The ground trembled beneath his feet, but Altheron didn't stop.
Dust rained from the ceiling as he stumbled through the dark corridor, the last echoes of the Tree Spirit's voice still ringing in his mind.
"Find me… where the final seal sleeps…"
The words looped endlessly, steady as his heartbeat. He didn't know how long he'd been walking—minutes, hours, maybe more—but the air had changed. It wasn't just cold anymore; it felt alive, breathing against his skin like a thing that watched and waited.
His torch flickered weakly, fighting the shadows that pressed in from every direction. Each step sent small ripples through the ground, as if the stone itself was softer now—like walking over something that once pulsed with life but had long since died.
He tightened his grip on the sword, feeling its familiar weight in his palm. The blade's edge was stained, not just with blood but with faint dark residue that shimmered faintly when the torchlight hit it. He didn't clean it. Somehow, it felt wrong to—as if erasing it would mean forgetting her.
The silence gnawed at him, louder than any scream.
He thought of the fallen—the Sentinels, the adventurers, the man he'd mercy-killed. The look in his eyes. The crawling insects. The Tree Spirit's plea. All of it burned behind his eyes, heavy and suffocating.
And beneath that… the fear.
Not of death, but of what the Spirit had said—
"He has already chosen you."
His hand brushed his chest unconsciously, half-expecting to feel something crawling beneath his skin. But there was only the slow, rhythmic thud of his heart. Still steady. Still human. For now.
He forced his pace faster. The corridor opened into a narrow path suspended over a vast chasm. Jagged roots jutted out from the walls like black veins, dripping a faint silvery dew that hissed when it hit the stone below.
When he reached the center of the path, the air shifted again—colder, sharper.
A faint breeze brushed past his face, carrying the scent of something faintly sweet… and familiar.
Emi's perfume.
He froze. His heart skipped.
"Emi?" His voice echoed, thin and uncertain.
Only silence answered—but for the first time in hours, it wasn't oppressive.
It felt… guiding. Like the dungeon itself was leading him somewhere.
He followed.
Further down, the path widened into what seemed like a resting alcove—natural, yet unnaturally precise, as though the stone itself had chosen to form it. The walls here were smooth, marked with faint spirals and carvings of roots entwining stars. The Tree Spirit's symbol was there too—half-faded but unmistakable.
He reached out and traced it with his fingers.
It was warm.
That warmth traveled up his arm, into his chest, and for the briefest moment, the crushing weight of guilt and fear lifted.
He could almost hear her again—gentle, distant, like wind through leaves.
"You walk the path of burden, bearer. But every step you take keeps him from waking."
He exhaled slowly. His hands stopped shaking.
For the first time since entering the dungeon, he didn't feel entirely alone.
He sat for a while, resting his back against the wall. The torch crackled softly beside him.
His eyelids grew heavy, exhaustion creeping in at last. But before he closed his eyes, he whispered into the silence:
"Emi… Kaelmourn… Lyra… Kaelen… wait for me."
The light dimmed, and the darkness deepened—but this time, it didn't feel hostile.
It felt… patient.
Watching.
Waiting.
When Altheron woke, the torch had burned out.
Only the dim silver glow from the wall carvings remained, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. The air was colder now, and his muscles screamed in protest as he stood. He wasn't sure how long he had slept—but he knew he couldn't stop here.
He picked up his sword, its metal cold against his skin.
The warmth he'd felt earlier was gone, replaced by the same hollow chill that seemed to follow him now.
The path ahead twisted downward, the walls growing narrower, pressing close enough that his shoulders brushed against them. The silence here wasn't natural—it was the kind that listened.
A faint sound broke it at last.
Not the rustling of insects, not the rumble of shifting roots—
but… a voice. Soft. Hoarse. Human.
"…Hello? Is… someone there?"
Altheron froze. The voice came from up ahead, faint but steady.
He tightened his grip on the sword and moved cautiously forward, one slow step at a time.
The tunnel opened into a small chamber lit by flickering blue fire.
At its center, crouched beside a half-broken lantern, was a woman—armor torn, cloak frayed, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion etched into her face. Her sword was drawn, though her arm trembled as she held it.
When she saw him, she rose too quickly, nearly losing her balance.
"Stay back!" she rasped. "If you're one of them, I'll—"
Altheron raised his free hand slowly. "I'm not. I'm human. Adventurer… same as you."
Her eyes darted to the insignia on his cloak—the sigil of Caelburn's expedition—and the tension in her shoulders eased, just barely.
"…You're from the upper group?" she asked, her voice lowering. "I thought you all…" She didn't finish. She didn't need to.
He nodded once. "Most didn't make it. The dungeon's… changing."
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she sheathed her blade and sank to her knees, exhaling shakily.
"My name's Keyla. Third Division Scout."
Her gaze flicked upward again, studying him. "You're alone?"
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Got separated after the collapse."
Something unreadable crossed her face—pity, maybe, or understanding.
Then she gestured to the broken lantern beside her. "I ran out of oil hours ago. Thought I'd die in the dark."
He crouched beside her and ignited his spare torch. The light filled the chamber, revealing faded carvings across the stone—spirals, sigils, and faint depictions of roots binding something deep underground. Keyla's eyes followed the lines.
"These markings," she murmured. "They're not just decoration. I think they're… restraints."
"Restraints?"
She nodded. "For something sealed below. Whatever this place was—it wasn't built to be found."
Her tone carried weight, but beneath it, a thread of fear.
Altheron remembered the Tree Spirit's voice, the plea that still echoed in his chest.
"The seal weakens… and I am unmade."
He said nothing.
Keyla leaned against the wall, exhaustion visible in every movement. "I heard… screams earlier. From deeper in. Not human ones."
Altheron looked down the path ahead.
