Time bled.
Like everything else in this place, it stopped making sense.
Minutes. Hours. Days?
He didn't know.
He just moved.
One foot after another. Step. Drag. Push. Bleed.
His mouth was dry. No, beyond dry. Cracked. His tongue felt like it belonged to someone else—a dead thing left to rot in a warm skull. He tried to swallow and only tasted iron.
Thirst clawed at his throat like sandpaper dipped in fire.
And hunger—
Gods.
It wasn't a pang.
It was a need.
Raw. Primal. His stomach stopped growling hours ago. Now it just twisted in on itself, a silent void that demanded something. Anything.
He stumbled, caught himself on a jagged edge of a ruined glyph, and leaned against it—blood smearing across the pale surface.
Every inch of his body ached.
No, not ached.
Screamed.
