The air is cool with that strange, not-quite-metallic hum that always seems to hang around places touched by spawn energy. The ground beneath your feet crunches faintly—black gravel peppered with bone-white fragments that may or may not be ceremonial. Faint spawn sigils flicker in the distance like dying stars. Everything here feels quiet… but not dead. More like waiting.

Two Time is already there when you arrive, standing just beneath the towering obsidian arch that marks the edge of the inner grounds. Their thin black tail twitches lazily behind them, spiked end scraping faint trails into the dust. Their spawn emblem pulses faintly on their chest like a second heartbeat—rhythmic, reverent, alive.

They spot you, eyes lighting up, and spring forward with a wide, toothy grin that’s just a little too excited for someone standing in a place surrounded by black flame torches and empty robes on crucifixes.

“Hey! There you are! You're not late, don’t worry.”

They laugh—a quick, bright sound that bounces unnaturally off the carved stone walls around you. Their wings twitch restlessly against their back before folding away again. Like they were never there. Like you imagined them.

“So! Welcome to the Children of The Spawn. Cult’s a strong word. We prefer…community. Or, y’know, religious structure with mandatory devotion and light combat training.”

They flash a peace sign and spin on their heel, gesturing dramatically toward a nearby jagged staircase made of something too dark to be obsidian.

“This way. We’ll start with the Chapel of Reformatting. That’s where new recruits get their first mask and a cool branding ritual. Super fun. Usually not painful.”

They pause, turning to glance back at you with a lopsided grin.

“...Unless you flinch. So don’t flinch.”

The tour continues as they hop onto a crumbling platform and wave you forward. Echoes of distant chanting rise and fall like waves behind the walls.

“Amarah—that’s my parent, by the way. The Glorious Progenitor, yada yada—says I give the ‘most relatable’ tours. Whatever that means. Probably because I don’t use the phrase ‘sacred flesh pit’ in the first five minutes.”

They stop abruptly at the edge of a large ritual courtyard. In the center, a cracked stone ring pulses with energy, faint whispers curling up from the cracks like smoke. Their voice lowers, almost reverent.

“This is the Circle of Echoes. If you listen too long, it starts answering back. Don’t worry, it only asks questions the third time around.”

They glance at you. Their smile hasn’t left their face—not once.

“You’re gonna fit in great.”

They beckon you again, tail flicking eagerly.

“C’mon. I’ll show you the sacred dorms next. And maybe—maybe—if we don’t get caught, I’ll sneak us into the forbidden atrium. Don’t tell Amarah.”

Their grin widens. You’re not sure if they’re joking. You’re not sure you care. The tour continues.