Pain taught him how to move.
Arav advanced with shorter steps now, weight carefully balanced to favor his uninjured leg. Each motion sent a dull throb up his thigh, a steady reminder that Ashroot Hollow did not forgive carelessness.
The passage narrowed.
Roots thickened overhead, twisting into a rib-like canopy that blocked what little ambient light existed. The ground grew softer—loam mixed with decomposing bark—swallowing sound and scent alike.
Bad terrain.
Vyomar paced closer to Arav's left, movements cautious. The cub's earlier scrape had slowed him too; one shoulder dipped slightly when he stepped.
Neither of them was at full strength.
The dungeon noticed.
A faint vibration rippled through the ground.
Arav stopped, lowering his breathing until even the rasp in his chest quieted. He knelt, pressing two fingers to the soil.
Warm.
Not from heat—from motion.
Something moved beneath them. Not one thing. Several.
He backed toward the wall, blade low, eyes tracking the faint bulges that traveled through the earth like fish beneath ice.
Gnawroot Stalkers hunted in packs.
He should have realized that earlier.
The first burst came from the right.
Arav pivoted, blade flashing down in a sharp arc that bit into bark plating. The stalker recoiled with a hiss—but didn't fall.
The second erupted behind him.
Vyomar snarled and lunged, intercepting just enough to deflect its jaws. The cub was thrown aside again, rolling hard.
Arav felt the pull—the instinctive urge to let the heat rise.
He crushed it.
Not yet.
He retreated two steps, forcing the stalkers into his line of sight. Three shapes circled now, amber eyes glinting between roots.
He needed space.
And this tunnel offered none.
Arav slashed at the nearest stalker's forelimb again, repeating the earlier tactic. The blade bit—but slower this time. The beast adapted, jerking away before the cut could deepen.
They were learning.
He was bleeding.
This was how people died in dungeons—not from overwhelming force, but from attrition.
Arav inhaled deeply, drawing on the coarse aether around him—not to ignite it, but to *shape* it. He let a thin layer of heat coat his skin, dulling pain just enough to keep his movements precise.
No flare.
No surge.
Just control.
He slammed his boot down hard.
The impact sent a vibration through the loam. The ground collapsed inward where one stalker tunneled, trapping it halfway. Its screech echoed as roots tightened around its body.
Opportunity.
Arav moved instantly, driving the blade into the exposed throat. The beast convulsed and went still.
The other two hesitated.
For the first time, uncertainty rippled through them.
Arav didn't press.
He backed away slowly, blade steady, eyes never leaving theirs.
He wasn't here to exterminate the hollow.
He was here to survive it.
The stalkers withdrew, melting back into the earth with soft, scraping sounds that faded into silence.
Only then did Arav allow himself to breathe.
He sank against the wall again, chest heaving, and checked his bindings. Blood seeped through the cloth, slower now but persistent.
Vyomar limped back to him and sat heavily, sides rising and falling.
"Next time," Arav murmured, forcing a small, tired smile, "we pick better ground."
The cub huffed, tail flicking weakly.
Arav looked deeper into Ashroot Hollow.
The dungeon wasn't cleared.
Not even close.
But it had taken something from him—and learned something in return.
He pushed himself back to his feet.
"Let's move," he said quietly. "Before it decides to try again."
The hollow did not answer.
It simply watched, patient and hungry, as its prey learned how not to die.