When the dust cleared, Keter found himself sprawled on the harsh floor, wrapped in darkness. With his first breath he swallowed a lungful of floating debris; had him hacking and groaning and fighting for cleaner air. But solace did not come before his throat had been grated raw by the sharp sand, his mouth dry and burning just as his flaring nostrils.

There was no light down in the pit, and Keter reckoned it didn’t matter because his vision was ruined for all the dust that stung his eyes. He had his scabbed back pressed up against a wall while his hand sifted through the dirt, searching for the blade he had dropped.

He already though of himself as lucky. Could’ve skewered himself on the damned thing during his fall. It was sharp enough for such a simple task, Keter had made sure of that. The tip of a blade will always be superior to the edge when it comes to killing. This, too, his father had taught him.

After blinking in the dark, and tears expelled enough filth from his eyes, his sight somewhat returned to him. but, no matter how well acquainted with the dark one might be, Keter was human, still, and in complete darkness he could not see to see.

Giving up on finding his blade for now, Keter’s fingers carefully palpated his bruised body, prodding for broken bones or internal bleeding. Though he ached all over, nothing seemed beyond repair. The thought of broken legs unnerved him. It reminded Keter of Norwegian mountains, of gear half his weight, a team-mate tripping and breaking his ankle. They’d carried him far, after the bone had snapped. One to carry the man’s gear, the other carried him on the shoulders.

For near a week, they had dragged him up and down the steep slopes and along deep edges, through forest and snow and storm. They had no choice but to abandon him when they themselves had grown too weak. Left in the frozen forest with nothing but a pistol and a single bullet. For miles, Keter had heard his terrible screams. The cries of those who knew of their end.

Sometimes, Keter still heard that tearing voice – horribly accusatory, awfully frightened, dreadfully broken. Heard it when the wind howled between the trees. Heard it in the groaning of machinery. In his own voice, when its echo returned from the mountains. Could even hear it now, in the hollow cavern as the low air coiled.

He crawled around, blind as a mole, on the flat floor as he sought for his only weapon. He paused for just a moment when his fingers slipped through the sand and found crevices, etched in the stone. He traced them with his thumb, round and around. A perfect circle, and within it, odd shapes and angles spun. This could not be natural.

He sniffed the air, now his nose had cleared, and smelled a faint trail of oil. A thin smile lined his face and he gingerly rose from the deck, careful to maintain his balance with one hand guided along the cool wall. All seemed not lost.

The smell became thicker as he neared it, following its wisps curling the stagnant air. Stalked it until his hand found a metal can emanating a rich, oily smell.

He hadn’t often used oil, though. And it made him quite hesitant of just setting it aflame in fear of a combustion roaring and burning through the dusty air until only cinder remained of him. Red-Sun had taught him all he knew, and warned Keter of dust-explosions, especially in enclosed spaces.

He ripped a shred of hide from his ragged poncho and dipped it in the flammable liquid. Like a wick, he held it between two fingers, a few paces away from the rest. Keter willed it, and sparks enlightened the drab to flame.

The fire ate away at shadow, pushing them back but not by much. Deep dark still swam about him, cloaking his earthen prison in pitch. But Keter was put as ease, as he noticed the oil to be slow-burning. Whatever remained in the can would last him a while before he could find something to fashion a candle or torch.

After he lit the lantern with his burning scrap of fur, the darkness fled further and showed the world anew.

His confinement was less cave and more tomb. Lime-like bricks lined the walls and marble tiles made out the floor, cracked and rubbed away by time, all homing strange carvings and etchings. Bizarre and otherworldly writing flowed around intrinsic shapes, impossible patterns.

He leaned in closer, eyes wide and almost glowing in the dancing light, staring deep at the wall and finally saw that even the most complicated patterns were hundreds, thousands of tiny runes all flowing into each other to form a greater whole.

When he stepped back, leaning away, he discovered the greater whole; an awesome work of art of man and monster locked into an eternal battle with one another and themselves. Beams and arcs of ethereal light flaring to life around the grand battle and disintegrating any who dared oppose the wielder’s might.

Whatever civilization ruled this world, they surely knew how to wage their wars. It was somewhat worrying, though. Keter had no idea how they would react to his presence. Would they realize he was different? Was he even different? Perhaps all this world’s inhabitants were reincarnated. Perhaps not, and they would see him as a god or a demon or simply as a loon, spouting nonsense. That is, if they didn’t kill him on sight. Many things to consider. But that was just part of the fun.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Life loved nothing more than to challenge, and Keter loved nothing more than to be challenged.

He back-tracked to where he had fallen down and saw his blade laying on the floor, cluttered with dust, some of it still crumbled from the ceiling. Seemed like the tunnel had collapsed upon itself, sealing the way out with metric tons of rubble.

There were two ways he could go: from where he had found the oil or to where he had yet to explore. Keter had not the faintest clue as to where north was, or the mountains or anything else. This was up to only lady luck.

