The air—just briefly—felt wrong.
Cyrus stayed where he was, eyes on the fire, willing his breathing to slow. The flame burned low and obedient, no sparks leaping, no sudden shift in the wind.
Probably nothing.
His stomach pulled at him then—quiet, persistent. He tore off a piece of the bread and bit down.
Dense. Dry. Faintly sour.
It took effort to chew. He swallowed, tore off a smaller piece, and ate that too, more out of necessity than hunger. Enough to quiet the ache. Enough to keep moving.
The wind brushed past his face.
Warmer.
He paused.
The ground beneath his boots shuddered—not enough to throw him off balance, but enough that he felt it through the soles. Snow slid from a nearby branch. The fire trembled, its flame bending low before steadying again.
Cyrus straightened.
The warmth came again, heavier this time, rolling through the trees in a slow pulse. The air ahead of him seemed to compress, the darkness folding inward on itself.
Then something appeared.
At first, it was nothing more than a point—no larger than a coin, hanging in the air where there had been nothing moments before. It brightened, deepened, stretching outward as if drawn from the centre.
The dot widened.
Curved.
A circle formed, edges smoothing as the shape grew taller, thicker, until a full ring stood among the trees, its surface shimmering faintly—not with light, but with depth. Like space pulled tight and held there.
Warm air spilled from it in steady waves.
"What the…" he murmured.
He didn't move at first.
His gaze flicked to the trees around it, half-expecting something to step through. Nothing did. The forest remained still, snow drifting softly through the branches above.
A gate? he thought. Teleportation? Magic?
The word magic felt flimsy, but nothing else fit.
The fire behind him sputtered. The flame shrank, struggling against damp twigs and creeping cold. The light it cast was already thinning, retreating into shadow.
Cold pressed in around him—biting now, immediate.
He looked back at the ring.
Warm.
No figures emerged. No sound came from within. Just that steady breath of heat, contained and patient.
If it isn't teleportation, he thought, then what is it?
Curiosity stirred, slow and insistent.
Cyrus moved closer.
The snow crunched softly beneath his boots as he crossed the distance. Up close, the ring was taller than he'd expected. The air within it stirred faintly, like something exhaling.
He reached out—not touching yet—and felt the warmth intensify against his skin.
He circled it once, careful, eyes never leaving its surface. Then again, slower this time. From behind, it was the same—no frame, no support, just a ring standing where the world had folded around it.
Nothing chased him.
Nothing followed.
He stopped in front of it again.
The fire behind him dimmed further, its glow barely reaching the trees now. The cold crept into his fingers, his breath fogging thicker with every exhale.
Curiosity tipped into decision.
He extended his hand.
The surface yielded without resistance—cooler than he expected, like passing through mist that remembered warmth. The air rippled faintly around his fingers.
He withdrew his hand, heart steady.
Then, without further hesitation, Cyrus stepped forward.
And crossed the threshold.
---
Darkness closed around him.
Not instantly—there was still light, faint and amber, filtering in from behind. Cyrus turned at once, breath held, and saw the ring standing where he'd entered. Warm air still spilled from it, brushing against his back.
Ahead, the cavern stretched inward.
Rough stone. Low ceiling. The air smelled damp, mineral, old.
"…A cave?" he murmured.
He took a step forward.
Warmth wrapped around him at once—not fire-warm, but steady, enclosed. The stone beneath his boots held no bite of frost, no sharp edge of winter.
He glanced back.
Cold crept in from behind him, carried on the breath of the gate. Snow-season air brushed against his spine, sharp and insistent, as if the outside were trying to reclaim him.
"Still warm," he said quietly.
The contrast unsettled him.
He walked deeper—only a few metres—then stopped.
The darkness thickened ahead. The ground sloped unevenly, scattered with loose stone. Whatever light the gate provided barely reached this far.
He shook his head.
"I shouldn't go further," he muttered.
Just stay here. Rest a bit. Leave in the morning.
It was sensible. Contained. The entrance behind him was visible. He could keep his back to the wall, conserve energy—
A sound cut through the cavern.
Footsteps.
"Some—"
The word died before it formed.
Light scraping against stone. Too many points of contact.
The warning surfaced at the same time as the system response.
[Danger]
Yellow.
"—Don't think so."
