Chapter 11: Being lost

Aerax lay slumped against the frigid stone wall of the catacombs, his chest heaving as he tried to steady his breath. The battle with those strange, serpentine creatures had left him battered and nearly broken. Sweat soaked his skin, mingling with streaks of blood and clumps of sticky mucus, painting his body in a grotesque layer of grime. He felt as if the oppressive air of this underground labyrinth was eating away at him, sapping his strength with each passing moment.

His vision swam with exhaustion, but something caught his eye — a small crack in the stone wall beside him. From that narrow slit, drops of clear water slowly seeped out, trickling silently down the cold stone. In this suffocating gloom, it was a rare sign of purity, a gentle, glistening stream that seemed almost alive amid the decay and darkness.

With effort, Aerax pushed himself upright. Every movement sent jolts of pain through his bruised muscles, but he knelt and cupped his hands beneath the trickling water, letting it pool slowly into his palms. The coolness was shocking, almost unreal, like touching a fragment of the surface world he had long left behind. Without hesitation, he splashed it over his face, scrubbing away the dried blood and filth. He rubbed the sore spots on his body, grimacing but thankful as the water washed over torn skin and aching limbs. The pain was still there, but the cold touch of the stream dulled its edge, if only slightly.

Letting out a deep, weary sigh, he lowered himself to the ground and leaned back against the wall once more. His heartbeat, once pounding like a war drum, began to slow. For the first time in what felt like hours — or days, perhaps — he felt a moment of stillness. A fragile peace amid the chaos. Though fleeting, it was precious.

He knew he couldn't linger for long. Time in this place felt warped, distorted — like the catacombs themselves were alive, shifting and watching. Still, Aerax allowed himself this brief reprieve. His eyes drifted half-closed, not in sleep, but in a sort of meditative trance, listening to the quiet murmur of the water beside him. The coldness brushing his skin seemed to whisper to his senses, sharpening them, awakening a flicker of strength buried deep within him.

When his breath had steadied and his thoughts became clearer, Aerax stood again. Scanning the chamber, he spotted some scattered scraps — a piece of rough cloth, a few slivers of dried skin, and some tangled vines that had somehow blown in through the shifting cracks of the labyrinth. With practiced hands, he fashioned makeshift bandages, wrapping them tightly around the worst of his wounds to stem the bleeding. The vines were brittle, and the cloth reeked of decay, but it was better than nothing. Even a temporary solution could mean the difference between life and death down here.

He soaked the rags with water from the crevice and used the moisture to soften the vines, making them more pliable. His hands trembled from fatigue, but he pressed on, tying the bindings with grim determination. Though pain still gnawed at him, at least he was no longer bleeding freely. A small victory in a place where hope was scarce.

Ahead of him, the corridor opened into a broader chamber, a vast and ominous gateway into what appeared to be a sprawling maze. The stone walls twisted in jagged patterns, branching into countless passages. It was like stepping into the web of a massive spider — every path promising danger, confusion, and uncertainty.

He took a cautious step forward, the sound of his boots echoing softly through the still air. He had no idea how long it would take to escape this subterranean prison, nor what else awaited him beyond the next turn. All he knew was that there was no going back. Forward — always forward — was the only choice.

The deeper he went, the more disorienting the maze became. The walls seemed to shift, subtly changing angles and positions when he wasn't looking. Dead ends appeared where he swore a path once was. The air was thick and stale, pressing down on him like an invisible weight. Every mistake — every wrong turn — chipped away at his resolve.

His thoughts darkened. The silence was too heavy, broken only by the soft scrape of his footsteps and the occasional creak of ancient stone. Fatigue clung to him like a shadow. Loneliness gnawed at the corners of his mind. His voice cracked the silence in a low, trembling whisper:

— "Where is this…? Am I going to die in this cursed place?"

But fear could not be allowed to win. Not yet. Gritting his teeth, Aerax focused on the rhythm of his breath, on the sensation of each step. He forced his mind to stay sharp, to stay alive. He remembered the water — its coolness, its clarity — and let it be a symbol of survival. A reminder that he was not defeated.

Hours — or perhaps even longer — passed as he wandered through the stone maze. His body ached, and his limbs felt heavy as lead. His spirit, though once burning with fire, now flickered like a dying flame. Finally, unable to carry on any further, Aerax collapsed into a quiet corner, slumping against the unyielding wall. His head drooped, breath labored.

This maze, he realized, was not just a physical prison — it was a trial of the soul, carved in stone, shadows, and suffering. It demanded more than strength. It demanded willpower, resilience, and a refusal to surrender.

And now, in this brief moment of stillness, all he wanted — more than escape, more than victory — was a short, dreamless nap. A chance to forget the weight of the world. To vanish, if only for a little while, into the dark.