Giving it any more though would only waist his time, and diminish his chances of surviving, already so slim. He started in one direction, then thought better of it and turned around to where he hadn’t explored yet. For no particular reason.

The flames reached out like fingers as they lit the perilous tomb while Keter marched on for what seemed like miles, though it couldn’t have rationally have been that long. He felt his mind linger on the sculptures and carvings written on the endless walls and tiles, some still pristine while others had worn to dust.

Something flickered in the corner of his sight. He quickly pivoted, raising his blade in one hand and the curling flame in the other. It was a mummified corpse, frozen in prayer as it kneeled on the etched flooring. Forever showing their devotion to whatever deserved it.

Keter guided the light along the dried husk of man, or once was such. Even on closer inspection it looked very much human, perhaps smaller than average in size. But it was hard to tell, as Keter’s vessel was that of a young child; making the comparison arduous.

Keter abandoned the remains, but as he continued his path, there were only more. All kneeling, all praying, all dead and dried and populating the hall in a quiet gathering of forgotten thoughts. Made Keter wonder whether this too was his fate; consigned to these hollows and forever lost. He quickened his pace, passing crowds of dead and pots filled with bones. If he feared one thing, and one thing only, it was a death silent as this.

*

He stood still and forlorn, his eyes burning mad. Before him the hallway split in two – one path reaching left, the other right, and both sealed for a massive slab of rock that functioned as a door with one solid sarcophagus in the middle. They would not budge.

He clenched and unclenched his hands, again and again as he weighed his meagre options. Already one day without water left him thirsting something fierce and weakened to boot. If he would return now, another day without drink would be the end of him. This small body was already suffering an array of injuries and exhausted by all the traveling and fighting. Two days without water would see it killed.

The left door was untouched by the world, and fit snuggly in its frame. The other had seen some wear, and small fissures had crumbled on its edges. He glanced at his blade, thick and overbuilt, unwieldy and cumbersome. Perhaps strong enough to use as a prybar.

He eyed the grand plate of stone again, estimating its weight. His choices were simple. Worst case, the blade would snap, and he’d be left with a broken hilt and a slow death to await. But heading back now wouldn’t really change much about the outcome. And that wasn’t really a choice at all, was it?

He stabbed the sword in the crevice, wriggling and shifting the steel as he pried it deeper; until it was almost halfway up the blade. As he fingered the hilt nervously, he spread his feet in the layer of dust, hoping for a decent foothold at least. His chances weren’t opportune, but little ever is when your life is on the line.

Power welled from his legs, into his back, through his shoulders and to his hands, wringing at the worn grip as every fiber trembled under the strain. His teeth groaned, and his gum started bleeding; heard some of them crack as he kept adding pressure. His shoulders swelled as they exuded every strain of strength, opening the wound once more, pushing, driving the grip forth.

Blood thumbed and surged through his ears, white flashes of pain searing his vision, but there was no doubt. He felt the door opening, slowly. It grated the floor bare and Keter couldn’t help but grin even under all the pain. Hurt, he could handle like no other.

With a bellowing roar that tore his throat bloody he willed his magic forth and felt it raging inside himself like a vast, coiling, boiling ocean of mad power. With a last push, he heard a resonating snap before lurching forward and smacking to the tiles.

He grasped at his bloody head, the gash there had now started leaking again, had him hissing angrily. He looked down at his hand, still holding the hilt. Only the hilt and a remnant of iron. He was left with less than half a blade, shattered into a harsh point.

Though all was not lost. The door had opened just a sliver, just enough for his small frame to wring through. He gave a hacking laugh, then started coughing as dust welled up and entered his lungs.

He shot a last glance at the stone coffin, etched with mind-bending shapes and overwhelming patterns made from countless runes and symbols. Gripping his blade, he pondered on what could be inside. All the deceased were angled in the tomb’s direction, surely praying to whatever was inside.

Keter licked at his cracked lips. A legendary blade? An artifact of old? The philosophers stone? He snorted, bemused. It was probably filled with deteriorating bones, and all these fools were praying to some long dead prophet. He would not waist his remaining strength or blade to find whatever was sealed inside. Not now, anyway.

Picking up his oil-lamp, refiled from every depot he had encountered on his way, he started to the opened creak.

A tight fit. He wriggled, wriggled like a mole in its burrow, the jagged slab scraping his frame bloody. He pushed out his breath again and pressed on. The thought of remaining stuck there was not a pleasant one.

A last effort, and he fell through, almost dropping his oil lamp. A pitched shriek split the air, a blurry shape dashing from Keter’s circle of light. Immediately he straightened himself, prepared to crush anything that posed danger.

It looked at him from the shadowed edges of his licking flame, and so Keter neared; ready to kill. The fire flickered along dirty pale skin, worn hides, cluttered hair, and the awed face of a human girl.