The spiral staircase seemed endless.
The Raven Ian had become followed silently, always keeping to the shadows thirty steps behind. His raven eyes could not only see in the dark; he was also secretly casting an obscure spell called Path Trace—every seven steps, he left an almost invisible silver rune in the air, as if marking some kind of pattern.
This was the embodiment of better safe than sorry.
Ian had to be prepared for accidents at any moment. He noticed that the moss on the walls was not distributed at random—every seven steps, there was an especially dense patch.
This moss had not grown naturally. Every seven steps, there was an especially thick clump, roughly oval-shaped, with faint fluorescence around its edges.
Together, they resembled some method of counting, but also seemed to signify something being born. It was related to seven, a number regarded as sacred in the world of Harry Potter.
At the end of the spiral staircase, cold, damp air carrying the strange scent of decay and cloying sweetness rushed toward them. The Ghost Bride dragged the Scepter Priest by the ankle, leaving a winding trail of blood across the moss-covered stone steps. The priest's White Robe had long since been torn to rags. His shriveled fingers clawed desperately at the gaps between the steps, utterly unaware that his nails had split and peeled back.
"Please, no. I can do many things for you. I'm useful." The priest's voice was so hoarse it barely sounded human, and his single eye was bloodshot.
The Ghost Bride did not react. Her red bridal veil and gown glimmered with a blood-colored light in the gloom. Her steps were mechanical and precise, each one landing exactly on the densest patches of moss. Ian's Raven Form glided soundlessly onward, his sharp