He moved instantly, scanning the stone around him. No alcoves. No pillars. Then his gaze snapped upward.
A break in the ceiling. Not large—jagged stone torn away, just wide enough for a body to press into if it tried.
He didn't hesitate.
Cyrus vaulted upward, fingers catching on rough stone. Pain flared through his palms as he hauled himself into the opening, pressing back into the shadow as his boots scraped briefly against the wall below.
He held still.
Three shapes emerged from the darkness.
They moved low to the ground, legs clicking softly against stone. Rounded bodies. Segmented. Encased in dark carapace that caught what little light there was in sickly green streaks.
Spiders.
Monsters, then.
They passed beneath his position without stopping, mandibles shifting as they tested the air.
Cyrus swallowed.
The hollow gave him nowhere to go. No room to turn. No space to retreat. Just stone pressing at his back and the dark below.
His fingers closed around a loose rock.
The scrape was soft.
Too soft to matter—
The sound echoed.
The spiders froze.
Something snapped through the air.
A web burst outward, slamming against the stone just below his knee. It hissed faintly as it stuck, strands twitching as if alive.
Cyrus flattened himself against the rock.
His breath stalled.
The web missed.
One of the spiders shifted, legs angling differently. It tested the wall once—then began to climb.
Straight toward him.
Too close.
Cyrus reached for another rock. This one heavier. His fingers ached as he lifted it.
The spider's carapace cleared the edge of the hollow.
He struck.
The impact jarred his wrist. Pain flared, sharp and immediate.
The spider recoiled, legs scraping wildly. Another web fired—too late, too panicked—splattering uselessly against the stone in front of him.
He didn't stop.
He struck again.
And again.
Until the movement beneath him faltered—then collapsed entirely.
The green sheen dulled.
The body went still.
Warm vapour seeped from the cracked carapace, wrong against the cavern's chill.
Cyrus froze.
So that's where it came from.
Below, the other two spiders shifted. Their mandibles clicked softly—thin, glassy sounds that echoed deeper into the cavern.
They did not advance.
Cyrus stayed where he was, stone clenched in his hand, breathing shallow and slow.
The clicking continued. Once. Twice. Then again—slightly louder, vibrating through the stone beneath his boots.
Not a threat.
A signal.
His grip tightened.
Before anything else could respond, he shifted and threw.
The rock struck the wall beside them instead of its mark, shattering against stone with a sharp crack.
One of the spiders reacted instantly, skittering forward in a sudden burst of movement, legs scraping against the ground as it broke from the group and rushed the hollow.
"Oh—"
The sound was enough.
The spider climbed, fast and direct, body scraping against the stone as it hauled itself upward.
Cyrus struck.
Not once.
Again.
The rock connected with a dull, heavy impact. The creature recoiled, mandibles snapping as a line of web shot forward—but it tangled uselessly against the stone lip, hanging slack instead of binding.
He hit it again.
Harder.
The carapace split with a brittle crack. Black fluid sprayed against the stone, steaming faintly as the creature sagged and went still, sliding halfway back down the wall before dropping out of sight.
The remaining spider clicked louder now.
Closer.
Cyrus didn't wait.
He hurled another rock—not at it, but past it.
The sound echoed sharply.
The spider lunged toward the noise instead.
That was enough.
Cyrus leaned out and struck as it turned, smashing down until the movement stopped entirely. His arms burned. His breath came ragged now, chest tight, fingers slick with something warm and foul.
The cavern answered.
From deeper within, the clicking multiplied.
Many.
Too many.
He turned—and froze.
Above the spiders, a jagged column of stone trembled where one had struck it, hairline fractures spider-webbing across its base. Not stacked. Not placed.
Holding.
Cyrus grabbed another rock and threw.
The impact rang sharp. A crack spread wider.
Another throw.
The clicking below spiked.
A third strike.
The column gave way.
Stone collapsed in a roar, dust and debris crashing down onto the cavern floor, burying movement beneath weight and noise.
[Warning!]
Cyrus's heart dropped, but he didn't wait to see what survived.
He dropped from the hollow and ran.
The ground shifted underfoot as he sprinted toward the faint glow of the gate, boots slipping on loose stone. His breath tore from his chest. His leg buckled once—he caught himself and kept going.
Behind him—
Heavy.
Measured.
Something moved that did not skitter.
Cyrus didn't look back.