The dungeon grew with Elara's grief.
The slow accretion of stone and shadow, the way the rift widened and deepened, the way the grass above the cave browned and died as the dungeon's hunger spread outward like roots seeking water. The core essence in his blood thrummed in sympathy, and he dreamed not as an observer but as a 'participant', Elara's memories flooding his senses until he could not tell where she ended and he began.
---
She had no body anymore.
That was the first thing she learned or rather, the first thing she unlearned. The stick in her belly had been absorbed, dissolved into raw mana, along with her blood, her bones, her small, broken heart. She was not a girl lying in the dirt. She was a 'presence', a pressure, a consciousness woven into the crystal that formed at the heart of the rift.
The core.
