The fortress had come into full view now.
It wasn't merely a structure of stone and iron — it was alive.
Its blackened walls swallowed the light instead of reflecting it, rising with a dreadful majesty that towered over trees and crags alike, as if defying the laws of nature itself. The high, sealed windows stared down like unseen eyes — watchful, patient, dissecting every step taken toward them, reading the hearts of those who dared to come close.
And the gate… that colossal slab of ancient iron, older than most kingdoms, stood sealed tight. It groaned faintly whenever the wind brushed against it, like the echo of a memory — the creak of those who had once opened it, and the silence that followed when they never returned.
The crowd stopped at what they thought was a safe distance. But safety had no meaning here.
Fear was visible — in the tightness of jaws, in the tremor of hands gripping hilts and staves, in the breaths caught and held without reason. Even the boldest among them could no longer hide the creeping dread.
Varik alone kept walking. He neither slowed nor looked back.
His stride was calm — too calm — as though he were returning to a place that once belonged to him. And in his eyes, there was no fear, only something sharper… something that looked dangerously close to yearning.
Varik stopped before the gate and stood in silence for several long seconds. Then, slowly, he raised his right hand and struck the cold iron three times with a small, ancient hammer hanging from his belt — a relic that seemed as though it didn't belong to this world at all.
The sound that followed was quiet… However, it is heavy.
Not a mere knock, but something deeper, a tone that lingered, resonant and strange, like a coded pulse. A signal. A summoning.
Then came a faint reply.
From within the darkness of the fortress, something stirred, a distant shift, a dragging breath that didn't belong to the wind.
Moments later, the gate began to move.
Agonizingly slow.
It groaned like a wounded beast, the rust screaming as age was peeled away with every inch. The colossal doors trembled under some unseen command, obeying a will that should not exist.
The mercenaries stood rooted to the ground, transfixed and pale. The fortress seemed to awaken with the motion, exhaling cold air that brushed their faces like the breath of the dead. Each shriek of grinding metal plucked at their nerves like the strings of an unholy instrument.
Even Varik's squad— seasoned, disciplined, unflinching, betrayed a flicker of tension in their eyes. Excitement. Apprehension. Anticipation.
But unlike their leader, whose gaze burned with something far stranger, their hearts thundered with one shared rhythm—fear.
They knew this place better than anyone else.
They alone had crossed the so-called safe path through the Grey Strip to reach the border, though in truth, nothing in the Grey Strip was ever safe. Not the ground beneath one's feet, nor the whispering trees, nor even the still air that filled the space between.
Everything there waited.
Silently. Patiently.
For life to stray too close.
The beasts prowled the earth; winged predators ruled the skies.
Even the trees — gnarled, ancient, and hungry — fed on the blood and souls of those who wandered too deep.
Sylvan stood before the gate as it groaned open, inch by inch, watching the darkness spill out like ink seeping from an unseen wound.
It wasn't the kind of darkness born from the absence of light — this one breathed.
It pulsed faintly, rhythmically, as though something vast and unseen were exhaling from within.
It wasn't absence.
It was presence.
And it was aware.
Watching.
Varik's voice cut through the heavy air, sharp and edged with mockery. "From this moment on, the Fortress Mission begins. You have already received half your paymentو don't worry, I'm a man of my word. Survive, and you will get the rest."
Then his tone turned cold. "Push them in. One by one. No room for hesitation."
His five subordinates moved as one, silent, precise, and merciless. They didn't draw their weapons; they didn't need to. Their eyes were enough, hard, unyielding, and devoid of doubt.
One of them stepped forward and drove an elbow into a man's ribs, dropping him to his knees before shoving him toward the open gate.
"Move," one of them whispered — a voice stripped of empathy, cold and flat as steel.
The mercenaries obeyed in trembling silence, stepping forward one by one. Each stole a final glance behind, as if the world they left might vanish the moment they turned away. Then they crossed the threshold, swallowed by the darkness that poured from the gate like a living tongue of night.
The gate's groan lingered, echoing through their minds, a sound like old grief clawing its way out of memory.
Sylvan did not move. He stood still, watching.
No fear. No hesitation. Only that distant, thoughtful gleam in his eyes.
Through all his wanderings in the Grey Strip, through every hunt, every narrow escape, even the time he nearly became food for the strip-hounds, never felt this.
This suffocating pressure.
This presence that pressed not against the skin, but the soul.
"You," one of Varik's men snarled beside his ear. "Move. Now."
Sylvan said nothing.
Took one step. Then another.
The darkness wasn't merely the absence of light. It was something else. Something that waited. Watched.
And then—it consumed him.
He found himself standing within a small, stone chamber, its walls carved from black rock that drank the light around it. The surface was rough, yet faint runes crawled faintly across it, glowing like dying embers.
At the room's heart lay a slab — or perhaps an altar — low and broad, shaped between a cradle and a tomb. It was made of a strange, glossy stone, not reflective, but luminous from within, as though it held a secret fire.
The texture was wrong for anything of this age; it belonged to a time before language, when power was carved into matter itself.
Sylvan's gaze drifted to the walls.
Four statues stood broken in the corners, the last guardians of a forgotten purpose.
The first had its skull shattered, the lower jaw torn away, as if bitten by something immense.
The second was a woman in a long cloak, both arms broken clean at the elbows, her face caved in as if by a giant's hammer.
The third had once been a winged creature — now wingless, headless, its stone feathers twisted like burned parchment.
And the fourth… was unrecognizable. Its shape was melted, fused into itself, limbs half-absorbed, a mockery of life, sculpted by heat and madness.
