The tip of a leg dropped into view.
It slammed down in front of him with a wet, cracking sound, stone splintering where it struck. The path to the gate vanished behind it—blocked by black flesh and jointed length, thick as a tree trunk.
Cyrus skidded to a stop.
His head snapped up.
The spider filled the cavern.
No carapace.
No layered shell like the others.
Just a vast, exposed body—dark and wet, muscle shifting beneath slick skin. Its legs ended in sharp, tapered points, each one flexing like a blade testing its edge.
For a split second, his thoughts emptied.
Then his body moved.
He turned and ran.
Not toward the gate—toward the narrow stretch of stone where he'd survived before, boots slipping as loose gravel slid beneath him. His lungs burned, breath tearing in and out too fast, too shallow.
Behind him, the spider advanced.
Not one leg at a time.
Two. Three.
The cavern shook with each step.
Cyrus fumbled at his side, fingers closing on the webbing still clinging to his wrist—sticky, elastic, alive with tension. He spun, flung it hard, and felt it catch.
The strand snapped tight around one of the spider's legs.
The creature hissed—low, furious—and tore the web free in a single violent jerk.
The force nearly wrenched Cyrus off his feet.
He staggered, stumbled, kept moving.
The clicking returned.
Closer.
From the sides of the cavern, the smaller spiders emerged—dark shapes skittering over stone, mandibles clattering as they spread out, cutting off angles, herding him without thought or mercy.
His vision narrowed.
One more leg, he thought.
Just one more—
He threw the web again.
It caught higher this time, wrapping around a joint. Cyrus pulled with everything he had, boots scraping uselessly against stone.
The spider dragged him instead.
He lost his footing.
The world tipped.
Cyrus hit the ground hard, air bursting from his lungs in a broken gasp. Pain exploded along his left side as a leg came down—too fast to dodge, too heavy to stop.
The strike clipped his leg.
Not centre.
Just enough.
White-hot pain tore through him, sharp and absolute, and his scream died in his throat as he rolled, clutching at his thigh. Warmth spread beneath his hand—too fast, too much.
The spider loomed over him.
Its body lowered.
Its mouth opened.
Rows of wet, hooked shapes unfolded, shadowed and endless, breath washing over his face—hot, rotten, close enough that he could smell it.
Cyrus pressed his palms against the stone and tried to move.
His leg didn't answer.
The spider reared back.
Ready to feed.
---
Some time later—
The man remained where he was as the stranger stepped beyond the gate.
Snow swallowed the footprints quickly—white folding over dark earth as if the forest itself were eager to erase him. The road vanished not far beyond the treeline, branches heavy with winter, closing around any man who walked it without knowing where he was going.
He watched until the figure became nothing more than movement between trunks.
Only then did his attention turn inward—back to the moment that had unsettled him.
The inclination.
It had not been a bow of submission, nor the clumsy bend of a peasant fearful of steel. It had been restrained. Precise. Almost unconscious.
Not taught here.
He had seen that posture before—at foreign courts, among emissaries trained to think before they spoke—but never from a man dressed as that one was.
Wrong cloth. Wrong cut. Wrong instinct.
Unusual, he thought.
Behind him, the gate mechanism settled with a final groan of iron.
A knight approached, helm tucked beneath one arm.
"My Grace," the man began. "If he truly is a traitor—"
He did not let him finish. "If he is," he said calmly, "then he will reveal it."
The knight hesitated, then nodded.
"Watch him," he continued. "From a distance. Do not interfere."
"And if he turns hostile?"
He considered that for a heartbeat.
"Then you won't need further instruction."
Understanding flickered across the knight's face.
"Yes, my Grace."
The man withdrew at once, already signalling to others along the wall.
He remained a moment longer.
He had given coin. Bread. A chance to walk away.
A guilty man would run.
A desperate man would beg.
A trained man would disguise himself better.
That one did not fit.
At last, he turned from the gate and walked back toward the keep, snow crunching beneath his boots.
