As he opened his eyes, snow swirled around him in a frantic storm. His lungs heaved and his limbs were frigid.
Was he falling? Being pulled by another storm? Consumed?
Before he could orient himself or tell which way was up, everything tore apart at once. The storm unraveled, its frigid air vanishing, and a violent force hurled him forward, slamming him into a solid stone wall.
Thud!
His body crumpled down onto the pile of crates as he caught his breath, pain flared in his ribs, but at least he had landed on something softer.
Softer than stone, anyway.
A faint wheeze drew Zerin's attention as he moved. Forcing himself upright, he looked down to see a bipedal feline creature in tattered, blood-soaked robes.
[You have slain an Awakened Terror, Kaldrmenn.]
The Spell's voice echoed. Zerin broke into a cold sweat.
Where in the frozen hells was he now?
A few moments ago, he stood in a frozen glade. Then. And now, this.
He cast another glance at the lifeless creature. The robes were familiar—making this creature one of the takers from the glade. Then he noticed something strange: his memory, the [Astral Blade], was buried deep in the creature's upper torso.
Yet, he didn't remember fighting this creature once...
He stood there for a few seconds before tearing the blade free with a bloody scrape.
It didn't matter, what mattered was his surroundings, he tasted the air, like dust and old iron. He stood in an alcove large enough to hold dozens of crates. Branching from the alcove were two paths, a left and a right each lined with rusted brackets meant for lanterns or torches, though all were vacant of light.
Zerin stepped out carefully. To his left the hall continued on. His eyes adjusted to the scarce light, revealing a half-collapsed archway, and beyond it, the faint suggestion of another path. It was more than he could see to his right, where darkness swallowed everything.
Before deciding he attempted to summon the Howler.
Nothing...
He expected this. Just like when they were trapped in that storm, he was beyond the range needed to recall the Veinborne—and summon it again.
In short, it meant he was alone.
And in the moment of realization, he heard it.
A dry clatter echoed down the hallway, reaching the alcove where Zerin stood. The sound was terrible—like rattling a pouch full of a dead man's teeth.
He reacted before he could think, slipping into the shadows behind the stack of crates. The corpse of the Kaldrmenn he'd slain slumped beside him. His gaze locked on the hallway, where the sound drew nearer.
The air thickened. Something large moved into view sitting at the mouth of the alcove, its bulk fully eclipsing the little light that filtered from the left hallway.
Zerin could barely get any real detail before it vanished down the right hallway.
Zerin rose in silence, his pulse pounding. It would come to mind that he hit the wall harder than he thought. The sound must have carried, alerting the creature.
He was conflicted but lowered himself again behind the crates.
Patience.
Walking out there would be a death sentence. Who knows what else is out there.
He waited, and the clattering returned.
The creature reappeared, this time its visage was lit by the hallway to the left instead of darkened by the shadows from the right hall it was coming from.
It stood tall and gaunt, its skin a sickly gray. Strings of bone chimes hung from its tattered robes, their faint clatter cursing the corridors.
The creature was imposing, rivaling the Howler in height, its frame swathed in cold-colored silks that stirred with motion. From its skull rose towering antlers, bleached unlike those of the stag back in the glade. Like the Kaldrmenn and the Stag, a pale wooden mask concealed its face—but this was more intricate, etched with filigree that shimmered in the glow of its cold blue eyes.
Then it moved on, disappearing down the left hallway. The chimes faded as the Elder Hag passed.
Zerin slipped out of the alcove, glancing once more after the Elder had long gone, before turning right, trusting it wouldn't return too soon to check the corridor again.
The corridor ahead welcomed him with silence. His footsteps echoed softly as he clenched his sword by his side.
Fear coiled around him as he visualized the Elder Hag. He couldn't be sure as of right now, but he had reasons to believe it was a Tyrant. Just its calculated presence, measured silence, large frame and this sense of quiet authority led him to such a belief.
He couldn't be sure, but it was one of the safest assumptions. It gave him a reason to not act hasty.
Not under these circumstances.
Not without knowing its army and where it was kept. The last thing you do in a hornet's nest is poke at the queen.
The corridor wasn't getting any brighter, in fact Zerin couldn't tell where he was going anymore as it was entirely pitch black. Activating his Aspect Ability, Zerin's vision sharpened allowing him to see in darkness. Ahead, the passage ended in what looked like a small dungeon of sorts—with four to five cells lining the walls before the corridor came to a stop.
His gaze swept over the cells, barely looking twice. He had more urgent matters instead of staring into long forgotten cages. A tired breath escaped his lips, his boots scuffing against the cold, dry stone floor.
Then he heard something he didn't expect. Not the sound of wind or the sound clattering but a human, ragged cough.
He stopped. The sound seemed to stop too.
For a moment the air between the cells felt uneasy, as if they were listening to him. Then, his eyes widened and he moved. It was impossible.
He hurried to the nearest set of bars, peering through the darkness.
He froze.
Inside, bodies huddled together—not dead, but living. They shivered against the cold, clothed in torn, coarse fabric, their pale skin exposed in places and covered in grime.
Their faces were hollow from hunger and lack of shelter, their eyes vacant with surrender as they gazed at Zerin's glowing red eyes through the bars.
To Zerin, they were a relief—a sign of hope—but to them, he was only another monster.