The Silk of Ice and Fang

The moment Azrael and Olivia stepped onto the sixty-fourth floor, a biting silence enveloped them like a predator waiting to pounce.

Snow crunched softly beneath their bare feet, the icy surface seeping into their bones. The cold was no longer something they could simply endure—it was beginning to gnaw at their will, at their muscles, at their very sanity. Frost clung to the ragged strips of cloth that barely passed for clothing. Olivia's breath came out in pale clouds, her lips tinged blue, the only semblance of protection she had being the mismatched pieces of armor clinging stubbornly to her shoulders and thigh.

Azrael clenched his jaw, his toes numb from the freezing stone. Each step was pain, but it was a pain he welcomed—because it reminded him he was still alive.

The deeper they ventured into the floor, the more unnatural it felt.

A strange shimmer clung to the walls—at first glance, it seemed like frost, but as they approached, they saw it wasn't ice at all. Silken threads—thick, glistening blue—covered the stone like veins under pale skin. They pulsed faintly in the dim glow of the dungeon's eerie light.

Olivia stopped, brushing her gloved hand along one of the strands. It didn't yield.

"This isn't normal webbing," she murmured, her voice hushed, laced with unease. "This silk... it's like stone. Woven ice."

Azrael didn't speak. He didn't need to. His grip tightened around the shaft of his spear, every instinct in him howling.

They weren't alone.

Then the shadows shifted.

It emerged like a nightmare dragged into the waking world—massive, chitinous legs clacking against the floor as it crawled into view. A spider, easily the size of a wolf, its body armored in frostbitten plates. Its eight eyes glowed with an unearthly blue light, and venom dripped in thick globs from fangs that looked long enough to pierce a man through the chest.

But it wasn't the fangs that chilled them to their core.

From its back, long icicle-like spines jutted upward like a crown of death—thin, sharp, and glistening with frozen malevolence.

Olivia tensed beside him, her face twisting in disgust. "I hate spiders."

Azriel didn't respond. His eyes were locked on the creature, calculating. "We can't let it call others," he muttered. "We split up—draw them thin. I'll take right."

"Got it," Olivia said, already moving.

Azriel surged forward, calling on the gravity within. It surged through him like a pulse, a tide of invisible force. He lessened the weight on his own body, feeling the strain on his limbs ease, his steps growing lighter. At the same time, he focused on his spear, increasing its weight—not so much that it slowed him, but just enough to turn every thrust into a hammer blow.

The spider screeched, leaping toward him, its jaws snapping. Azriel ducked low, the icy wind of the strike grazing his cheek. He twisted his hips, driving the spear upward into the creature's abdomen. The tip punched through the chitin with a shuddering crunch, and gravity did the rest—dragging the beast down, ripping flesh as it collapsed under its own distorted weight.

Olivia danced through her side of the chamber with practiced grace. Where Azriel fought like a storm, Olivia was a flash of steel. Her blade flicked out, severing legs and slashing open underbellies. The weaker spiders collapsed quickly, writhing as black veins spread from her poisoned blade.

But soon, more crawled from the shadows.

Larger. Hungrier.

The poison slowed them, but it no longer killed them outright. Olivia gritted her teeth as her sword clanged off a tougher carapace. One of the beasts lunged at her, its icicle spines whistling through the air. She twisted aside just in time, her armor plates taking the brunt of the blow.

Azriel surged to her aid, spear cracking down like thunder. Together, they moved in rhythm—where one struck, the other followed, carving a path through the infestation.

Minutes blurred into hours.

Their limbs ached. Frostbitten skin tore as they fought. Blood—some of it theirs—steamed against the cold floor. The blue silk stuck to their legs and arms as they maneuvered through the webbed hallways, and their breath came in ragged bursts.

When they finally stumbled onto the sixty-fifth floor, the difference was immediate. The webbing thinned. Only a few small spiders lingered—no threats, just scavengers. The air remained frigid, but the weight of constant battle lifted, if only slightly.

Azriel collapsed against a stone wall, his bare back burning against the freezing surface. Olivia dropped beside him, her hands trembling as she peeled off a frozen glove.

"I swear," she whispered, "if I see another spider..."

Azriel chuckled, the sound hoarse and tired. "We're both sick of them."

They sat in silence, the chill biting but oddly welcome. At least it wasn't battle. Not for now.

Their ragged clothes clung to them, soaked with sweat, blood, and snow. Every inch of their bodies hurt, but neither complained. They took turns watching the shadows, keeping an eye out for movement while the other rested.

After a long while, Olivia shifted.

"You know," she said softly, "we shouldn't have made it this far. We were slaves. Barefoot. Half-naked. This... this shouldn't be possible."

Azriel turned his head toward her, eyes unreadable.

"But we did," he said. "And if we die it was your idea."

She smiled faintly. "We make a good team."

"We do."

They stayed like that for a while—two broken warriors in a frozen dungeon, finding strength in the silence between them.

Eventually, Olivia rose, her silhouette framed by the faint glow of dungeon crystals.

"Time to move," she said. "We don't stop until we find the exit—or the boss."

Azriel stood as well, muscles protesting, spear in hand.

"No one's coming to save us," he murmured.

"Then we save ourselves."

And together, barefoot and bloodstained, they walked forward—into whatever hell awaited them next.