The tunnel swallowed them.

They followed Gorin’s lead, back through the darkness, deeper into the same tunnel they had been traveling. He guided them to a narrow crack in the stone wall—an offshoot barely noticeable unless you knew to look for it. 

“This way,” Gorin whispered, pointing toward the narrow split in the tunnel wall. “We went in there.”

Trista crouched and squeezed through first, lantern held ahead, Willow behind her, Gorin close at the back.

The air grew damper, thicker. The path sloped downward into a narrow corridor carved not by hands but by time and weight. 

Then, Willow raised a hand.

They stopped.

He crouched, placing a hand against the stone floor. For a moment, nothing. Then he stood, pointing toward a sharp bend ahead. “There.”

Trista advanced slowly.

As the tunnel curved, the floor suddenly dipped. The lantern’s light caught the edge of a jagged pit—ten, maybe twelve feet across. The far side was uneven, broken into ledges of stone. But the bottom was lost to shadow. They couldn’t see how deep it went.

Trista froze.

A pit yawned before them, wide and jagged at the rim, too deep for the lantern’s light to reach the bottom.

“Here,” Gorin whispered. “This is where he fell.”

Willow moved to the edge and held the lantern out as far as he dared. The flair flickered over dark stone, revealing only air. No sound came from below. No sign of movement.

“We can’t see him,” he muttered. “We’ll need to go down.”

Trista was already removing her satchel, pulling out a length of coiled rope. She scanned the walls and examined the jagged mouth of the pit, lantern swaying as she searched for anything stable—rocks, roots, a ledge—something to anchor the rope to.

Nothing.

She turned to Willow. “No good. There’s nowhere to tie it off.”

He looked down. Then at her. “I’ll go. You lower me.”

Trista hesitated. “You sure?”

Willow didn’t answer. He simply looped the rope around his chest and handed her the slack.

Trista braced her boots against the stone, wrapping the rope around her arms for leverage. “Slowly,” she warned.

Willow took the lantern and began his descent. His movements were slow, deliberate. Halfway down, he paused. “The walls are… slick,” he said. “Some kind of mucus.”

He kept going.

The rope creaked. The light swayed. Then it stopped moving.

Trista leaned over. “Willow?”

“I’m down,” Willow’s voice echoed softly from below. “There’s a tunnel. It keeps going.”

A pause.

“Everything’s coated in… something. Sticky. Burns a little on contact. Feels like acid.”

Seconds passed.

Then: “I see something.”

Trista strained to hear.

“There’s movement down here,” Willow’s voice continued. “Holes in the wall. Coated with something… stiky. I think I see—”

A wet thud echoed up.

Then—a cry of pain echoed up the shaft. Not loud, but sharp and sudden.

“Trista!” Willow’s voice came next, strained. “Something’s down here. Hostile. I don’t know what—”

A pause. A ragged breath.

“But I think I see Marn. He’s further in.”

Trista’s heart pounded. She looked at Gorin, whose eyes were wide with panic.

“Go,” she said, tightening her grip on the rope. “Run back to the others.”

Gorin hesitated, but her voice left no room for argument.

“Now!” she urged. “Tell them what happened and guide them here. Bring help”

Trista looked down into the dark.

No anchor. No rope. No real plan.

Just Willow. Alone with who knows what. Hurt.

She tightened her grip on the edge, took one steadying breath—then began to climb.

The stone was slick with residue, her boots slipping more than once. She gritted her teeth and kept moving, fingers burning where they touched the sticky film. But she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

Back at the cart, Garlak was elbow-deep in rubble, breathing hard, when a shape came hurtling out of the dark.

“Gorin?” Emeryn called out, grabbing her weapon.

The elf boy stumbled forward, panting and wide-eyed.

“He fell!” he gasped. “Willow’s hurt. Trista went down. They need help!”

“I told them we didn’t have to split up,” Emeryn muttered.

But she didn’t wait for more.  

“Show us.”

She and Garlak grabbed their gear, handed Kira the torch, and turned to follow the boy.

“Stay in the cart,” Garlak told her. “We’ll be back soon.”

Kira didn’t answer. She just nodded once, pulling the children tighter around her.

The path back was rough, and the crack in the wall even tighter than Garlak expected.

Gorin squeezed through with ease. Emeryn had to duck and turn sideways. Garlak barely fit—his shoulders scraping stone with every step.

