Del knelt down beside Elara and reached out to give Misty a gentle stroke “I thought I told you to keep out of trouble,” he said, his voice gruff with concern.

Elara examined Misty, carefully running a hand just above her fur without touching. Her expression tightened in concentration. “There’s… something lingering,” she murmured. “Not a spell exactly, but it’s not just the Listwort, either.”

Del’s fingers curled into a fist. That didn’t help. That didn’t tell him what they were walking into.

Jake crouched down, eyeing the small bag still clutched in Misty’s paws. “Should we move it?”

“No,” Elara said sharply. “Not until we have her away from it, we need to move her first.”

Del blew out a slow breath. “Fine. Then let’s move her—carefully.”

He lifted Misty gently, her small body limp in his hands. She let out a soft sigh in her sleep, nuzzling slightly against his arm before settling back into unconsciousness. The motion sent a faint prickle up Del’s spine. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t Misty.

He placed her carefully into his pack and then placed it down beside the cavern wall, out of the way of the passage. “She can sleep it off here.” He hesitated, brushing a hand briefly over her fur. “Stay safe, girl.”

‘I’ll be back for you later unless you wake up first.’ He exhaled a deep breath and stood.

“Well, either she has been into the cavern and was bringing that bag to us, or it was dropped here.” He kicks the little bag aside.

“No point trying to figure it out, so let's go see what’s happening ahead.” He checks his sword and looks at the motley crew. “Be ready for anything.”

They left her there, nestled against the stone, and turned their focus to the darkness ahead.

Del moved forward slowly, every step deliberate, heart hammering against his ribs. The tunnel’s final curve loomed ahead, its edges swallowing the flickering light from the chamber beyond.

He edged forward, keeping low, and peered around the bend.

The cavern yawned open before him, a vast space hollowed from the earth by time and something far less natural. The ceiling stretched high above, lost in blackness, where stalactites jutted downward like rows of jagged fangs, gleaming dully in the firelight. Veins of dark stone and rust-coloured striations twisted through the walls, slick with the slow creep of moisture. Tiny rivulets of water trickled down in uneven streams, collecting in unseen pools, their steady drip the only sound beyond the low crackle of the fire.

The air was thick. Heavy.

The first breath Del took was cold and wet, laced with the damp scent of ancient stone and something deeper, something rotten beneath the surface. The fire burning at the heart of the chamber should have added warmth, should have carried the sharp bite of charred wood, but instead, the heat was stifled—muffled, as if choked by the weight of something unseen.

The floor was unnaturally clear. Someone had carved away the cavern’s natural formations, hacking off stalagmites, their shattered remnants pushed into uneven heaps at the chamber’s edge. The smoothed-out expanse of stone in the centre was unnerving in its precision, like a wound that had been cauterized rather than healed. Towards the back of the chamber, a tent and a small fire pit nestled against the wall.

If that was all then it could have seemed almost innocent, but at its heart, the horror lay bare.

Five figures hung limply from carved stone columns, their bared chests slick with blood where intricate, twisting sigils had been carved into their flesh. The markings glowed faintly, pulsing with slow, unnatural life, their edges still raw and wet. Chains creaked as one of them twitched, a low, breathless moan escaping cracked lips.

A ritual circle had been etched into the stone around them, the lines of a pentagram gouged deep into the rock, its channels filled with a dark metal that seemed to drink in the light. The outer ring connected each pillar, its inlaid sigils forming a closed loop, humming with something unseen but palpable—an almost oily pressure against the air, pressing into Del’s skin, whispering beneath his thoughts.

And then, his gaze reached the altar.

A single stone block, blackened with stains that weren’t just from tonight, stood at the middle of it all.

A woman lay bound atop it, wrists and ankles lashed to each corner with thick, dark cords, her naked body slick with sweat. She writhed weakly, her breath shallow and ragged, as though caught in the grip of some unseen fever.

