The Depths Stir

The second floor of the dungeon had never felt safe, but this time, something was different.

The air was heavier, thick with a wrongness Arlan couldn't quite place. It wasn't just the usual damp chill of the underground—this was watching them. Pressing against them.

They had been here before. They had fought before. But this time, the walls themselves seemed to breathe.

Gareth's warning echoed in Arlan's head.

"The second floor's not the same as the first. You get into trouble, there's no guarantee you'll make it back."

The flickering blue torches cast strange shadows against the carved walls, making them appear to shift. Arlan tightened his cloak around himself, feeling the reassuring weight of Bones, who was oddly silent.

Leila walked ahead, her steps careful, bow ready. "Feels worse than before."

"No kidding," Tomas muttered, adjusting his shield.

Beren exhaled sharply, glancing at the carvings on the walls. "These weren't here last time, were they?"

Mira stepped closer, running her fingers over the stone. Ancient symbols—faint, barely legible—ran across the surface. Unlike the faded writing they had found before, these were fresh.

"No," she murmured. "Someone—or something—has been down here."

Arlan stared at the symbols. He couldn't read them, but something about them sent a sharp chill through his spine. A whisper, deep in his mind, stirred.

You recognize this, don't you?

The amulet at his chest pulsed once.

Arlan swallowed hard.

"Let's keep moving," he muttered, trying to shake off the feeling.

Tomas grinned, forcing some levity into his voice. "So, what's the worst that could happen?"

Leila smacked his arm. "Stop saying things like that!"

Beren huffed. "No one answer that question. Ever."

But it was already too late.

Because at that moment—

The torches all went out.

A Game of Shadows

Pitch black.

Not the comforting kind of darkness.

Not the kind your eyes adjusted to.

This was total.

The sound of shifting stone echoed through the hallway.

Something had moved.

Arlan clenched his fists, magic stirring in his veins. "Mira?"

She was already casting. A soft blue glow flared around them as her magic illuminated their surroundings. But—

The dungeon had changed.

The corridor that had stretched ahead of them was gone.

Instead, twisted, winding paths branched off in multiple directions, none of which had been there before.

Tomas took a sharp breath. "What in the hells—?"

"We didn't move," Mira said. Her voice was tight, controlled. "The dungeon did."

Beren cursed. "That's not supposed to happen."

Leila turned on her heel, scanning the walls. "We're in a maze."

Not just any maze.

Arlan felt it—the dungeon itself had shifted around them.

And in the silence that followed…

A voice.

Not from a monster.

Not from the walls.

Not from something living at all.

But from below.

A deep, resonating chuckle. Slow. Amused.

And then—words, woven into the cold air like a whisper of silk.

"I wondered when you would return."

Arlan's blood ran cold.

He knew that voice.

They all did.

It was the sorcerer.

The same one from the crypt.

The one who had crushed them effortlessly.

The one who had let them live.

Mira gritted her teeth. "Where are you?"

No response.

Only laughter.

Then, the whisper came again, curling around them.

"You sought the depths. And now, the depths have embraced you."

The maze tightened. The walls moved again, reshaping themselves before their eyes.

Beren took a defensive stance. "He's doing this."

Tomas held up his shield. "Then how do we stop it?"

A pause.

Then—

"You don't."

And the walls collapsed.

A Descent Unwanted

The floor beneath them cracked.

Then it fell.

The party barely had time to react before gravity took hold.

Arlan reached for magic. Mira tried to cast. Leila grabbed for the nearest ledge.

It was useless.

The ground vanished beneath them, sending them plummeting into a vast, unseen abyss.

Darkness swallowed them whole.

Arlan felt himself falling, deeper, further, until the very air around him stopped feeling real.

Then—impact.

Pain shot through his body as he landed. Not on stone. Not on water.

But something soft.

Something… moving.

He gasped, blinking rapidly as his vision adjusted. The others groaned, stirring beside him.

And then—

Something exhaled.

A deep, rattling breath.

Arlan turned his head.

And for the first time—he saw them.

The Unresting

They weren't alone.

The chamber they had fallen into was massive, stretching beyond the limits of Mira's light. But what Arlan could see was enough to make his breath hitch.

Bodies.

Not skeletons. Not bones.

Corpses.

Hundreds of them.

Lined up in perfect rows, each wrapped in burial cloths, their faces hidden beneath ancient veils.

They weren't rotting.

They weren't decayed.

They were… waiting.

And as the silence stretched, as the air grew thick with something unnatural,

They began to stir.

One by one.

A finger twitched. A limb shifted. A breath—long and shallow—escaped from unseen lips.

They were waking up.

Tomas cursed, scrambling to his feet. "We need to move—"

"No."

The voice returned. Louder this time. Closer.

From the far side of the chamber, a figure emerged.

Cloaked. Pale. Hands folded neatly in front of him.

The sorcerer.

Still calm. Still composed.

Still looking directly at Arlan.

His lips curled into a knowing smile.

"Welcome young Necromancer."