The tunnel yawned before them like the throat of some ancient being—wide, dark, and pulsing faintly at the edges. Its walls weren't made of stone but something smoother, warmer, almost organic. As Lucan stepped closer, the air shifted around him—thicker, richer, laced with a subtle hum that resonated in his bones.
He glanced at Lyra. She gave a small nod, still holding his hand.
Kaa-thyr moved silently ahead of them, its obsidian form barely disturbing the faint mist that curled along the tunnel's floor. The creature's presence felt strangely comforting now—less like a threat, more like a constant in an unraveling world.
With each step into the passage, the light behind them faded, replaced by a dim, internal glow that pulsed gently along the walls. The color shifted every few paces—from soft blue to pale violet to an occasional amber flare that danced like firelight. The further they went, the more Lucan realized the tunnel was alive. Not sentient, perhaps, but breathing. Responding.
Curious, Lucan reached out and let his fingers trail along the tunnel wall. At first touch, it felt cool, smooth, and rigid—like polished stone or crystal. But when he pressed his palm more firmly against it, the sensation changed. The surface gave way with an eerie softness, yielding like jelly beneath his hand before slowly pushing back with a gentle, elastic resistance. He pulled his hand away, startled, and watched the wall pulse once more—almost as if it acknowledged the contact.
Lucan broke the silence first. "You feel that? The wall—it's smooth when I run my hand along it, but when I press… it gives, like jelly."
Lyra glanced over, brushing her fingers against the wall. "Yeah. It's solid and soft at the same time. That's… weird."
The path curved gently downward, not steep but constant, like it knew exactly where it wanted to take them. Every few meters, the walls opened into bulbous chambers—some filled with crystalline fungi that shivered at their presence, others humming with pockets of bioluminescent spores suspended in the air like floating stars.
One chamber opened unexpectedly wide. A circular hollow with a pool of glowing liquid at its center. The water—or whatever it was—gave off a low, resonant tone, vibrating gently as they passed. Lucan paused by the edge, watching tiny motes drift along the surface in hypnotic spirals.
"I don't think this place follows any rules." he muttered.
Lyra knelt beside him, dipping her finger lightly into the glowing water. It didn't resist. It wasn't cold or warm—just strangely neutral, like it existed outside of temperature altogether. Almost like touching light made liquid.
Kaa-thyr didn't stop. The creature's long strides moved steadily, not in urgency, but with purpose. As it turned a bend ahead, the walls shimmered with soft pink light before darkening again.
Lucan stood and offered Lyra his hand again. She took it without hesitation.
As they walked, the silence returned—not tense, just quiet. Their footsteps echoed faintly, but the tunnel absorbed most of the sound. There was no wind, no movement, no sign of life—just the soft rhythm of their breathing and the low, steady pulse coming from deep within the walls.
At one point, the passage narrowed. Just enough for their shoulders to brush against the walls. The material wasn't quite stone—it gave slightly under pressure, like a thick membrane stretched over hollow bone. Lucan pressed his palm against it, feeling a gentle warmth pulse beneath the surface.
"This place…" he muttered, running a hand along the wall. "It's not just stone. It feels… alive."
Lyra glanced around, her brows slightly furrowed. "Yeah. Like we're inside something. Not just a tunnel—more like a body."
Lucan exhaled sharply through his nose. "I don't know if it's alive, dead, or somewhere in between. It's just… weird."
They kept moving. Slowly. Carefully. No danger presented itself, but neither of them felt the urge to rush.
Eventually, the passage widened again. The floor here was softer, carpeted with a moss-like substance that shifted hues beneath their feet—turquoise, then purple, then a gentle golden hue that clung to their soles like faint dust. Above them, strange root-like structures hung from the ceiling, trailing threads of translucent silk that swayed gently as if stirred by their passing.
Lucan brushed against one, and it retracted instantly, coiling back into the ceiling with a silent snap.
"Sorry." he muttered.
Lyra stifled a laugh. "You scared it."
They paused in another alcove, their throats dry and aching after hours of walking. A small trickle of clear liquid seeped from a fissure in the rock. Lucan eyed it warily.
"Do you think it's safe?" Lyra asked quietly.
"I don't know." Lucan said, crouching down. He dipped a fingertip into the liquid and brought a single drop to his lips. He held his breath, waiting. No burning. No bitterness. Just a faint sweetness.
"Okay." he said, "Just a little."
He cupped his hands and took a cautious sip, then offered some to Lyra. The coolness spread through his throat, easing the dryness and giving his limbs a lightness he hadn't felt in hours.
But the doubt lingered in the back of his mind—this place was strange, and danger could hide in the smallest things.
Lucan leaned back against the wall, eyes following the dim glow along the ceiling.
"You ever think about how strange it is?" he asked.
"What?"
"This. All of it. One minute I was arguing with a stranger over sandwich toppings, and the next I'm walking through the lungs of a living mountain with a girl who used to ignore me in school."
Lyra smirked. "I didn't ignore you. I just… didn't notice you."
"Ouch."
"Not in a bad way," she said quickly. "I was quiet too. Just... caught up in my own stuff."
Lucan chuckled. "We were both background characters, huh?"
"Until now."
A warm silence fell between them. Not awkward—comfortable.
They moved on.
Eventually, they came to a bend where the tunnel split into two paths. Kaa-thyr paused for the first time in hours. It tilted its head, as if listening to something far away. Then it raised a hand and pointed toward the right path.
