Solum ran—if it could be called that.
Each step jolted agony through his frame. His shoulder burned from an open wound, blood slicking his side, his breath sharp and wet. Behind him, the Fractured Ashborn shrieked—a high, serrated sound that clawed at the stone walls—its talons raking the cavern floor as it gained.
He stumbled across uneven ground. The cave floor buckled with jagged roots and stone debris. A misstep, and he collapsed hard, scraping his forearms raw. But there—just ahead—he saw it.
A narrow fissure in the wall. No wider than a coffin lid.
He didn't think.
He scrambled forward, claws of panic driving him. The beast's howl rang again, too close. Solum shoved himself into the crack, the stone biting at his skin. He twisted sideways, breath held, forcing through jagged edges until—
Silence.
He fell into a crawlspace. A shallow, craggy hollow. Just deep enough to vanish.
He held still.
The Fractured padded closer. Its breath rasped in and out, a sound like gravel in lungs. Claws scratched the stone outside the fissure. Sniffing. Searching.
Then—another noise.
Heavy. Slow. Not the Fractured.
A deeper thud echoed through the cavern. The Fractured hissed, then screamed—not in fury, but terror.
A thunderous impact shook dust from the stone above. Solum flinched. A crack, a scream, a wet rupture.
Then silence.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then—steps. Slow, crushing, deliberate.
A shape passed by the crack in the stone, massive enough to block even the faint ambient light.
Solum didn't breathe.
What stood there was no Fractured.
It was a Consumed.
Through the crack, Solum caught glimpses: clawed feet, the color of scorched bark. A hunched back lined with pulsing growths, like tumors wrapped in veins. Its breath steamed in the cold. Its eyes flickered—low, ember red, full of decay and memory.
It loomed over the Fractured's corpse.
Bent low.
Ripped open the chest like rotted cloth.
And inside... a glow.
A Lux Sphere. The last trace of the Ashborn's corrupted Ember.
The Consumed inhaled. The light vanished. No explosion. No burst. Just… gone.
It stood there, quiet and vast.
Then turned. And left.
Solum waited. Frozen. Trembling.
The cavern swallowed its footsteps. All that remained was quiet.
But the world felt darker now.
He collapsed to his side. The pain in his shoulder had grown sharp and constant, throbbing with each pulse. His body was failing. No warmth. No strength. Just blood and stone.
Then—
Drip.
A thick drop landed on his arm.
He blinked.
Another.
He looked up.
From above, the corpse of the Fractured hung over the collapsed ridge, its twisted ribcage leaking black, tar-like blood. The ichor rolled off a shattered bone.
It dropped again.
This one struck his collarbone—and didn't slide off.
It spread.
It sank in.
Solum's entire body jerked.
His back arched. His limbs convulsed.
It wasn't heat. It wasn't cold.
It was something else. Like a current pulling inward. Like vines wrapping a soul.
The blood slid through him, threading into muscle, nerve, bone.
He screamed—but no sound came. His voice caught in his throat.
His skin turned dark near the ribs. Then red. Not the red of fire—no. This red pulsed. Shifted. Hungered.
Not healing.
Changing.
Not Ember.
Something else.
A thing twisted by the dark.
He collapsed, twitching. Eyes unfocused. Fingers clenching dirt.
When it ended, he was shaking. Weak. And very much alive.
But different.
It took hours to build a fire.
He gathered splintered wood and crumbling bark. Moss coated the cave walls, half-rotted but dry enough to burn. He struck stones until his knuckles bled. Until sparks leapt. Until—finally—a flicker caught.
He fed it carefully.
Breathed life into it.
A whisper of warmth bloomed, small and trembling.
It wasn't much.
But it lived.
And so did he.
He leaned close to it, palms out. Breathing steady. Trying not to think of the thing that had moved through the dark. The thing that didn't see him only because it hadn't needed to.
He should've died.
He wasn't strong. Not anymore.
He remembered what it once meant.
"Once a Warrior," he muttered.
It used to mean something. He had trained for years beneath the Ember sun, through the thirty Days of Light—disciplined, focused, unyielding.
He had made it past Commoner. He had earned the title through battle.
Now?
Now his Ember was gone.
Or worse—twisted.
He touched his chest.
There was no hum. No warmth. Just an echo. A space once filled.
He'd been cast down. Something had filled the void.
But what?
A deep growl echoed from the far end of the cavern.
Solum froze.
He looked toward the darkness, skin cold.
Another Ashborn was could be heard in the distance.
And he had no weapon.
No way out.
Just a fire.
And fear.
"im going to die here"