The spider reacted late. It skittered toward the sound, legs scraping stone as it vanished into shadow. Moments later, another crack echoed—closer this time.
Then another.
More movement followed. Eight spiders emerged, paths uneven, drawn not by sight but by noise. They veered, corrected, hesitated—then rushed toward it again.
From above, a stone fell wide, shattering against the wall.
One of the spiders lunged after it, mandibles clattering.
The man followed the trajectory of the throw.
High.
Precise.
Desperate.
A hand flashed briefly into view—pale against dark stone—then vanished.
The knight inhaled sharply. "Is he mad? That will draw—"
"Quiet."
The sound came again. Louder. Closer.
The cavern shuddered.
Stone fractured above, a column trembling where something had struck it repeatedly. Then, with a grinding roar, it collapsed, dust and debris crashing down, swallowing movement beneath weight and noise.
The man stepped aside as the dust cloud rolled past, eyes never leaving the upper ledges.
A figure dropped from above and ran.
Blood darkened one leg. His gait faltered but did not stop. He didn't scream. Didn't look back. He ran as if distance itself were a calculation.
Another presence answered.
Heavier.
Measured.
A leg crashed down in front of the fleeing man, stone splintering beneath the impact. The path ahead vanished, blocked by slick, exposed flesh and jointed mass far larger than the others.
The knight raised his sword.
"My Grace—"
"Not yet."
The man watched.
The stranger turned and ran again—not blindly, not toward the gate, but toward a narrower stretch of stone, body already adjusting, breath ragged but controlled. He threw something—webbing, torn loose—caught, lost it, adapted without pause.
He was panicking.
But he was not freezing.
The creature struck him hard, the blow catching his leg at an angle that sent him skidding across stone. Pain tore through him, raw and sharp.
The knight swore under his breath.
"My Grace—"
The spider lowered itself, mouth opening, a hiss crawling up from deep within.
The man had seen enough.
Letting this die would be a waste.
He was already moving.
The bowstring sang once.
The arrow struck true, driving into the exposed mass beneath the creature's head. The spider convulsed, legs spasming as its weight collapsed sideways with a thunderous crash.
Silence followed—thick, ringing.
Dust settled.
The man lowered the bow.
"We'll clear this quickly," he said, as if noting the weather.
"Now."
Steel moved at once.
The two knights stepped past him without hesitation, blades already drawn. The remaining spider thrashed, legs scraping stone as it struggled to rise.
It didn't last long.
One knight struck first, heavy blows ringing against chitin. The creature shrieked, body jerking as joint and shell split under repeated strikes—its mass stubborn, refusing to fall.
The second knight moved in as it faltered.
His sword drove up into its underside.
Black fluid burst outward, steaming faintly as the creature spasmed, then collapsed fully, legs folding inward as the cavern fell quiet once more.
Cyrus dragged himself upright against the wall, breath shaking.
He watched through blurred vision as the man stepped forward.
The remaining spiders barely had time to react.
One swing.
Another.
Steel flashed through the dim light—precise, economical. Six bodies were severed cleanly, split apart before sound could properly form. What had moments ago been movement became debris, carcasses collapsing across stone.
It was over in minutes.
Too fast.
Cyrus swallowed, head swimming.
The man turned away as if the matter were settled.
"Bind his wound."
One of the knights moved at once, kneeling beside Cyrus. Rough hands pressed cloth against his thigh, firm and practised. Pain flared hot and sharp, but Cyrus didn't pull away. He clenched his jaw and endured.
"Find the other nests," the man said. "Return quickly."
The knights inclined their heads and moved off, footsteps fading into the deeper dark.
For a moment, the man remained where he was, gaze lifting to the stone above, then sweeping the cavern as the echoes settled.
Then he turned back to Cyrus.
"If you can still walk," he said evenly, "take the sword."
The blade slid across the stone and came to rest near Cyrus's feet.
Without waiting for an answer, the man turned away.
When the knights returned, he was already surveying the cavern.
"This is the lowest E," he said calmly.
One knight inclined his head. "Six openings on the right, my Grace."
"Four to the left," the other added.
"Hm." His gaze lifted briefly to the fractured ceiling. "A small dungeon. The smallest this month."
