Chapter 7 – The Forbidden Tunnel and the First Peril
The northern forest breathed differently. Rain sharpened the metallic scent of soil; rot hung thick in the air; wind slipped under roots rather than through leaves. At the terraced ledge marked by two old oaks, the stones matched his map. Seryn tapped a mossed slab with the butt of his knife—thock… thock… thunk. Hollow.
He peeled the moss, lifted a loose stone, and found a rusted ring. Rope through, weight down—the lid groaned open and exhaled cold air smelling of stale water and stone. He lit his lantern, hung it at his throat. Short sword in his right, small buckler in his left, he whispered, "No turning back," and slid down the shaft.
Mud clutched at his boots. The passage forked: wet and heavy to the left, sharp and dry to the right. He took the right. Scratches scored the wall beneath his fingertips—scales or claws. He dropped into a low guard, blade aligned with his left knee, buckler fronting his chest, breath short and quiet.
Water-drip, footfall, then a tremor at the edge of light. On a root, a blister swelled and split; a gray jelly-plop hit the stone and began creeping toward his ankle, metronoming his breath.
"Mana leech," he muttered. He lowered the buckler to funnel its line, waited, then pinned it under the rim and pushed rather than hacked, driving the point up and out. It tried to reform. A flat horizontal cut broke it into wet vapor.
He reset his breathing—four short in, two short out. Measure—balance—line. The old instructor's rhythm rode his heartbeat.
Around a bend, the tunnel widened. A Cave Viper lay coiled beneath a root-arch, stone-colored, patient. Seryn stepped to middle guard, buckler half-extended. The strike came ground-level, head snapping up like an axe. He didn't retreat—he stepped half right across the line, hooked the viper's neck with the buckler's rim, and jerked. Skull met wall. Tail whipped; mud spattered his leg.
He fed the viper a second opening: let the buckler sag a breath, then—as the head lunged—flicked his cloak's hem over the eyes and drove the short blade under the jaw hinge. Not a slice—a shove. Metal seated with a crisp little sound. He loaded the neck with the buckler, counted two spasms, and let the weight go slack.
"Cutting isn't always cleaving," the old voice said in his head. "Sometimes you fix. Sometimes you press." He rinsed the blade, dragged the carcass off the path, and moved on.
The passage narrowed and swelled; a black vein in the wall tingled under his fingertip—seal leakage, a century old. The air thickened—sweet, oily: venom. Glossy streaks slicked the floor. He picked dry footholds. The ceiling shed. Three Root Bats dropped—chitin-plated, blind.
He didn't snuff the lantern; he thrust it up so glare skated their armor. They hesitated. He took space: right foot forward, left across; buckler up, sword close to chest. The first bat scythed a wing. He ducked and countered with the buckler's rim into the joint—crack. The second dove low. He toed a stone up and popped it over the buckler; it punched the cartilage seam in the mouth. Screech.
The third pulsed an alarm. He clipped the lantern to his buckler, fixed the light, sidestepped to scramble its heading, then lined the sword through a soft seam between plates. Withdraw: wet stone, burnt feather.
The second rallied. He jammed the buckler inside its arc and pressed—not cutting—until the neck joint yielded with a brittle pop. It went still.
A shallow cut burned along his forearm. He smeared salve; pain dulled to warmth. "The body adapts," he thought, "but there's no prize for haste."
Scratches multiplied along the walls; at a junction, a collapsed student cloak, bones inside, a burst talisman beside it. On the back, a shaky inscription: Remember yourself. He turned his own soul ring in his fingers—plain silver, honest weight. "Not a shield," he told himself. "A thread."
A short descent opened into a chamber. Roots braided the ceiling; a sooted shrine ringed a circle of worn runes. The air breathed—heavy, even. He placed his feet on dry stone and entered.
Movement: a Root Crawler—limned in fibers, leaking tarry mana—slid between rocks. No teeth; it sought channels to latch and drink. He narrowed the pathway with his buckler, let it commit to his ankle, then turned his foot and pinned it under the rim. The short blade pushed into a darker, slicker line between fibers. Not a chop—an insertion. The crawler writhed, failed to find flesh. He withdrew, lifted, and drove again into the same seam. Wet wood and scorched earth stung his nose. The thing slackened.
Cracks webbed the shrine's edge. One opened into a tight drop. He tied off his lantern, crawled on knees and elbows. Mud and resin smeared his sleeves. The light widened into a round cavity. A woven root dome above; faded spiral seals on the floor. At center: a blackened, scale-flaked impression—as if a vast body had long coiled there, then slithered on.
He knelt. Heart beats thick and slow. From the earth came a hum—vascular, alive. A pause; then from farther, deeper—an answer.
"Alive," he whispered. "Close."
He mapped entries, exits, stones, how the roots might move—places to shelter, lines to flee. He would return—with stabilizer an hour ahead, feeding the ring on four-breath intervals, never abandoning the exit line, using the blade to press, not flail, and always hunting joints. Sometimes victory is not dying.
On the way back the smell warmed. He shaded the lantern. A figure stood at the edge of light: man-sized, but wrong—knees bending off, shoulders set crooked, the head canting. He couldn't see the face, but the whistled breath—like a leaking bellows—reached him.
"Failed ritualist," he thought. "Human voice left in someone else's body." His hand touched the hilt, then fell away. Not this fight. He became stone. The shape turned its head toward the deep, as if listening to the underground heartbeat. Then it slid away and was gone.
Seryn let the draw of a bowstring out of his lungs—slow, controlled. "There's a price," he said, feeling the ring's dull weight. "I'll pay it."
Rain still hissed when he surfaced. He set the lid, dressed the moss. The forest's breath met him. Steps light, mind clear, heart heavy. Next time would be for war. He gave himself the promise.
"I'm ready," he told the night. "And I'm dangerous."
💠 Enjoyed the chapter? Please leave a comment and add the story to your library!
💭 When Se
ryn meets the Serpent King, can he keep this cold focus?