Zephyrion's boots sank into the dry earth with a muted thump , the fog curling around him like a living thing. The ground a mess by the passage of countless feet, bore the chaotic imprint of those who'd come before. Then the bells tolled, their deep, brazen clang shuddering through the air. Each peal hammered against his ribcage, vibrating the breath in his lungs. His hands quaked, fingers twitching as a surge of adrenaline burned through his veins, sharp and electric. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the world's hum, and the misty haze seemed to sharpen, the dim gray lightening by a fraction.
He crouched low, eyes narrowing as he scanned the footprints etched in the dirt. Old and new blurred together, a maddening tangle of shallow grooves and deep ruts. Zephyrion had never tracked before, and the task felt like deciphering a foreign script he'd only seen in books. Most prints funneled toward the pit's heart, a dark promise of confrontation. A few veered toward a crumbling building, its silhouette barely visible through the fog. Rarer still were the tracks climbing the nearby hill. Hiding in some shadowed crevice felt spineless, but Zephyrion clung to a faint hope of avoiding bloodshed—a hope he knew was at odds with the pit's brutal reality. "That's human nature, though," he muttered to himself. Moving toward the hill, he stepped lighter than a whisper, his boots barely disturbing the earth. His right hand drifted over his shoulder, fingers curling around the worn leather grip of his sword, its texture rough against his palm.
Cresting the knoll, Zephyrion paused, his breath shallow as he surveyed the landscape. A cemetery sprawled below, its uneven rows of weathered headstones jutting from the earth like broken teeth. Beyond, the faint outlines of abandoned suburban homes flickered at the edge of the fog's veil, their windows dark and hollow. A low stone wall, its bricks pitted and moss-slick, encircled the graveyard, standing just five feet away. He froze, senses straining for any sign of movement, every muscle taut. His grip on the sword loosened, and a dull ache throbbed in his knuckles from clutching it so fiercely. Dropping to his stomach, he slithered forward, the damp grass soaking his clothes as he crawled to the wall.
At the wall, he rose to a crouch, his ears catching a faint sound—something out of place. A rustle, like dry leaves skittering across stone. His brow furrowed. "Leaves?" he thought, unease prickling his skin. From the hilltop, the terrain had been clear enough : no trees stood in this desolate place, no hint of foliage in the pit's barren expanse. He doubted anything even could grow down here. The sound tugged at him, insistent, and he moved toward it, each step deliberate, his boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. "This is reckless," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Chasing a noise like some fool in a ghost story, begging to get a blade in the back."
He stopped short. The rustling had vanished, fading so gradually he hadn't noticed. Now, halfway through the cemetery's rows, he stood before a hulking stone crypt, its surface streaked with grime and time. The sound—whatever it was—had come from within. His fingers found the hilt of his dagger, drawing it silently. The blade felt unnaturally cold, its chill seeping into his palm, sharper than the damp air around him, though not painful. Shoving the oddity aside, Zephyrion edged toward the crypt's heavy door. His eyes flicked downward, catching a single set of small footprints in the dirt. The tracks were faint, the soles' shallow grooves suggesting sneakers, not the heavy tread of boots.
Zephyrion stilled, closing his eyes for a just a few heartbeats . Then, with a swift kick, he slammed the door open, eyes snapping wide. His eyes ready for the dark. Giving him an edge over anyone blinded by the sudden light spilling from behind him. He saw the short sword first, glinting as it swung downward in a clumsy, two-handed arc. Reflex took over. Zephyrion lunged forward, dropping low, and clamped his hand around one of the attacker's wrists, the skin warm and damp with sweat. Driving his shoulder into their pelvis, he used their own momentum to wrench them down, flipping them onto their back with a dull thud. A sharp wheeze burst from their lungs as they hit the ground. Sword clattering across the stone.
Zephyrion pivoted, flipping his dagger to rest its tip against their throat, his knee pressing hard into their sternum to pin them breathless. Only then did he see her face—a woman, her beauty striking even in the chaos. Her brown hair, streaked with glints of gold, fanned across the dirt, and her honey-amber eyes burned with a mix of fear and defiance in the faint light. Her tanned skin stood out against the flushed redness around her eyes, where damp trails of tears still lingered. The rustling he'd heard…it must have been her, stifling sobs in the crypt's shadows.