They acknowledged the assessment and moved off again to complete the sweep.
Silence returned.
Cyrus stood alone near the cavern wall, breath shallow, weight braced awkwardly against his injured leg. Blood seeped steadily through the cloth at his thigh, warmth dull and constant.
Time passed.
Steel rang faintly from deeper within. Voices echoed, distant and indistinct.
Then movement stirred closer.
A spider emerged from one of the side tunnels—hesitant, testing the air. Its carapace intact, legs clicking softly as it crept forward, drawn by blood and lingering noise.
Cyrus stared at it through a haze.
He bent, fingers closing around the sword's hilt.
Rising hurt.
The world tilted as he shifted his weight, pain flaring hot along his leg. He steadied himself against the wall, jaw clenched, breath pulled tight through his teeth.
The spider lunged.
Cyrus struck.
The blow was clumsy and shallow, the impact shuddering painfully up his arms—but the blade bit, cracking shell that had never been meant to withstand steel.
He struck again.
The creature collapsed.
More followed.
Not all at once. One, then another—drawn out by sound and scent. Cyrus fought them where he stood, movements slowing, breaths coming ragged and uneven. Each step pulled pain through him, but he did not retreat.
He endured.
By the time the knights returned, hours had passed.
Cyrus leaned heavily against the wall. The sword slipped from numb fingers and clattered softly against stone. Sound dulled. Light thinned. A hollow pressure settled behind his eyes.
He stayed upright through will alone.
When the man returned, the cavern already felt far away.
"Can you move?" he asked.
Cyrus tried to answer.
Only a nod came.
That was enough.
He did not remember mounting the horse.
Only the warmth of a broad back beneath him. The steady rhythm of hooves. An arm firm around his middle, holding him upright as the world drifted in and out of focus.
Cold brushed his face.
White hair flickered at the edge of his vision, pale against the dark.
He was tired.
So tired.
Sleep came easily.
A dream followed.
He stood somewhere open.
The ground beneath his feet was hard and unyielding—stone, perhaps. The space around him stretched wider than it should have, empty in a way that pressed inward rather than out.
Something stood before him.
Tall.
Broad.
Its outline refused to settle, as though his mind could not keep hold of it. He could not see its face—only its height, its mass, the way it dominated the space simply by existing.
Voices rose around him.
Cheering.
Not angry. Not cruel. Almost pleased.
Hands touched his back.
Not rough. Not gentle.
Guiding.
The sensation returned—the one he remembered from the cavern. That quiet, absolute certainty tightening in his chest.
It's going to eat me.
The shape leaned forward.
Something opened.
—
Cyrus woke with a shallow breath, the remnants of the dream already slipping away.
The room was dark. Still. Safe.
He lay there for a moment, then exhaled.
"…What a bad dream."
The smell of firewood lingered in the air.
It was warm—properly warm this time—the kind that settled into his bones rather than chasing the cold away. A thick blanket rested over him, heavy enough that he noticed it only when he shifted.
The fire cracked softly nearby, embers stirring in the hearth.
"Bad dream?" a voice asked, careful and low. "Are you alright, my lord?"
Cyrus frowned and opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. Too high. Too clean. When he turned his head, a man stood near the fireplace, poker in hand—young, neatly dressed, posture attentive but not stiff.
Not looming. Not hovering.
A servant, he realised.
Or something close to it.
"…Who?"
The man by the hearth straightened at once.
"I have been instructed to attend you, my lord," he said carefully.
Cyrus watched him.
"…Why?"
The servant's hands stilled. For a brief moment, he seemed to weigh his answer.
"It was an order from the Duke," he said at last.
The servant turned back to the fire, adjusting the logs with deliberate precision, careful not to linger.
"Do you require anything, my lord?"
Cyrus shook his head once. "No, but thank you."
A shallow bow. Nothing more.
The fire crackled as another piece of wood was set in place. The servant stepped aside, keeping his distance, eyes lowered but alert.
Silence settled again.
Then a faint blue light surfaced at the edge of Cyrus's vision.
[Data processing complete.]
[Behavioural pattern recognised.]
[Talent acquired: Observation.]
[Integration pending.]
For a moment, he almost forgot how he had gotten here.