Alec jolted awake, chest heaving, eyes snapping open to shadows and the damp, earthy smell of stone. For a heartbeat, he thought he was still in the cave from his dream—Carter's party sprawled in blood, smoke and ash choking the air, laughter echoing like broken glass. His hands trembled. His hair stood on end, standing as though struck by static electricity.
The memory of that figure—the one playing with Carter's head—blazed through his mind. Panic surged, a wild, uncontrollable wave, and he recalled charging forward, red eyes flashing, before darkness swallowed him completely.
Gasping, Alec realized it had been only a dream. Relief came hollow, almost mocking. Sweat clung to his skin, his pulse pounding in his ears like a drum. He scanned the campsite. His friends lay asleep in their bedrolls, untouched, breathing evenly in the quiet night.
Carter's voice cut through the silence, calm but probing. "Bad dream?"
"Something like that," Alec admitted, struggling to steady his trembling breath. His gut still twisted, unease curling tight inside him like a living thing.
Carter took a slow sip from his flask. "It's normal. Dungeons warp perception, even in sleep. Spend too long inside, and your mind will turn against you. Dreams become... sharper. More real. Harder to ignore."
Alec frowned, uneasy. "It's normal to dream about... seeing your friends die in the dungeon?"
Carter choked, eyes widening with a flash of alarm. Once he regained control, suspicion replaced shock. "Alec... how did you know that glyph would open the passage?"
"Huh? It was glowing—like a mage light," Alec replied, confused Carter hadn't noticed the same thing.
Carter's voice dropped low, almost a whisper, serious and weighty. "Promise me you'll never tell anyone what you see. Some would kill for it."
Alec nodded, struck by the sudden gravity in Carter's tone. Carter forced a small, fleeting smile. "Try to rest. We've got a long day ahead."
Unseen, Zoe lay awake, pretending to sleep. Tears ran silently down her cheeks, warm and quick. She whispered an apology to Ayla, Alec's mother, for letting danger come too close. Ayla had warned that Alec's gift would put him in constant peril if "they" ever found out. Who "they" were, Zoe still did not know. She had lived in fear of their shadow, always lingering, always unseen.
Morning came slowly. Mist curled around the stones of the dungeon entrance, ghostly ribbons that smelled faintly of iron and decay. Carter led the group down a winding path, their boots echoing against the damp stone. Children's laughter drifted faintly through the tunnels, hollow and distorted, sending a shiver down Alec's spine. Unease clung to him as they left the relative safety of the alcove.
Zoe looked exhausted, dark eyes shadowed, her mood tight and unreadable. Alec hesitated to speak; her irritation, he sensed, could snap like a drawn bowstring. The tension between them was subtle, a taut wire ready to break with the slightest misstep.
The laughter returned, closer now, drifting as though it came from the walls themselves. Alec's stomach knotted. A stone beneath his foot shifted, and he tripped, sprawling onto the cold floor.
Bringing a torch down, he discovered the cause: a pickaxe lying across the path, gripped by a severed hand. Horror clawed at his throat, a sudden choke of revulsion and disbelief, and he stumbled back into Zoe, who froze, shock cracking her previously unreadable mask. Together, they stared, the torchlight flickering across the grotesque scene.
Blood, dry and dark, formed crude images along the cavern walls—a butterfly and a fox, shapes that seemed almost cheerful until one noticed the medium. Against the far wall rested a small, aged head, its expression frozen in terror, alongside a foul-smelling, moldy cheese wheel. The stench was a sickening mix of rot, iron, and mildew. Alec's stomach lurched.
Zoe gagged, trying to suppress the urge to retch. "I—oh gods..." she choked, clutching her mouth. The stench alone could make the bravest reconsider continuing, yet the tunnel stretched on, and curiosity—or duty—pushed them forward, one careful step at a time.
Anna's voice broke the silence, low and full of revulsion. "Whatever did this... had a sick sense of humor."
"Relax," Arden said, calm and almost clinical, inspecting the walls. "It's old. Preservation magic was likely used to scare anyone foolish enough to enter." He gestured toward the walls. The blood was crusted, cracked with age, yet retained an uncanny liveliness, as if frozen mid-motion.
Alec hesitated, about to ask more, when he noticed Gimmel staring at the scene in quiet contemplation. "Something wrong?" he asked softly, almost afraid to disturb the dwarf's focus.