Del barely registered the sharp inhale behind him before Paolo pushed forward, his entire body going rigid with rage.

“Emily.”

Her name was a broken whisper, filled with something raw and fractured, the kind of pain that didn’t survive long in a place like this.

Del reacted instinctively, snapping out an arm to grab Paolo before he could move any further.

Paolo’s body shook with restraint, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white, but he didn’t fight Del’s grip.

Not yet.

Del exhaled, forcing himself to think past the rising heat of his own fury.

Behind him, he felt Elara lean in close, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, “There is strong magic here, Del. I can feel it building.” She hesitated, and for the first time, there was uncertainty in her voice. “I don’t recognize it. But it’s… wrong.”

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Del’s stomach tightened.

He could feel it, too.

Not the light, effervescent hum of natural magic, nor the focused will of a spell already cast. This was something else—something that coiled beneath the skin, a vibration deep in the bones, like a storm pressing against the inside of his skull.

Instead of butterflies, it felt like hornets, furious and trapped in a glass jar.

And the jar was cracking.

Del’s fingers tightened around his sword hilt. His mind raced.

They couldn’t just charge in. Not into this.

His breath was slow, controlled. A forced stillness as his brain dragged itself back into clarity.

“We need a plan.”

Because whatever this was—it wasn’t finished yet.

And that meant they still had a chance.

Del motioned sharply, signalling the group to fall back beyond the bend.

They moved silently, pressing into the cold stone, breaths slow and measured as they gathered in a tight knot. The flickering torchlight behind them barely reached their faces, leaving their expressions carved in half-shadows, the glow picking out the sharp tension in their jawlines, the faint sheen of sweat at temples and brows.

No one spoke at first. The weight of what they’d just seen settled over them like a thick, cloying shroud.

Del swallowed, forcing his mind to drag itself back from the horror and into strategy.

“We can’t just rush in.” His voice was low, clipped, but firm. His mind scrambled to recall any half-remembered lore on dark rituals, on mages and magic, but the best he had to go on were the blurred recollections of fantasy novels read too long ago.

‘Lord of the Rings and Terry Pratchett make odd bedfellows, but it’s all I’ve bloody got.’

He inhaled sharply, shoving his useless thoughts aside, and turned to Elara.

“Elara, any thoughts on what we might be facing?”

‘Just don’t say fireballs. Not fireballs.’

Elara’s gaze flicked back toward the bend as if she could still feel the weight of the magic pressing against them. She let out a slow breath, then shook her head.

“It’s hard to say,” she admitted. “We don’t know how strong he is. The fact that he used drugs, not magic, to take the villagers suggests something.” She hesitated. “It may mean his only real power is what he’s preparing in that ritual. A sacrifice of some kind to use as a channel, something that requires a buildup rather than raw power.”

Del shuddered at her choice of words. Sacrifices.

He let his fingers drum a slow, measured rhythm against his leg as he absorbed that.

‘Ritual casters… slower to cast, but more dangerous when they do.’

Still, there were too many unknowns.

“Anyone else?”

A moment of silence. Then—

Jake raised a hand.

Del blinked, then let out a short breath.

‘Not your typical classroom, mate.’ But he nodded anyway.

“Go ahead.”

Jake shifted his weight slightly, expression uneasy. “My grandad used to tell me stories about the Wizard. Said he used…” He hesitated. “Fireballs.”

‘I said no fucking fireballs!’

Del exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

“Right,” he muttered, half to himself. “Always the bloody fireballs.”

He lowered his hand, letting his thoughts turn over the possibilities.

‘Fire? Electricity? Some kind of blast radius attack?’

A mage capable of casting in the middle of a ritual was already bad. A mage capable of taking out groups at once was worse.

“Alright.” Del straightened. “There’s always the chance of large-area magic. He’s working on something big, but that doesn’t mean he can’t lash out in the meantime. We have to assume he’s dangerous both at range and up close.”

His voice tightened. “That means if he starts casting, we shut him down—fast.”