By the time they reached the pit, the air was thick with the reek of rot and acid.

They heard it before they saw it.

Hissing.

Movement.

A dull, wet thud.

They looked over the edge—and caught a glimpse of light below.

Willow and Trista were backed against one of the curved walls, surrounded by slick stone and gaping holes. Willow’s leg was twisted awkwardly, blood soaking through his clothes. Trista stood in front of him, weapon raised.

Something slithered through the dark.

Garlak didn’t wait.

He tied the rope around a nearby rock spike—finally, something solid—and dropped into the pit like a falling boulder.

Emeryn followed seconds later, landing just beside him.

The creatures didn’t like that.

They lunged.

One came from the far wall—serpentine, pale, coated in a mucous sheen. The other burst from one of the tunnels, clicking mandibles and a gaping mouth lined with sharp ridges.

Garlak swung first, his axe smashing into the nearest one with a sound like wet wood cracking. It shrieked and recoiled, thick fluid spraying against the wall.

Emeryn spun her staff, as it caught the second beast across the face. It recoiled, hissing.

Trista seized the moment to drop to Willow’s side. “Can you stand?”

“Can you stand?” she asked, already pulling supplies from her satchel.

Willow shook his head. His leg was twisted beneath him, blood soaking through his trouser. He looked pale, gritting his teeth to stay conscious.

“Hold still,” Trista said, digging out a bundle of dried herbs. She crushed them between her fingers and pressed the mixture gently into the wound. Willow winced, but the bleeding began to slow.

“Just need to keep you awake a little longer,” she murmured. “Then I’ll fix it properly.”

Willow didn’t respond. His hand reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. The letter. The one Kara had entrusted to him.

Trista glanced at it, puzzled. But she needed to concentrate. She placed her hand over the injury, whispering low. The magic stitched skin and muscle together, not fully—just enough to keep him conscious. It would hold.

Meanwile Willow opened the letter, scanned the contents silently—just once—then, with a surprising reolution, tossed it toward the overturned coal lamp nearby. The parchment caught the lingering embers, curled, blackened, and vanished in flame.

Trista blinked. “What was—”

“It’s done,” he said simply.

But there was no time to ask more. A hiss echoed from one of the tunnels.

Movement.

Trista rose, lifting her weapon. Willow reached for his own, but his leg buckled.

Then the creature lunged.

Something long and slick surged from the darkness, striking toward them with impossible speed. Willow reacted on instinct. An arrow flew off his bow, hiting the creature back to its hole.

The pit erupted into chaos.

Another shape burst from the far wall. Trista raised her shield just in time to absorb the impact, stumbling backward.

Garlak stepped forward with a roar, his axe cleaving into the creature’s flank. It shrieked again—high, unnatural.

Emeryn swung her staff in a wide arc. It cracked against slick flesh, sending the second creature reeling.

Willow— half-upright now—fired an arrow low, catching a shadow in the leg—or what passed for one. It buckled but didn’t fall.

“More tunnels,” he warned, voice strained. “They’re coming through the walls.”

Emeryn glanced behind—holes. Everywhere. Slick, open, pulsing.

They pressed back-to-back—Garlak shielded the left, Emeryn took the right, Trista guarded the front, and Willow firing from behind.

One of the beasts surged for the same tunnel where Willow had shoved the lamp moments before. Its shriek echoed louder this time. It didn’t emerge.

The fight tipped.

Emeryn cracked her staff again, this time with a sharp snap that echoed down the cavern.

Garlak stomped a foot forward and brought his axe down in a final, brutal arc.

The last creature slithered back into the hole it came from.

Silence returned, thick and trembling.

“Everyone alive?” Emeryn asked.

“I think so,” Trista nodded.

Trista held Willow steady and channeled one last burst of healing. He inhaled sharply, pain replaced by clarity

Emeryn leaned against the wall, eyes scanning the scene. “Is that—?”

She pointed to a lump on the far wall—something cocooned in mucus.

It was Marn.

Garlak aproached the cocoon and shouted “I’ve got him!”

“Still breathing,” Garlak said, cradling the elf boy in one arm. “Out cold, but alive.”

They didn’t celebrate. Just regrouped.

Trista looked to Willow. He didn’t meet her gaze—just kept walking, then paused to pick up something glinting faintly on the ground.

They coud hear the creatures steal lurking in the shadows, and knew they would atack soon again.