Along the inner corridor, guards straightened as he passed. Knights halted mid-stride, fists closing over breastplates as they bowed—movements precise, unremarked. This was the order of things. He neither slowed nor acknowledged it.
Snow melted from the hem of his cloak as he entered the warmth of stone.
A man fell into step beside him, close enough to be heard, never close enough to intrude.
"My Grace," he said softly. "Your dinner will be cold."
"Yes."
Nothing more was said.
By the time they reached the dining chamber, servants were already moving. His cloak was taken before he fully stopped walking. A chair slid back. Steam rose faintly from covered dishes.
He sat.
Cutlery rested in his hands as if it had always been there.
A folded report waited beside the plate. He opened it with one hand while slicing through meat with the other, eyes scanning neat, economical script.
Supply tallies. A delay in ore shipments. Minor disputes—resolved.
Routine.
"My Grace," a knight said carefully, stopping just short of the table's edge. "Regarding the man from the gate."
The fork paused.
"He has not acted suspiciously," the knight continued. "No attempt to conceal himself. No contact made."
A brief hesitation.
"He lingered near the road. As though searching for it."
The man resumed eating.
"Continue to observe," he said. "From a distance."
"Yes, my Grace."
The knight withdrew.
He finished his meal without comment.
The bath was requested with a word. By the time he reached his chambers, heat already curled through the air, loosening the stiffness left by cold stone and long hours. When he emerged again, dressed and gloved, the memory of blood had faded to nothing more than sensation.
"My Grace," the man beside him said quietly, "your study is prepared."
The door closed behind them.
Reports waited on the desk. Ink. Maps. Numbers. Nothing urgent.
Then footsteps approached—heavier this time.
"My Grace," a knight reported. "Regarding the dungeon."
He did not look up at once.
"It has surfaced," the knight continued. "No breach. E-rank classification. Monitoring as procedure requires."
Routine.
"There was, however, one individual in the vicinity when it appeared."
The man's hand stilled against the desk.
"Continue."
"He did not flee," the knight said. "He remained nearby. Observing."
Not hiding.
Not panicking.
"He was the same man from the gate."
The man inclined his head once. "That will be all."
The knight withdrew.
Outside, the tower rose stark against the snow-dark sky.
Wind swept along its height, dragging cold through stone and iron alike. From above, the land below looked small—paths reduced to pale lines, movement slow and indistinct.
---
Near the tower's base, a lone figure traced uneven circles in the snow.
He stopped. Looked up. Looked down again.
Cautious.
He reached out to touch stone as though confirming it was real.
Clueless.
One of the knights near the wall muttered under his breath, "Why would he not run?"
The man did not echo the question.
Why would he? That was not the right question.
The stranger did not behave like a guilty man. Nor like a desperate one.
Which left only the most inconvenient possibility of all.
"Ready me a horse."
The man beside him inclined his head and turned at once.
The horse was ready within minutes.
He rode out beneath the tower's shadow, two knights following at a measured distance, hooves striking stone in steady rhythm.
The dungeon's presence was already visible from the road.
He slowed.
The air here carried a different weight—thicker, warmer, threaded faintly with mineral tang and something else beneath it.
Something in the sound was wrong.
The man dismounted without haste.
"My Grace," a knight murmured, already reaching for the reins.
"Follow with silence."
---
They passed beneath the arch and into the cavern mouth, footsteps swallowed quickly by stone. Light from the gate thinned as they moved deeper, shadows stretching long across uneven ground. The warmth intensified—not oppressive, but wrong, settling against the skin as if the cavern itself were breathing.
They had gone only a short distance when movement caught the knight's eye.
A spider crept along the far wall, carapace intact, legs testing the stone with methodical patience.
The knight shifted, hand moving for his weapon.
"Wait."
The word was quiet. Absolute.
The spider advanced a few steps—then froze.
A sharp crack rang out as stone struck rock somewhere above them.
Both men looked up.
Nothing was visible—only darkness layered over darkness—but warmth drifted down from the ceiling in thin currents, carrying with it a faint, wet vapour.
The man's gaze sharpened.
It is being killed.