The merchant's directions had led Kael deeper into the city's rotting core, where the streets grew narrower, and the buildings loomed like hollowed-out husks. Here, the air was damp, thick with the scent of mold and something fouler—something old. Few dared to tread these paths, not because of law or authority, but because of what lurked in the shadows between the ruins.
Kael moved carefully, his hand resting near the worn hilt of his knife. He had no illusions of safety. There were no true safe places in this world—only places where death came slower.
A scrawny figure scuttled past an alleyway, their bare feet slapping against wet stone. A moment later, another followed. Eyes like hungry rats flickered toward him from the darkness, evaluating, calculating. Kael met their gazes without hesitation, his expression hard. Weakness was an invitation.
They did not approach.
He exhaled slowly, adjusting the strap of his satchel before continuing. The merchant had spoken in riddles, but Kael had pieced together enough. The Black Maw was not a place one stumbled upon; it was a place one had to seek with intention. Those who truly desired entry found it. Those who hesitated—who second-guessed—were turned away by forces unseen.
The thought unsettled him.
He did not believe in curses or spirits. But he had seen things—things that defied explanation. And the world, for all its ruin, was not empty.
A crumbling cathedral stood at the end of the road, its stained-glass windows shattered, its steeple broken as if struck by some divine wrath. The doors had long since rotted away, leaving a gaping entrance, like a mouth frozen in silent lament. Kael hesitated only a moment before stepping inside.
The silence was suffocating.
Dust swirled in the dim light filtering through cracks in the ceiling. Wooden pews, broken and splintered, lay scattered across the floor. At the far end of the hall, where an altar might have once stood, was something else—something new.
A doorway.
It was wrong. Not in appearance, but in presence. It was as though the air around it bent in subtle defiance of natural law. The edges rippled, dark as ink spilled across glass. It was neither solid nor illusion, existing in the space between.
A whisper stirred the silence.
Kael's breath hitched. He turned sharply, but there was no one. Just the ruins. Just the shadows.
Another whisper—closer this time. Not words, but the impression of something spoken, just beyond comprehension.
His fingers tightened around the strap of his satchel. The Black Maw. This had to be it.
He stepped forward. The whispering grew louder. The air pressed against his skin, thick like unseen hands grasping, pulling. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, to leave whatever this was buried in the past where it belonged.
But he had come too far.
And he was not leaving empty-handed.
With a steadying breath, Kael reached out—and stepped into the darkness.