The dwarf looked at him, and for a moment the mask of gruff indifference slipped. "You're the first human to ask that since I met these folks," he said quietly. A faint, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you."
The small kindness caught Alec off guard. "So... it's like... an old god?"
"Yes," Gimmel replied. "Among the dwarves, there are tales. He is mad, unpredictable. He helps—or hinders—anyone unlucky enough to cross him."
Zoe clenched her fists. "Sounds like a nightmare."
"Not wrong," Gimmel muttered. "He is neither friendly nor stable. And he does not forgive."
Before anyone could respond, a screech cut through the tunnel, high-pitched and piercing, stabbing Alec's eardrums and sending a jolt of nausea through him.
"What in the seven planes was that?!" he yelled, holding his head.
"No clue," Carter replied evenly, jaw tight.
"Sounds like a nightmare waiting to happen," Anna muttered, arms crossed, tone almost detached but threaded with irritation. She had been silent most of the morning, fading into the background, yet now her voice carried weight.
"Guards up," Carter said, shoulders tense. "We don't know what's ahead."
The tension broke briefly as Galla slipped on the slick stone floor. She cursed in elvish, sprawling on her back as blood—or some unknown liquid—smeared across her. Gimmel teased her, and Talla playfully jabbed her arm, drawing a sheepish response from the elf. For a fleeting moment, the dark mood lifted, like the brief pause between storms, a fragile breath before the next wave of danger.
The path opened into a massive cavern. Red moss clung to the walls, trailing from stalactites and stone in long, damp threads. The river on one side ran thick and coppery, feeding into a lake that reflected the dim torchlight with an unnatural sheen. The smell of blood was suffocating, metallic and rot-tinged. Alec gagged, covering his nose as nausea crept through him like a living thing.
Suddenly, a force struck him from the side. Pain exploded through his ribs and legs as he slammed into a stalagmite, crumpling at its base. Blood ran into his mouth, and his bones ached as if shattered. The torch tumbled, scattering light in chaotic, dancing flashes across the cavern walls.
Above him, his friends were locked in battle. A hulking, twisted demon moved with unnatural speed and precision. Its claws tore through stone and flesh alike. Alec's mind reeled, memories of past horrors—smoke, ash, blood—flooding back. His mother's screams. The smell of fire and death. Roderic's head hitting the ground. Every terror he had fought to bury surged up, suffocating him.
Panic took over. His limbs moved on instinct, urged by a voice in his head he could not fully understand. He wanted to flee, to hide, but something—dread, fear, instinct—kept him rooted. Blood ran down his arm from a shallow cut, but he barely noticed, lost in the chaos.
A sharp slap against his face brought him back. He stared at his own hand, bewildered. Had he struck himself? Confusion clawed at his mind, but the battle demanded his attention. Through the blur, he saw the demon tearing into his friends, each swing precise, calculating, merciless.
Carter shouted commands, Anna wove intricate magic, Arden chanted low, Gimmel and Tahnro pressed the attack with feral intensity. Zoe moved with quiet grace, each motion deliberate, haunted but determined. Alec tried to process it all. Helpless, yet part of him understood the rhythm of battle—the push and pull of magic and steel, the deadly precision to survive.
His chest heaved, lungs burning, as adrenaline and fear tangled into something raw and violent. Torches flickered, casting dancing shadows. The river shimmered with the reflection of gore and firelight. Every movement became distorted, nightmarish, almost alive.
Alec's heart hammered. Every step forward made his stomach churn, yet he couldn't stop. His gift—the ability to see what others could not—pulled him past fear, past nausea, into the storm of violence. The demon's eyes met his, and he knew it was aware of him. A shiver ran down his spine, but he forced himself to act, to move.
Blood and sweat mingled, metallic scent overwhelming, yet he pressed on. Each heartbeat seemed louder than the last, echoing like a drum of impending doom. The cavern itself seemed alive, watching, whispering threats.
Alec reached a vantage point. From here, he saw the full scale of the battle. His friends were bruised, bleeding, yet unbroken. The demon towered, grotesque, but slowed by their combined effort. Fragile hope flickered within him.
Yet he knew it would not last. Darkness lingered beyond the torchlight. Every shadow held threat. Every sound, a warning. The cavern was a place of death, magic, and malice. Only the vigilant survived.
He drew a deep breath, tasting copper and iron, bracing for what was to come. There would be no mercy here. Only survival, and the cost of it.