The narrow stone path twisted like a dying serpent through the ancient ruins, each step soaked in blood, sweat, and dread. The once-smooth walls were cracked and veined with blackened roots, and overhead, the ceiling moaned as if bearing the weight of centuries. Faint flickers of torches provided the only light, their flames struggling against the suffocating darkness that clung to every surface.
The group moved in silence. Bran's body was draped between Leonhert and Seren, his blood seeping through the makeshift wrappings. Every breath he took was a struggle, ragged and shallow. Seren's jaw clenched as she supported him, her hand trembling but firm.
Kaidën walked at the rear, dagger drawn. His eyes swept over every shadow, his senses screaming that something was wrong. They had escaped the first monstrosity—but something worse waited. The silence wasn't right. Not in this place.
Then the growling began.
