The cloaked figure waited at the chamber's edge. Silent. Measuring them.
Water dripped in the dark, each drop cracking against stone.
The boy's pulse hammered in his ears. Sweat cooled on his neck.
The figure's head turned—slow, deliberate—gaze sweeping the adventurers sprawled across moss-slick stone.
The swordsman groaned. His gauntlet scraped rock as he pushed himself up, metal grinding, breath wheezing.
The figure moved.
One step. Boot on stone. The sound cut through the silence like a blade.
Fist to face.
The impact cracked. The swordsman's head snapped back, eyes rolling, body going slack as he crashed to the stone. Armor clanged. Blood threaded from his nose.
The dwarf stirred, groaning, plate scraping as he tried to get his knees under him.
The figure grabbed his collar. Leather creaked. Lifted.
The dwarf's boots left the ground, kicking, gasping. "What are you—"
Threw.
The dwarf hit the wall mid-scream. Stone cracked. His armor rang like a bell. He dropped, hit the floor hard, rolled once, stopped.
The boy's stomach twisted. Copper flooded his tongue.
*This wasn't a fight. This was a culling.*
The axeman raised a trembling hand, fingers splayed. "Wait—we tried—"
His voice cracked.
The figure's boot came up.
Ribs.
The kick blasted air from his lungs. His body folded, hit the ground gasping, curled around the pain. Wheezing. Barely able to move.
The elf pressed himself against the wall, hands up, eyes wide. "Please—"
The figure's palm struck center mass.
The elf lifted off his feet, flew backward, arms flailing. His back hit stone with a heavy thud. He slid down, left a smear of blood, slumped. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow.
Seconds.
Four down.
The smell hit—blood and sweat and the sour reek underneath.
The amazoness's eyes snapped wide. She sucked in a breath, scrambled to her feet, bare feet slipping on damp moss. Ran.
Toward the tunnel. Toward darkness. Toward escape.
The figure's head turned, tracked her.
He moved. A blur of shadow and fabric, cloak streaming behind him like smoke.
"Please let me go!"
He caught her arm. Yanked. Her momentum reversed. She spun.
Fist to spine.
Between shoulder blades. The impact drove air from her lungs, back arching, face twisting. She dropped, hit stone hard. Just shallow breathing now. Eyes squeezed shut.
The figure straightened. Slow. Unhurried.
Turned.
His boots struck stone, each step deliberate, measured. The hem of his cloak dragged across damp floor.
His gaze locked on them. On Elara's party.
The boy's chest tightened. His knives suddenly felt too heavy.
Silence stretched. Thick. Suffocating.
Just water dripping. Blood pooling. Ragged breathing.
The boy's voice came out quiet. "Can we take him?"
The words tasted like ash.
Raska didn't look away from the figure. Her claws extended with small clicks, muscles coiled. "Doesn't look like we can run."
Her voice too steady. The kind of calm that came before violence.
Elara's grip tightened on her sword, leather creaking. Jaw set. Eyes hard. "Let's try."
The boy's breath came shorter. "Right. Try. Great plan."
"Got a better one?" Raska's tail flicked once.
"Yeah. Not dying."
"Too late for that."
Elara's eyes stayed fixed on the figure. "Focus. Hit fast. Hit together. Don't stop."
The weight of her words settled. Real. Final.
The boy swallowed, tightened his grip. "...At least the funeral will be cheap."
Raska's lips pulled back—half snarl, half grin. "Shut up and move."
"Ready?"
"No."
"Let's go."
They moved as one.
Not because they believed they could win.
Because stopping meant waiting to be finished.
Boots on stone. Steel singing as blades cleared sheaths. Hearts hammering.
The figure didn't move.
Just watched.
Waiting.