The cave swallowed them whole.
Darkness pressed in from every side as Inigo and Lyra stepped beyond the web-laced mouth of the cavern. Only the flickering torch in Lyra's hand pushed back the shadows, revealing a long, descending tunnel lined with slick stone and hanging strands of silk. The air was dense—humid, sticky, and foul. Every breath carried the scent of mildew and decay, layered with something sharp and venomous.
Inigo moved first, rifle raised. His boots crunched softly over gravel and brittle bones. The M4 felt solid in his hands, its cold body steady against the thrum of anticipation rising in his chest. He had fought worse things than spiders—but that didn't make this pleasant.
"Webs are fresh," Lyra whispered behind him. "They're close."
Inigo nodded once. His enchanted eyes scanned the dim corridor. Small glints of movement danced between strands. His free hand flexed instinctively, channeling his magic. Blue light shimmered faintly over his legs.
