ancient walls, more carvings emerged from the darkness surrounding the central shaft.

These symbols differed from the ones above. They were names. Hundreds of them had been carved carefully into the stone pillars in overlapping rows that climbed upward beyond the reach of the lights, worn soft by time and centuries of drifting dust.