A ripple of nods.

Del turned his gaze to Elara and Sam. “Archers. You need to hit him the moment he notices us. If he’s got shields, we want to force him to use them early. Elara, you take left flank. Sam, right.”

Sam nodded crisply. Elara merely rolled her shoulders, loosening the tension coiling in them.

Del’s gaze moved to Merl. “Merl, take five men. Get to the right of the circle, but do not step inside it.”

Merl grunted in understanding, already scanning the group, mentally selecting his team.

Del looked at Paolo and Jake. “We take the left with the rest. Same rules. Avoid the circle.” His voice hardened. “We do not know what breaking that thing will do. We are not taking that risk.”

The grim expressions in front of him told him they understood.

He inhaled. “The goal is the tent. Assuming he is in it, and if we can get to it before he notices—best-case scenario.”

He didn’t believe it for a second.

‘Fat chance is better than no hope.’

His cynical side laughed at him.

He ignored it.

Del’s gaze swept over the group one last time, meeting each of their eyes in turn. Fear was there—of course it was. It sat coiled beneath their skin, tightening their shoulders, lurking behind steady grips on weapons.

But beyond that—resolve.

They weren’t soldiers. They weren’t trained for this.

But these were their people.

And they would see this through.

Del exhaled, quiet and steady. “We have the numbers. Stay strong. We swarm him before he has the chance to take control. He’s one man. We’re sixteen.” His voice hardened. “No matter what power he has—we take him down.”

A ripple of nods.

That was it. No more words. No more reassurances.

It was time.

Del turned, brushing his fingers lightly against Elara’s wrist as he moved past her. Just a brief touch—a grounding moment.

Then he slipped back toward the bend.

Elara and Sam moved first, silent as breath, vanishing into the cavern’s shadowed edges.

Merl and his team followed, hugging the cavern wall, their heavy steps controlled, boots rolling carefully over loose stone.

Del held back, letting them take position first, his own team close behind. The weight in his chest thickened, breath coming faster, shallower.

His fingers curled tight around his sword hilt.

This wasn’t a fight—not yet.

But it would be soon.

Jake was at his side, one step ahead, his free hand finding Paolo’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. Paolo’s fingers twitched—but he didn’t flinch.

Instead, he exhaled and nodded.

Jake gave him a grin, flashing his knife.

Del watched, pulse hammering, and forced himself to match the energy. He winked at Jake, earning an amused snort.

‘Stay strong, Del. They need to see you keep on point.’

He swallowed hard.

The firelight ahead flickered, their approach eating the distance between them and the prisoners.

The crackle of burning wood filled the chamber, covering their footfalls, but beneath it—

The magic buzzed.

Not heard, not exactly.

Felt.

A deep, low vibration beneath the skin, pressing against bones, behind the eyes, making his teeth itch. It was wrong, unnatural, and growing thicker.

Every step forward made it worse.

His stomach rolled.

Ahead, the tent loomed, the cloth shifting slightly in the faint cavern breeze. The movement was subtle, the fabric twitching, as if something inside was breathing with it.

Then—

Light flared behind the canvas.

Not firelight.

Something else.

A shadow moved within.

Del barely had time to register the cold spike of warning in his chest before—

The tent exploded outward.

A deafening roar ripped through the cavern, pure fury given sound, and then—

A figure emerged, tearing through the fabric as if it were nothing.

Tall. Lithe. Cloaked in black.

The voluminous hooded cape twisted unnaturally around him, shifting as if it were alive, the ends curling and snapping like a tattered, living thing.

His face was gaunt, sunken cheekbones catching the dim light, and his eyes burned with unnatural fire, wide and filled with something wild. Unhinged. Hungry.

In one hand, he clutched a twisted wooden staff, its knotted length writhing with veins of dark energy, pulsing in time with the sickening hum of magic around them.

Del stumbled back a step, breath catching—

The Night Man had arrived.