He could feel it too—the faint thrum beneath the stone, the whispering pull that seemed to call his name again and again.
"Then that's where we're going," he said finally.
Keyla blinked, startled. "You're serious? We should turn back! The walls move—the air eats sound! No one who went deeper came out!"
He met her gaze, calm and resolute. "Someone's waiting for me."
Something in his voice made her stop arguing. She studied him a moment longer, then sighed and pulled herself to her feet.
"Fine," she muttered. "If we're doing this, we do it together."
He nodded. "Stay close."
They walked side by side, torches held high. The tunnel swallowed their light, endless and vast, yet somehow—somehow—it felt less lonely now.
And far behind them, in the darkness they'd left behind, something shifted.
The carvings on the wall pulsed once, faintly—
then went still.
The path ahead sloped downward into a corridor lined with carved stone roots.
Each step echoed like a heartbeat—steady, hollow, rhythmic.
Altheron walked first, his torchlight tracing faint symbols that crawled like veins across the wall. Keyla followed close, crossbow drawn, eyes darting toward every whisper that wasn't theirs.
The air thickened the further they went. A faint hum trembled through the stones, as if something enormous slept just beyond hearing.
Then—
a sound.
Soft. Familiar.
A voice echoing faintly down the tunnel.
"…Altheron?!"
He stopped cold.
That voice—he'd know it anywhere. He turned sharply toward the sound. "Emi?!"
Before Keyla could react, he broke into a run, torchlight flickering wildly as he sprinted down the passage. His boots splashed through shallow puddles, breath echoing in ragged bursts.
The corridor widened suddenly into a small underground chamber lit by faint daylight streaming from a crack above.
And there—standing beside a cluster of broken stone pillars—was Emi.
Her cloak was torn, her braid loose, but she was alive. The instant their eyes met, all the dread and exhaustion he'd been carrying seemed to break.
"Emi—"
He didn't finish. She ran to him, and for a moment the dungeon, the death, the darkness—it all disappeared.
"You're alive…" she whispered, her hands trembling as she held onto him. "Gods, I thought—"
"I'm fine," he said quietly, though his voice cracked on the last word. "You made it."
"I had help," she said, stepping aside slightly.
That's when he saw her—
a tall figure, long dark hair tied back, clad in light armor etched with runic lines. Her stance was composed, her gaze sharp and calm.
Lyra.
The air between them shifted—awkward, but steady.
She inclined her head slightly. "Didn't think I'd see you again, Altheron."
He gave a weary half-smile. "You always did have bad timing."
"Or good," she countered softly. "You'd be dead without her."
Keyla finally caught up, breathing heavily as she lowered her weapon. "So there were survivors…"
Lyra nodded. "Barely. The collapse cut us off from the exit. Emi and I found this chamber two days ago. There's water dripping from the ceiling—it kept us alive."
Emi looked at Altheron again, eyes still red from exhaustion. "Did you find anyone else?"
He hesitated. The images flooded back—the corpses, the insects, the Sentinel's screams, the Spirit's broken plea.
His throat tightened. "No," he said finally. "Just… remnants."
Silence fell.
The faint light from the crack above flickered across their faces, casting them in shifting shadow.
After a long pause, Altheron asked softly, "And Kaelen? Where is she?"
The question hung heavy.
Emi's gaze faltered. Lyra's jaw tightened. Neither spoke at first.
When Lyra finally did, her voice was barely more than a whisper.
"She's gone."
Altheron froze. "Gone? What do you mean gone?"
Lyra's eyes lowered to the floor. "When we entered the lower chamber… it was quiet. Too quiet. Then the walls started moving."
She swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as she spoke.
"Insects… thousands of them. They came from everywhere. The ground, the walls—like a tide of flesh."
Emi turned away, her hand covering her mouth.
Lyra continued, her voice breaking slightly.
"She tried to hold them off. Told us to run. I saw him—" She stopped, shaking her head. "They were on him in seconds. All we found afterward was her hand. Still gripping his blade."
Altheron's chest tightened painfully. His throat burned. He wanted to say something—anything—but no words came.
Emi's quiet sob filled the silence.
Lyra's voice trembled. "If we had been slower, they'd have taken us too. She bought us enough time to reach this place."
The air in the chamber felt heavier now, as though grief itself pressed down upon them.
For a long while, no one moved.
Then Keyla murmured softly, "She died fighting. That's more than most could say here."
But Altheron didn't hear her.
His mind was elsewhere—back in the chamber of corpses, the insects crawling through flesh, the man begging for death.
He had thought that was the worst horror anyone could witness.
He was wrong.
The thought hit him like a blade to the gut: What if Emi had seen that? What if she saw worse?
He turned to look at her—her eyes red, her hands shaking, her lips pressed tight as if trying to hold something back.
And suddenly, the images in his mind overlapped—the screaming man, the swarm, the pleas for death—and he realized she had seen it. All of it.
The chamber wasn't the worst horror. It was what she survived to reach him.
He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. His grip on the sword tightened until his knuckles turned white.
The silence stretched long, broken only by the slow drip of water from the ceiling.
Finally, Lyra whispered, "We can't stay here. The air's getting thinner."
Altheron nodded slowly, his voice low and steady again—but something inside him had changed.
"Then let's move," he said.
The others followed, unaware of the silent vow that formed behind his expressionless stare.
He would never let her see something like that again.
But as they stepped into the tunnel below, a faint rustling rose from above—soft, rhythmic, familiar.
The ceiling crack shivered, dust spilling down like ash.
For a heartbeat, they all heard it—clicking whispers in the dark.
Keyla's torch wavered. "Tell me that was just stone settling…"
Altheron's voice was barely audible.
"No," he whispered. "It wasn't."