Nolan Mhurr was in darkness. He felt the hand holding him let go, and there was nothing, nothing around him but the ground under his feet. That, and nothing more, he could be sure of. If he took a single step forward or back he might plummet into the blankness, the black, that occluded his world. If he stretched his hands out, he might meet the dripping mandibles of a spider.

The darkness was a horror.

And it was the rest of his life. The darkness didn’t just stretch out around him physically, boundless, but into his future as well. It had swallowed him up.

He heard the ringing of steel against steel, the shuffling of footsteps, the shouts, the cries. There was a battle, so near the wind kicked up from the moving of bodies brushed over his face. He heard the cry, the scream of pain- he knew it was Caiorre’s voice-

Unslinging the satchel from his shoulders, Mhurr lifted it high overhead. His fingers trembled and he felt like a fool but he kept his voice steady as he called out-

“Stop!”

Silence rang out. Stillness.

“Stop. Or I’ll break this. I don’t know why you care but- You do care. Let us go, and I’ll give it back,”

“Mhurr-” Caiorre might have said more, but he was overcome with coughing first, a wet, rattling sound.

“We can’t turn back now.” The voice of Tyrna, that hard, cold witch, with her manners of unfeeling steel. “We have to see this through.”

“Have they stopped?” Mhurr demanded. He could sense the stillness in the room, feel the eyes upon him but - but what did he know. “Are they willing to negotiate?”

“We can’t turn back.” She repeated.

“Boy’s right. I can’t win this. You don’t have an arrow left to your name. Henri is half-dead.” Caiorre sounded weak, his voice trembling.

“I don’t know you, and maybe I don’t have a vote-” It was the last voice Mhurr had heard before sinking into darkness. The voice that had told him to close his eyes. He hadn’t listened. “But I’m here to reach the end. Not anything less.”

“Then- Then if that’s what this is about, let’s give up the egg. We’re not here to be rich. Let’s give it up if they let us past this challenge.”

“I think-” A voice Mhurr didn’t know at all. A girl’s voice, melodic and beautiful. “I think they’re willing.”

“Can we trust it.” Tyrna cut in.

“Yes, yes we have to.” Caiorre sounded tired. The fire was slipping out of his voice, replaced by infinite weariness.

“We have to.” Mhurr repeated. His hands were trembling so bad now, so uncertain of himself, as he faced down the endless blank of the void, that he almost slipped. He - almost - dropped it.

[https://i.imgur.com/okCjs7y.png]

The moment the egg was set down, I ordered the glass golem to kill them all.

I had made no Contract, given nothing but my word, and why should I respect a bargain made under threat of death for one of my beautiful creations? Why should I ever bargain in good faith with those who come to steal and kill?

But the golem saw things differently. It let its sword drop, and stepped aside. I commanded it again, with all the force of my desire to see the intruders dead. It refused to budge.

It was a hunter, and it had its honor.

I wondered what it would have if they killed me.

Would it cease to exist, going out in a blaze of pale flames? Would it simply fall dead and still, waiting for a command that would never come, a voice that would never speak again? Or would it outlive me, hunting on.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

There was no hiding from the emotion that clawed at me. It was fear. I had seen my creations fall, I had architected layers upon layers of defenses only to see them fall away, unable to stop the incursion.

Had I made mistakes? Should I have kept the nacre-spiders hidden in their lairs, hoping to catch one of the adventurers off-guard, rather than trying to capitalize on the moment their forces were split?

Should I spend my one lifeline, my ten minutes return, here?

Doubt was a poisonous thing. It filled me as I watched through the glass guardian’s eyes. They approached the table, the alchemist taking the blind man’s hand and leading him. The huntress lifted a cup, examining it, the poison liquid within sloshing as she turned it to examine every facet.

“What is this? A test?” She asked.

“A riddle.” The old man said, taking another into his scrawny hands, examining each gemstone with a brush of his fingertips, his eye keen despite its rheumy age.

I watched, electric with anticipation. If just one of them drank poison-

“This one.”

