The air in the lower corridors of the containment complex was unnaturally still. No drafts. No distant echoes. Only the measured sound of boots striking stone as Seradin led the procession—Mal bound in restraints, six men flanking them, four more guarding the rear.
Rune-lamps lined the walls, their pale blue glow washing over steel armor and sigil-etched blades. For a fleeting moment, the corridor felt secure.
Then the warmth vanished.
The temperature dropped so abruptly Mal sucked in a sharp breath. Cold crept across the stone floor, spreading outward in a thin, invisible tide. The rune-lamps flickered once.
Twice.
Their light dimmed, shadows swelling as if they had weight.
A sound whispered through the corridor.
Not footsteps. Not wind. Something else.
Mal's pulse spiked. His shoulders tightened against the restraints.
'What's happening?'
From the walls, shapes began to form.
At first they were stains—dark smears blooming across the stone. Then the stone softened, thinning, and ten figures slid free as if the corridor itself were bleeding them out.
They moved without sound.
"They're... alive?" Mal's brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the creatures that had come out of nowhere.
Black robes clung to their forms, fabric writhing in slow, deliberate currents. Their faces were lost beneath deep hoods, swallowed by shadow. Only their eyes showed—dull silver, fixed and unblinking. Their movement was fluid, unnatural, impossible to anticipate.
Mal took an involuntary step back. Mal's stomach twisted. "What are those things? They… weren't normal."
Someone screamed.
One of the rearguard collapsed, his throat opened cleanly. He hit the ground without a sound.
"Protect the target!" Seradin shouted.
He shoved Mal back against the wall and stepped forward in the same motion, sword already in hand. White sigils flared faintly along the blade.
The rune-lamps died.
Darkness swallowed the corridor.
"What's happening? I-it's getting darker," Mal said, panic creeping into his voice.
Steel rang out—short, brutal clashes echoing through the black. A shape lunged from the left. Seradin pivoted and cut once. The body fell before it finished the motion.
"Stay behind me. Don't even think about running," Seradin said, his voice steady.
Mal pressed himself against the stone, his breath breaking into shallow gulps. Steel rang close by, followed by tearing sounds and cut-off screams. The darkness offered him nothing—only noise, only fear.
A guard shouted. The sound cut off abruptly.
Something wet struck the wall near Mal's face. He lifted a trembling hand and brushed his cheek. His fingers came away slick.
'Is this... b-blood?'
His throat tightened as he swallowed. Every muscle went rigid, senses flaring. He darted a glance to a fallen soldier and noticed the trajectory of the shadows—patterns in their movement.
'If I move carefully… maybe I can avoid them.'
Suddenly, a shadow dropped from above, landing among the soldiers. There was a flash of movement, a scream, then silence. The thing rose from the body as if unbothered, robes barely disturbed.
They weren't fighting like men.
They flowed. Slipped. Vanished and reappeared.
Seradin surged forward, blade flaring brighter. He cut one down, then another, movements precise and economical. He didn't chase. He intercepted.
A soldier drove a blade through one of the attackers' ribs. Black blood spilled. The shadow staggered—but didn't fall. Another emerged behind the guard and split him open from shoulder to hip.
Mal gagged.
Something skidded across the floor and bumped against his boot.
An arm.
"No." Mal whispered.
Seradin grabbed Mal by the collar and dragged him behind a pillar as knives slammed into the wall where his head had been.
"Can't keep doing this and guard you. Move when I move," Seradin growled. "Do not slow me down, kid."
Mal nodded, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
Fire roared as a dying guard triggered a seal. One of the shadows was caught in the blast, its form tearing apart into drifting black fragments.
When the noise faded, bodies littered the corridor. Five of the attackers lay still. Most of Seradin's men were down.
The remaining shadows hesitated, stepping back as if they knew they could not win.
But one stepped forward alone.
It tilted its head, silver eyes fixed on Mal. When it spoke, its voice distorted, as if layered with a second, inhuman resonance.
"He is waking."
Seradin raised his sword. "What are you talking about? Who is waking? Explain yourself!"
The thing did not answer.
It stepped backward—and sank into the wall as if swallowed by it. The stone sealed behind it without a mark.
A long silence followed.
The light returned, casting it's glow over the corridor now laid bare in ruin. Blood pooled in the cracks of the floor. The rune-lamps flickered weakly back to life, revealing the aftermath—broken bodies, shattered armor, and corpses of both soldier and shadow soldiers.
Only three of Seradin's men remained.
Seradin stood unmoving, blade dripping black, and returned to Mal.
Mal slid down the wall, legs trembling, breath ragged. His ears rang. His hands shook.
"Who are they? They weren't after you," Mal said hoarsely. "Were they?"
Seradin didn't answer.
He wiped his blade clean, sheathed it, and turned.
"Let's not waste any more time." Seradin's voice was low, but each word cut through the corridor like a blade. He ran a hand over his face, and for a moment, his shoulders sagged—the only crack in his calm. "Those things could return at any moment. We can't throw our lives away for one person."
He met Mal's wide-eyed stare, eyes sharp but tired, the faint lines of fatigue etched deep. "We move. Now."
The tone left no room for questions.
Mal's legs trembled, knees threatening to buckle. Every instinct screamed to run, but he forced himself upright.
'This is my fault.'
The fallen soldiers flashed in his mind—their blood darkening the stone, lifeless eyes staring.
'They died because of me.'
His chest tightened. Heart hammered like a drum in a tomb. Every nerve screamed to flee. Every fiber wanted to collapse, curl into nothing. Yet he moved. One shaky step. Then another.
A tremor of nausea crawled up his spine, pressing at his skull. Screams, steel, and black eyes burned behind his eyelids. He swallowed hard, forcing down bile and panic.
Each step fought the weight of his guilt and the shiver of fear that threatened to root him to the floor. He moved. If he stopped, even for a heartbeat, the darkness would swallow him whole.