Lucan glanced down the left one. It twisted into shadows that felt colder than the rest of the tunnel. A faint sound echoed from deep within—like a whisper heard underwater.
He didn't want to know what lay down that way.
They followed Kaa-thyr down the right tunnel. This one sloped downward more steeply, the floor becoming slick with some kind of smooth stone. They had to slow their pace, helping each other balance with every careful step.
At one point, the path opened into a grand chamber—a cavern the size of a cathedral, filled with towering crystal pillars that reached up into unseen darkness above. Some hummed softly when they walked past, emitting tones so low they barely registered as sound.
Kaa-thyr didn't speak. It simply moved through the hall, slow.
Lyra touched one of the pillars and gasped softly. "It's vibrating."
Lucan touched it too and felt the same—subtle vibrations, steady and low. But there was something else beneath it, something he couldn't explain. For a second, he thought it felt... almost happy. Not in a loud or joyful way, but quiet—like whatever this place was, it noticed them, and didn't mind.
They didn't linger.
Past the crystal hall, the tunnel narrowed once more, but it also grew warmer. The light changed—soft reds and oranges that bathed everything in a muted glow like a forgotten sunset. Here, tiny flying insects hovered in clusters, glowing like embers, buzzing softly but harmlessly as they swirled around their heads.
Lucan let one land on his finger. It pulsed gently, then zipped away.
"I don't want to leave this place," he said, half to himself.
Lyra nodded. "It's strange… but it feels more real than anywhere I've been."
They stopped to rest again. There was no clear time in this place—no dawn, no dusk. Just the breathing rhythm of the walls and the endless continuation of the path. They lay side by side on the mossy floor, staring up at the dreamy glow of the ceiling.
Lucan turned his head toward her. "Still okay?"
She looked over and smiled faintly. "Still okay."
They didn't talk more. Words would have felt out of place.
Eventually, Kaa-thyr rose and continued. The passage curved one last time before opening into a wide, circular chamber. This one was completely quiet. No pulsing walls. No glowing fungi. Just smooth, dark stone and a central platform of shimmering crystal, shaped like a broad pedestal.
Kaa-thyr stood beside it, waiting.
Lucan and Lyra approached slowly.
"This it?" Lucan asked.
The creature gave a faint nod.
Lucan stepped forward, uncertain. He reached out and touched the platform.
Nothing happened.
But something felt different. The silence here wasn't empty—it was full. Full of presence, of breath held. Like standing in a place that had witnessed too much and chose now to simply exist.
He turned to Lyra. "Rest here?"
She exhaled and nodded. "Yeah… Just for a while."
They lowered themselves slowly to the ground, backs against the strange crystalline platform. It was firm but held a subtle warmth—more comforting than stone, more solid than moss. Kaa-thyr stood a few steps away, unmoving, like part of the chamber itself.
Lucan leaned his head back and let his gaze drift up to the dome above. The ceiling caught glints of faint crystal veins, threads that shimmered dimly like distant stars caught under skin. His thoughts, as always, wandered to the one place he couldn't return to.
"My grandfather would've hated all this." he muttered.
Lyra looked over. "Why's that?"
"He didn't trust anything he couldn't explain. If he saw this place… he'd call it cursed. Probably tell me to punch my way out and head north."
She smiled faintly. "Sounds intense."
"He was." Lucan said. "But steady. Quiet kind of strong. Always had this way of grounding me without even trying." He rubbed his eyes. "I keep wondering if he's pacing the porch, checking the street. Wondering what happened."
Lyra rested her head back, thoughtful. "You think he'd assume the worst?"
"Not the worst. Just… think I bailed. That I gave up." His voice dropped a little. "He'd never say it. But he'd think it."
"Maybe he knows you better than that."
Lucan shrugged. "Maybe. But he's getting older. Slower. I've been helping him more and more lately. Doctor visits. Medication. I always thought I'd be there until… well, until I wasn't."
Lyra didn't speak right away. When she did, her voice was soft. "You're not the kind of person who runs, Lucan. If he raised you, he knows that too."
He nodded absently. "Sometimes I think I remember the exact sound of his footsteps. The way the floor creaked under his weight at night. It's dumb. But the quiet here—it makes things like that louder."
"It's not dumb." She tilted her head toward him. "It means it mattered."
Lucan's jaw worked as if chewing on the thought. Eventually, he let out a breath, long and low. "It's just hard not knowing. If he's okay. If I'll ever get the chance to tell him this wasn't my choice."
"You will." she said gently. "And if not… then you'll make what comes next matter."
He looked at her—really looked—and gave a slight nod. "You say things like that pretty easily."
Lyra gave a half-smile. "Only when I believe them."
A beat passed between them. The room held no urgency, just a slow pulse and a deep silence that didn't press, only lingered.
"You tired?" he asked.
"Everywhere." she murmured. "Even my eyebrows hurt."
Lucan chuckled under his breath. "Guess that means we've earned a break."
They both shifted slightly, leaning just enough that their shoulders touched. The warmth between them wasn't heat—it was presence. Solidarity in the middle of the unknown.
Lucan let his eyelids droop, just a little. "Don't let me snore."
"No promises," Lyra said, eyes already half-closed.
A moment later, their breathing began to slow, matching the gentle rhythm of the chamber's hum. Whatever the next step was, it could wait.
For now, they just rested.
[End of Chapter 8]