Torches light among survivors.

The webbing parts beneath my blade. Another survivor falls free, caught by shield arm before striking stone. Her eyes fix on these hollow sockets, seeing death but sensing purpose. No screams now. Terror gives way to desperate hope.

The chamber holds more cocoons than first sight revealed. They hang in layers, some fresh, others bearing weeks of dust. The horror stored its food carefully, preserving what it could not immediately consume.

"Sarah? Sarah!" A man's voice breaks the silence. He cradles the woman I just freed, his hands shaking as he wipes silk from her face. "I thought... when it took you..."

More cocoons pulse with life above. The sword continues its work while they embrace. Each strand parts carefully - some holds victims, others merely corpses. These fragments sense the difference.

"Get away from them!" A rock strikes my skull. The rock does nothing.

These fragments continue their work, blade finding another cocoon while he sobs.

The thrower stands trembling, another stone raised. "Haven't we suffered enough monsters?"

No matter.

The whimper of a child draws attention higher and the blade to follow.

The webbing parts, revealing a girl no more than ten. She falls into waiting arms of bone, chest rising with shallow breaths.

The man's stone drops as he recognizes his daughter's face.

"Emmy?" His voice breaks. "Oh Emmy,!" He rushes forward, taking her from bone grip. Tears stream down his face as he checks her pulse. "Her brother, please, Merik was taken too."

These fragments understand his fear.

His violence. The living lash out when hope returns.

My blade finds another cocoon, parts silk with careful purpose.

A boy falls free. The man sobs as he clutches both children. Other survivors help him carry them to solid ground. His eyes meet hollow sockets, shame warring with gratitude.

"Keep cutting." His voice steadies. "Please, keep cutting."

Steel parts ancient strands, releasing bodies one by one. Some breathe. Others rot. The shield catches the living, guiding them to solid ground. Borrowed bones work methodically, memories of other rescues guiding each cut.

"That's Jensons' boy," someone whispers. "And Patterson. It's been keeping them alive all this time..."

Layer by layer, the harvest reveals itself. The freshest cocoons pulse with life. Others hang still, faces frozen in final terror. The shield guides survivors toward the chamber entrance while steel frees more victims.

A young girl screams when she wakes. "The face! The elder's face!" Her mother clutches her close, quiet whispering offer comfort these fragments cannot provide.

Black bloodr stains the webbing near the chamber's peak. The sword reaches higher, parting strands thick with age. More bodies. More faces. The horror's larder spans longer than first thought.

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Soil begins to fall above. The battle weakened tunnel supports. Our way back blocks itself with each passing moment.

"We're trapped!" Panic rises in fresh voices.

These fragments sense other paths, carved during patient centuries of hunting. Some must lead to surface air.

The shield bangs against stone, drawing their attention.

My sword points toward three tunnel mouths. The shield brushes ceiling webs aside.

"How can we trust it?" A woman clutches her rescued child. "It's one of them. A dead thing."

"It freed us," the man who threw the stone answers. "We follow or we die here."

They hesitate, but what choice remains?

The group shuffles forward as earth continues falling. Their feet leave prints in soil turned to mud by spilled blood. Some stumble, exhausted by captivity. Others help them rise.

"My legs," an elderly man gasps. "I can't."

Stronger arms support weaker frames. The living help living while these bones lead the way. The braver guard the rear, ensuring none fall behind.

The passage winds upward, carved with the same patient malice as the rest. More trophies line alcoves, older faces, preserved from distant places.

"Look away," a mother tells her children. "Don't look at them."

Some survivors turn from the displays. Others stare, recognition dawning in hollow eyes. These are not the first settlements it has fed upon. Not the first communities it has hollowed from below.

"How many?" A voice breaks. "How many before us? How long"

The tunnel splits again.

The air moves differently here, fresher, touched by surface winds. But distance matters less than stability. Earth still shifts above, the ancient supports failing.

"It's collapsing!" Someone shouts as more soil falls.

Borrowed bones need no light, but terror slows living steps.

A child trips. Her father scoops her up without breaking stride. They've learned to help their own now.

Fear teaches cooperation faster than trust.

Moonlight filters through cracks ahead. The tunnel mouth opens onto a hillside half a league from their settlement. Stars shinel overhead as survivors emerge on shaking legs.

"We made it," the stone-thrower breathes. "Gods preserve us, we're out."

They gather close. Exhausted.

The stone-thrower, clutches his daughter close. "What do we do now?"

Their torches still burn, but fear of what lurks beyond their light holds them in place. These bones need no light to stand guard, but living eyes need flame.

My shield plants into soft earth, a gesture for them to rest. Some collapse where they stand, legs finally giving out.

Others huddle together.

"We wait," an older woman translates my motions. "We camp until dawn."

My sword points to fallen branches. The stone thrower understands, gathering kindling while others form a circle.

They work with quiet efficiency, survival instincts taking hold.

Soon, a proper fire burns.

"The monster..." A child whimpers. "What if it comes back?"

These bones stand between them and dark outside the circle.

They arrange themselves around the flames, the stronger taking the outer ring. Parents cradle children. Friends support the wounded. The fire's glow on tear-streaked faces as they process their ordeal.

Some sleep immediately, exhaustion claiming them. Others stare into the flames, unable to close their eyes.

The survivors watch this frame in hope and fear. Death saved them from death's jaws, yet still wears death's face still.

"What is it?" A child asks her mother. "Why does it help us?"

"Hush," comes the reply. "Don't draw its attention."

A man grips his makeshift club, knuckles white against rough wood. His eyes never leave.

They huddle closer as night deepens, some remember how I cut them free.

The stone-thrower approaches near dawn, his children finally sleeping.

"I'm sorry," he says to hollow sockets. "For the stone. For doubting. Whatever you are, thank you for my children."

These fragments need no thanks. Need no forgiveness. The dead remember duty, even when the living remember only fear.

I scrape letters in the dirt.

REST. MORNING COMES EARLY.

The stone-thrower nods, returning to his children. Others read my message, tension easing from shoulders as they settle for what remains of night. The fire burns steady, fed by those still too afraid to close their eyes.

These fragments need no sleep, no rest. Purpose drives this frame to stand guard while they recover strength.

The survivors slowly succumb to exhaustion. Bodies lean against each other for warmth and comfort. Even those determined to keep watch drift into uneasy slumber.

These bones remain their vigil.

Let any watching eyes see death stands guard here. Let them remember why they fear the dark.

Perhaps even monsters know when to let prey recover before resuming the hunt.