His legs burned from running, each breath a jagged gasp that tore at his lungs. The flickering light of the altar was long gone, swallowed by the darkness that stretched endlessly around him. He pressed forward, driven by instinct and fear. There was no sense of direction, no clear path—only the hope that somewhere ahead lay something better than what was behind.
The growling had faded again, but he didn't trust the silence. It clung to him like a second skin, heavy and oppressive. The strange, shifting ground beneath his feet made it impossible to move quickly. One moment, it felt like sand, soft and yielding; the next, it was hard and uneven, jagged like broken glass. He stumbled more than once, each fall jarring him to his core.
A faint sound reached his ears—not the growling, but something different. It was a whisper, soft and indistinct, carried by an unseen wind. He stopped, straining to hear. The whisper came again, clearer this time, though he couldn't make out the words.
"Hello?" he called out, his voice barely more than a croak.
No answer. The whisper continued, growing louder, more insistent. He turned slowly, trying to pinpoint its source, but it seemed to come from everywhere at once. A chill ran down his spine as he realized the whisper wasn't coming from outside—it was in his head.
Come closer.
He clutched the rusted knife tighter, his knuckles turning white. "Who's there?" he demanded, though he wasn't sure he wanted an answer. The voice didn't respond. Instead, a new sound emerged—a low, rhythmic thumping, like a distant heartbeat. It pulsed through the ground beneath his feet, each beat sending a shiver through his body.
With nowhere else to go, he followed the sound. The rhythmic thumping grew louder as he walked, guiding him deeper into the unknown. The air grew colder, the metallic tang giving way to something more pungent—the stench of decay. He gagged, covering his mouth with one hand, but it did little to block out the smell.
After what felt like an eternity, he reached a clearing. The ground here was different, smoother and darker, like polished obsidian. In the center of the clearing stood a massive stone archway, its surface covered in intricate carvings that seemed to shift and writhe in the dim light. The archway pulsed in time with the rhythmic thumping, as though it were alive.
He approached cautiously, every instinct screaming at him to turn back. But there was nowhere else to go. He stepped closer, eyes scanning the carvings for any hint of what lay beyond. They depicted strange, twisted figures locked in eternal torment, their faces contorted in agony. The sight made his stomach churn.
Enter.
The voice was back, more forceful this time. He hesitated, glancing behind him. The path he had come from was gone, replaced by an unbroken expanse of darkness. There was no going back.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the archway.
The world shifted around him. One moment, he was standing on solid ground; the next, he was falling. He tumbled through a void of swirling shadows and faint, distorted images, his mind reeling from the disorienting descent. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. The air was too thick, pressing against him from all sides.
Just when he thought he couldn't take any more, he landed with a jarring thud. Pain shot through his body as he lay sprawled on the cold, hard ground. For a moment, he couldn't move, couldn't think. He simply lay there, trying to catch his breath.
When he finally managed to sit up, he found himself in a new place. The air was thick with mist, obscuring his surroundings. Shapes loomed in the distance, dark and indistinct. The ground beneath him was damp and cold, covered in a thin layer of slime.
He rose unsteadily to his feet, clutching the knife like a lifeline. The mist swirled around him, parting just enough to reveal a narrow path ahead. With no other options, he began walking.
The rhythmic thumping had returned, fainter now but still present. It seemed to come from somewhere ahead, drawing him forward like a moth to a flame. He didn't trust it, but he had no choice.
As he walked, he became aware of something moving in the mist. Shadows flickered at the edge of his vision, disappearing whenever he tried to focus on them. The sensation of being watched grew stronger with each step, sending a chill down his spine.
"Keep it together," he muttered to himself, his voice trembling. "You can get through this."
The path twisted and turned, leading him deeper into the mist. Time lost all meaning; he could have been walking for minutes or hours. His legs ached, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Still, he pressed on, driven by the faint hope that somewhere ahead lay a way out.
Eventually, he reached another clearing. This one was smaller, more enclosed, with high stone walls that loomed overhead. In the center stood another altar, similar to the first but larger and more elaborate. Flames flickered atop it, casting long shadows that danced across the walls.
This time, there was no voice urging him forward. Instead, he felt a strange compulsion, an irresistible pull toward the altar. He approached slowly, heart pounding in his chest. The air grew colder with each step, until his breath came out in visible puffs of mist.
When he reached the altar, he saw something lying atop it—a small, black stone that pulsed with an inner light. He reached out, hesitant, and touched it. The moment his fingers made contact, a searing pain shot through his hand, and he cried out, pulling back. The stone didn't move, didn't react. It simply lay there, pulsing softly.
Before he could decide what to do next, the shadows around him shifted. Shapes emerged from the mist, grotesque figures with twisted limbs and hollow eyes. They moved slowly, deliberately, closing in from all sides.
Panic surged through him. He clutched the knife tightly, ready to defend himself, though he knew it was futile. There were too many of them, and he was just one man with a rusted blade.
Make a deal.
The voice returned, cold and calculating. He hesitated, glancing at the stone. Was that what it wanted? Was that the deal?
The figures drew closer, their hollow eyes fixed on him. He could see their twisted features now, faces contorted in expressions of pain and madness. He had to act fast.
Gritting his teeth, he reached out and grabbed the stone. Pain flared through his hand again, but he didn't let go. Instead, he focused on the voice in his head.
"What do you want?" he demanded. "What's the price?"
The voice didn't answer directly. Instead, he felt a strange sensation, as though something were being taken from him—something he couldn't quite identify. The pain in his hand intensified, spreading up his arm and into his chest. He gasped, struggling to stay upright.
The figures halted, their hollow eyes dimming. The air grew still, the oppressive weight lifting slightly. He could feel the power of the stone coursing through him, dulling the pain and filling him with a cold, burning strength.
For the first time since he arrived, he felt a flicker of hope. He didn't know what the cost had been, but for now, he was alive.
And he intended to stay that way.
End of Chapter.