Ahead stretched a narrow corridor sloping downward. The same black stone lined its walls, though here the masonry was tighter, more deliberate, the marks of hands long dead. The floor, tiled in worn slabs, was uneven yet solid underfoot.
Light came from nowhere and everywhere, faint, sourceless, bleeding from cracks in the stone itself. It revealed just enough to see, and far too little to feel safe.
The passage ran straight for a while… then began its slow descent, curving into the unseen depths of the fortress.
The air was cold, but not the kind that bites the skin. It was the kind that lingers, ancient and heavy, carrying the scent of mildew, ash, and something older… something alive. It felt as if the fortress itself exhaled around them, one long, silent breath.
Then — behind them — came the sound.
A thunderous clang of metal. A drawn-out, shrieking grind.
The gate was closing. And with it, the world behind them.
The sound stretched on, metal protesting, echoing until it dissolved into the stone and then there was only darkness. No exit. No sound. Only the muffled rhythm of cautious steps and uneven breathing.
Sylvan stood still amid the passage, unmoving, a shadow carved from the wall itself. His eyes fixed forward, into the dark.
Then he heard it, a whisper, so faint it seemed to bloom inside him rather than reach from without.
"You…"
turned slowly.
Elywin was there, approaching with hesitant steps. Her wide eyes shimmered in the half-light, reflecting a world of fear. Strands of her black hair brushed her pale cheeks as she drew closer, her breath trembling in the cold air.
She stopped a few feet away, glancing over her shoulder, though even silence here could turn predatory.
"This place…" she breathed, " it fills me with a deep fear"
Her words barely stirred the air. She edged closer, close enough for her fear to brush against his calm. There was no reason for her to trust him — they had met only hours ago — yet the human instinct for survival had already made her orbit his stillness like a fragile moon.
Lowering her voice, she tilted her head toward the group gathered near the entrance, Varik and his men. They stood close, whispering, every glance returning to the tattered scrap in Varik's hands. He held it as one might cradle a dying flame, with reverence and hunger.
"Those…" she murmured, the words catching on her breath, "what are they doing?"
Sylvan's gaze lingered on her for a moment. Then he turned back toward the group, eyes narrowing, not in suspicion, but in quiet recognition of something… off.
There were six of them—four men and two women—standing in a loose circle around Varik. None spoke, yet their eyes traded silent warnings; tension wove itself through every glance as they studied the tattered parchment in Varik's hands. Each of them committed every crease and stain to memory, as though counting invisible moves on an unseen board.
Sylvan observed them one by one.
Varik, their leader, stood tall and grounded, like a man who believed the earth itself obeyed him. His short gray hair caught the dim light, and his iron-hued eyes were cold—yet heavy with the weight of too many battles. The scars along his body faintly shimmered, as if they still bled memory instead of blood.
To his right lingered a man pale as moonlight, his black cloak rippling like smoke. His eyes were swallowed by shadow, belonging to no world Sylvan knew. He stood a step behind the rest—more observer than participant—the one who had silenced the fleeing man with a pulse of vibrating force.
On Varik's left stood a thin, quiet man whose gaze stayed fixed on the ground, as if he were listening to something whispering beneath it. His face was plain, but his restless eyes never ceased their motion. Short hair, gray clothes—he was almost indistinguishable from shadow itself.
A woman stood before Varik, fully aware that every eye had settled on her. Her thick black hair spilled unevenly down her shoulders, and her amber eyes gleamed faintly, seeing too much. Her robe was light, revealing more than it concealed, yet the air around her shimmered with danger. The faint curve of her lips offered no warmth, only promise—and threat.
Not far off stood a broad-shouldered man with the build of a brawler and the presence of a predator. His dark hair brushed his shoulders; his sharp features caught the low light. Brown eyes burned with restrained violence. He wore an open black cloak, and when he moved, the air itself seemed to shift around him.
Last was a slender girl—lean, composed, every motion deliberate. Her black hair was pulled tight behind her head, and her blue eyes were sharp, calculating. A short sword hung easily in her right hand, her light leather armor flexing with each subtle motion. She moved like someone who already knew where every strike would land. In her silence lived something deadly, a memory of precision that others had witnessed—and feared.
Sylvan turned his gaze back to Elywin; she still stood at his side, waiting for some hint in his face. He remained silent for a long beat, then nodded slowly as if consenting to something she hadn't spoken.
The darkness ahead thickened. The corridor held its breath.
Varik folded the tattered parchment with deliberate care and slid it into his leather coat. He lifted his head and swept his eyes across the mercenaries behind him, men and women no longer able to hide the fear in their faces. Silence fell so complete that only ragged breathing and the soft scrape of feet on damp stone remained.
Then Varik spoke, low and cutting as a blade. "Now, the mission begins."
He stepped forward, looking at each face in turn. "Let's be honest. You are tools. You will clear the way. You will bear the burden. You will live only if you prove yourselves worthy."
He raised his hand a fraction; the air around them seemed to flinch. "Those who turn back will be left. Those who hesitate will die first. There is no room for doubt, here every step is paid in blood."
He did not shout. He did not need to. The threat in his words hung like iron. Then he motioned toward the dark tunnel. "The path is open. If you wish to survive, show that you deserve it."
He moved first, stride steady; his squad fell in behind him like seamless shadows. The mercenaries followed, shuffling forward with reluctance, torn between fear and obedience, between the instinct to survive and a doubt that gnawed at them.
The air thickened. The damp walls began to whisper, a susurrus of names no tongue should know. Footsteps echoed and braided into a single, unending cadence.
Sylvan walked among them in silence, eyes fixed on the dark ahead. Elywin trailed a few paces behind, hands clenched tight, her lips moving soundlessly, perhaps a prayer, perhaps a promise, perhaps a fear that could not be named.