They didn’t wait.

Garlak was the first to climb, planting his boots against the slick stone and hauling himself upward with slow, gritted effort. Trista followed close behind, muscles burning as she scrambled her way up after him. The residue on the walls stung her palms, but she didn’t slow.

Once both had reached the top, they tied the rope around a jutting rock and lowered it again.

Emeryn was next. With help from above, she climbed steadily, her staff slung across her back. Trista and Garlak pulled her the last few feet and helped her over the edge.

Then Willow stepped forward, still limping, Marn cradled against his chest.

He looped one arm around the rope, the other holding the unconscious boy tight.

“Ready,” he called up.

The three above braced together, leaning back with all their strength. Slowly, Willow rose from the depths, feet dragging against the wall, the rope biting into his arm. He didn’t let go of Marn.

When he finally reached the top, Trista grabbed his arm, Emeryn took the boy, and Garlak pulled the rope in one last heave.

They were out.

A small figure rushed from the shadows.

“Marn!” It was Gorin.

He stopped short, eyes wide, flicking from the boy’s limp form to Willow’s torn clothes and Trista’s bruised arms.

“He’s alive,” Emeryn said gently, lowering Marn to the ground. “He’s going to be okay.”

Gorin nodded, but his expression twisted—equal parts relief and guilt. 

No one said anything else.

They started the walk back in silence, tired and sore but alert. The air still smelled faintly of rot and acid. Every crack in the stone felt like a threat. Every sound in the dark made them grip their weapons tighter.

When they emerged back into the main tunnel, Garlak took Marn without a word. Emeryn was visible exausted at that point. He wanted to share the burden.

Minutes later they arrived. The cart was still where they had left it. The children sat huddled together inside, dim torchlight flickering over their small, anxious faces.

Kira was the first to stand.

Her eyes locked on Marn. She clambered down before the cart even stopped rocking, nearly dropping the dwarven baby in her haste to reach them.

“You found him,” she whispered. Her voice cracked.

Garlak nodded. “He’s out cold, but he’ll be all right.”

Kira wrapped her arms around Marn as Garlak passed him gently to her. She didn’t say anything more. Just held him.

Rana helped her back into the cart. Lila reached out and touched Marn’s hand, wide-eyed. Even the quiet boy leaned forward slightly, blinking slowly, as if to confirm what he was seeing.

They didn’t cheer. They just… exhaled. All at once.

The break was short.

“We should move,” Emeryn said softly. “Before anything else decides to crawl out of that hole.”

Trista nodded. “The path’s clear now.”

Together, they helped Willow back into the cart. Garlak returned to the front bench, taking up the reins with a grunt.

Behind them, the tunnel faded into silence again—shadows, stone, and the lingering memory of what lay below.

The cart creaked forward.

And the journey continued.

The Weight of Silence

The tunnels twisted once in a wile, but otherwise it was a straigth forguard jurney as they neared the outer fringes of Nor Badur. A faint breeze whispered through the stone corridors—somewat warmer, tinged with the scent of fruity moss and coal. The city of glowing fruits was close.

No one spoke much. They were too tired, too sore. Trista had quietly tended to the everyone’s wounds during the slow ride—including her own—but weariness hung over them like fog.

They rode in silence.

Garlak at the reins. Emeryn half-asleep, head leaning over Trista. Trista sitting beside Emeryn and the children, her eyes closed but not quite resting. The quiet boy watched the tunnel roll by. And Willow—he had been sitting near the back, unmoving.

Then, a sound.

Sudden. Sharp. A deep sucking breath, like air dragged through stone and teeth. Like the air being pulled inward all at once in a single point. 

Everyone looked up.

Willow was gone.

In his place, nestled against the wood of the cart, was a small, shiny sphere. Heavy-looking. Perfectly round and polished.

The cart stoped and silence deepened.

“What the fuck,” Garlak muttered, climbing over the bench and reaching for it.

He picked it up. It was warm. Smooth. Beautiful, in a strange, unsettling way.

Emeryn blinked slowly. “Wait… where’s Willow?”

They all looked. Then back at the orb.

“I think it’s him,” she said, but even she didn’t sound sure.

Garlak turned the sphere in his hands. “It’s shiny,” he said. “I’m keeping it.”

Trista didn’t argue. No one did.

The cart creaked forward again, carrying them towards theyr destination—Nor Badur— the ciry of glowing fruits.