He had barely set his hands on the right one before he spoke.

“This one has a different spirit than the rest. Someone made this with love.” So saying, he lifted it to his lips and drank.

I could have screamed. The table slid aside, revealing the entrance to the stairs below, and they each gripped the old bastard on the shoulders.

And they descended into the dark.

[https://i.imgur.com/okCjs7y.png]

Tyrna led the way, Henri dripping blood down her back as his head lolled over her shoulder. The man was dying. His life was dripping out of him, his breath coming less and less often, the red that spilled over her fingers and plastered the back of her shirt to her shoulders slowly drying into an awful stickiness, a tacky, lukewarm cling.

But she couldn’t turn back.

The alchemist had a lantern, lifting it. A tiny sphere of warm, golden light revealed the pale grey of the stairs, descending for what seemed like miles.

And then…

Then the winding gloom of the stairs, of the rough-hewn walls, gave way to a new and more terrible bleakness. To an underground vista so grim it was beautiful, stark and terrible in its lack of colors. To austere flowers, each exactly alike, an endless repetition of five-petalled stars that carpeted the ground, stretching into the gloom with endless gray.

She saw crooked trees encased in dull, cloud crystal, thin cracks of red showing through the crumbling outer layers. A weeping face. A fruit of black crystal.

The sense of the Dungeon’s attention was thick here. It lived and swarmed in the dark recesses, in the shadows that quickened just outside the lantern’s orb of warmth and safety. They were a fish-eyed blot of light drowning in the ink of an underground, subterranean dark.

“Uhhh…” Henri groaned. She thought nothing of it.

Then the alchemist pitched forward, clutching his hand. The lantern fell, the iris of light abruptly shrinking, the shadows rushing in. The amber glow illuminated a tiny, luminous butterfly crawling atop the flowers.

Nathaniel’s hand was fading away. The fingertips were turning translucent, as pale as glass.

“I…” Caiorre’s hair was ghostly, a crown of smoke atop his head.

“Back up, now! Back to the stairs!” Draig called, before she could even react. They rushed for the stairwell, climbing, climbing until they were out of breath and collapsed and frantically checked themselves. All of them except the old man - who lingered for a moment.

Nathaniel’s fingers were solid again, but they were bleeding. Caiorre’s hair came away in clumps.

“What are we going to do.” She wasn’t sure who’d said it. Only that the hope was gone from their voice.

“It didn’t effect me.” Tyrna hadn’t felt anything. No part of her was touched. If she had to- If she had to, she’d make this journey alone.

“Nor me.” Draig declared, from behind her. “I waited up, and nothing seemed to happen.”

“I’m fine.” The bard said, running her fingers through her hair. “I’m… I’m alright.”

“Then it’s settled.” The old man drew a sparkstone from his pockets, and lit a clay pipe, the light sputtering in the dark stairwell. A long draw, a long sigh. “The three of us.”

She gripped the alchemist by the shoulders, laying down Henri across the stairs. There was little to no life left in the man’s face. Diamond-droplets of sweat ran down his cheek, brushing over bloodless, pale skin. His lips trembled, speaking silently.

“Try to help him.”

“I will.” The young alchemist promised, drawing a pot of foul-smelling green paste from his pocket.

“I’ll keep an eye on them.” Caiorre said, grinning weakly as he leaned against the wall. His legs trembled. The truth was, he could hardly lift his blade.

“I’ll go.”

She was surprised to hear Mhurr speak. He sat with his legs out across the stair, touching his own face - feeling the scars that had blinded him.

“I’ll go.” He repeated, turning his head this way and that, trying to find someone to answer him.

“You can’t.” She put bluntly.

“You’ll need a mage.” He insisted. She’d heard that tone before. Some people would rather die than break, and he was on the verge of breaking. If the mage went back now, with his scars and his pains and no glory to show for it - if he surrendered - Mhurr would be broken.

Silently, she reached down and clasped his hand, pulling him to his feet.

Some fools had more determination than sense. She should know; she was one herself.

The four of them, then.

Against a whole new world of terrors.