The first sliver of dawn painted the grimy windowpanes a bruised purple.
Nate was already awake. Sleep had remained a distant luxury, chased away by the relentless ticking of an invisible clock counting down his mother's life. He lay still, listening to the shallow rhythm of her breathing, a sound so fragile it felt like it could shatter at any moment.
Beside her, Elara stirred, her small face crumpled in sleep. For a fleeting moment, Nate allowed himself the simple comfort of watching her innocent slumber. This was what he was fighting for. This small, oblivious life.
He rose slowly, his joints stiff and protesting against the cold floor. His father still sat at the worn wooden chair, elbows on his knees, fingers tightly interlaced, as if prayer alone could conjure a miracle. His eyes were hollow—more shadow than gaze—staring at the floor like it might offer an escape.
But there were no miracles.
No knights in shining armor.
No divine blessings whispered into their ears.
Only silence—and the healer's words, ringing louder with every passing hour:
"She won't last a week without an advanced potion."
One week.
Seven days to change fate.
Seven days to stop death from reaching out and taking her away.
But the potion cost more than they had ever owned. Even if they sold the shop, the tools, the furniture—everything—it still wouldn't be enough. And even if they had the coin, no one would give them credit. Not anymore.
Nate bit down on his lip until he tasted blood. His eyes drifted back to his father. The man had spent the entire day chasing ghosts—begging former clients, trying to sell the last remnants of their inventory, offering land that didn't even legally belong to them yet.
But the truth had already sunk in like rot beneath floorboards: no one bets on the dying. They turn away. Pretend not to see. Move on.
There would be no help.
No mercy.
His fists clenched so tight his nails carved red crescents into his palms.
Something had to be done.
His father's breath rattled in his throat, dry and brittle. "Maybe… I can find a way," he said, voice barely more than a whisper. Empty words. A dream without a bridge to reality.
Nate didn't respond immediately. His eyes stayed locked on his mother. Every breath she took was a battle. Every second that passed, a moment closer to the end.
And Elara… She would grow up never knowing the warmth of their mother's touch. No lullabies. No soft hands to dry her tears.
He looked at his father—the man who used to carry him on his shoulders, who once laughed loud enough to fill their home. Now he was a shell, unraveling thread by thread.
Nate swallowed the lump rising in his throat.
He thought about labor. Breaking stones, hauling crates, cleaning sewage lines. Honest work. But that would take weeks. And they didn't have weeks.
She didn't have weeks.
Then, like a whisper through the flickering flame of the lamp, a thought entered his mind.
The Dungeon.
Everyone knew the stories.
Nate had heard the stories a hundred times.
The City Dungeon was open to anyone.A place of monsters, magic, and madness. A trial of the gods, some called it. Others said it was a curse. But all agreed on one thing:
The Dungeon did not care who you were.
It took the brave. It took the foolish.
But if you survived… you could earn enough gold to buy a lifetime. Artifacts. Essence stones. Rare materials. Even a single drop could change everything.
He'd never been trained. Never held a real weapon. But none of that mattered anymore.
Nate moved quietly, gathering the few possessions that might offer some semblance of aid. A chipped flint and steel, salvaged from a discarded brazier. A length of frayed rope, more likely to snap than support his weight. A dull kitchen knife, its edge more accustomed to slicing vegetables than fending off monsters.
It was a pathetic collection, a stark testament to their poverty.
His father finally stirred, his gaze heavy with unshed tears. "Nate," he began, his voice raspy, "please... reconsider. There must be another way."
Nate met his gaze, his own eyes firm. "You said so yourself. There isn't."
"You'll die in there…son"
"Then I'll die trying."
His father clenched his fists. He looked away, his jaw trembling.
"This isn't fair..." he whispered.
Nate almost laughed. Fair? Nothing had ever been fair.
A heavy silence descended, broken only by Alice's labored breaths. David ran a trembling hand through his thinning hair. "At least... take this." He fumbled in his worn leather pouch and pulled out a few small, tarnished coins. "It's all I have left. For... for supplies."
Nate hesitated. He knew the sacrifice behind those meager coins. Every single one represented a forgotten meal, a postponed repair.
"Father..."
"Take them," David insisted, his voice thick with emotion. "Let it not be said that I sent my son to his death empty-handed."
Nate swallowed the lump in his throat and took the coins. They felt heavy in his palm, a tangible weight of his father's despair and his own desperate hope.
He moved to the small herb shop, the familiar scent of dried leaves and roots clinging to the air like a ghost. He ran his fingers over the worn wooden shelves, remembering the countless hours he'd spent here, learning the names and properties of each plant. Knowledge that felt utterly useless now.
He found a sturdy leather satchel his father used for market trips and began to fill it with the few useful items he could find: some dried jerky, a small waterskin, a handful of bandages. It felt woefully inadequate against the unknown horrors that awaited him.
As he worked, Elara woke up, her eyes blinking sleepily. "Big Brother?" she murmured, her voice small and uncertain. She looked around the room, her gaze settling on her mother's still form. A shadow of understanding flickered across her innocent face.
She toddled over to Nate, her small hand reaching for his. "Mama's sick," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Nate knelt beside her, his heart aching. "Yes, little one. Mama's very sick. But I'm going to try and help her. I'm going to get something that will make her better."
Elara looked up at him, her ocean-blue eyes mirroring his own, filled with a trust that both strengthened and terrified him. "You'll come back?"
The question hung in the air, sharp and demanding. Could he promise that? Could he guarantee his return from a place where survival was a legend?
He took her small hand in his. "I have to come back, Elara. For you. For Mama. For Papa." He squeezed her hand gently, hoping his voice sounded more confident than he felt.
His father watched them, his face a mask of anguish. He knew the odds. They both did. But neither of them dared to voice the terrible truth.
The morning light grew stronger, casting long shadows across the room. It was time.
Nate slung the meager satchel over his shoulder. He looked at his mother one last time, memorizing the fragile curve of her cheek, the faint rise and fall of her chest. He wouldn't let this be the last image he carried.
He hugged Elara tightly, burying his face in her soft hair. "Be brave for Mama, little star," he whispered.
Then, he turned to his father, his gaze unwavering. "I'm going now."
David simply nodded, unable to speak, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and a desperate, fragile hope.
But before parting, he went near his mother.