A scraping sound echoed through the narrow tunnel, followed by a muffled curse. Eleanor and Michael froze, their hearts hammering against their ribs.
"Barnaby?" Michael called out, his voice tight with concern.
"Here," came a strained reply. "Just… lost my footing on this blasted rubble."
Relief washed over Eleanor, but it was short-lived. The sound of scraping continued, accompanied by a low, rhythmic thudding. A cold dread settled in her stomach.
"What's that other sound?" she whispered, her eyes darting nervously towards the darkness ahead.
Michael strained to listen. "Sounds like… footsteps?"
The thudding grew louder, closer. It wasn't the uneven scrambling of someone navigating through debris. It was a steady, deliberate gait, purposeful and menacing.
"We're not alone down here," Michael muttered, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword.
