The pain was so overwhelming—so all-consuming—that Riven let out a low, guttural scream. He clutched his right arm with his left, squeezing hard as if sheer force alone could stop the agony. As full consciousness snapped back into place, he looked down—and instantly regretted it.
From the elbow down, his right arm was a ruined mess. The skin had been scorched clean off, revealing muscle blackened and flaking like over-charred meat. Beneath the brittle surface, slightly less-damaged muscle pulsed faintly with each beat of his heart. Then came the stench—burned flesh, acrid and foul, curling up his nose and making his stomach lurch. He scrunched his nose and let out a shaky breath."Damn it… why does it hurt so much?" he growled, speaking more to the floor than to anyone else.
He tried to move his arm. A spike of white-hot pain shot from the limb all the way to his neck—sharp enough to force tears to the corners of his eyes. His vision blurred, distorted by the sting. Letting go of his arm, he began fumbling through the small leather pouches strapped across his body. His fingers scrambled with growing urgency—there had to be a healing potion in there. His mother had insisted on packing a few before he left. She knew the dangers of a hunter's life.
His fingertips brushed smooth glass. Relief surged. He yanked the vial free from a side pouch on his belt—a tiny bottle of swirling green liquid, no larger than his palm. But if there was one thing Riven trusted, it was his mother's potion-making. Size didn't matter—potency did.
Without hesitation, he brought the vial to his lips, bit down on the cork, and yanked it free with a satisfying pop. He carefully poured the liquid down the length of his ruined arm. The instant it made contact, a soothing coolness spread through the burn. His arm gave off a gentle green glow, and the scorched flesh began to flake away, revealing fresh, red muscle fibers knitting together beneath it.
Riven watched in awe, silently thanking his mother for including pain suppressants in her brew. Without them, even healing would've felt like fire dancing on raw nerves."Thanks, Mom… you really do make some of the best potions around."
But even with the potion working, the damage was too deep. His fingers refused to twitch. His wrist hung limp.
He realized then—it wasn't just pain or shock. He couldn't feel his arm at all. The nerves were likely fried, and a simple healing potion wouldn't repair that. That's why it wouldn't move. And even if it could, he was fairly certain he shouldn't; the bones beneath had probably taken a hit too.
Gritting his teeth, he tried pushing some of his amber mana through the limb, hoping to at least coax a reaction. Nothing. The flow stopped dead at his shoulder, as if the channels themselves had been severed. He couldn't push even a drop past that point.
That settled it—his internal mana channels in the arm were burned out as well. Not something any basic potion could fix. He'd need a powerful elixir—or a powerful healer—to even stand a chance.
When the potion's glow finally slowed to a crawl, he sighed and retrieved another vial, unstopping it and splashing it over the same arm. The light flared again, and the process resumed—but slower this time. Diminished returns. He'd have to make do for now.
He tore the already-burned sleeve from his shirt and fashioned a crude sling, tying his arm securely to his chest."This'll have to do," he muttered, eyes drifting to the tunnel ahead—likely the only path leading out of this accursed dungeon.
Still kneeling, Riven stared at the exit. No one had come. No guards, no shouting, not even footsteps. That last blast should've been loud enough to shake the building. Why hadn't anyone responded?
Then it clicked.
His eyes widened. If the noble had a mana suppressor installed… then sound dampeners were probably in place too. Likely lining the entire entrance. That would explain why he hadn't heard a single thing from the outside world since arriving.
Relief slipped out in a slow exhale. The dampeners were a double-edged blade—he couldn't hear anything beyond the door, but that also meant no one could hear anything happening inside. His little stunt with blasting the bars open would definitely go unnoticed.
He stood—carefully this time—and turned to inspect the metal bars. The once-pristine dark blue-gray metal that had held him captive was now a wreck—twisted and deformed, the edges melted and pointing outward from a gaping hole in the frame. One glance and he let out a low whistle. "I did that?"
Making his way toward the tunnel exit, Riven eyed the dark brown wooden door standing between him and freedom. I'll have to be discreet if I want a chance of getting out of here alive.
With a nervous gulp, he wrapped his hand around the cold metal handle and pushed—slowly, cautiously. But the hinges hadn't been maintained; dampness had warped the wood and rusted the metal. As the door shifted, it let out a long, piercing squeal. Riven flinched, gritting his teeth. Damn it?
The sound echoed far louder than he'd hoped. He paused, breath caught in his throat, straining his ears. Nothing. Not a single step or shout.
With the door halfway open, he slipped through the gap. Instantly, light stabbed at his eyes—harsh and blinding after the tunnel's murky dark. His vision exploded into patches of black, swirling across his field of view like floating ink blots. He staggered, blinking rapidly. It took a few long, disorienting moments for his eyes to adjust.
As the haze faded, the world sharpened into focus.
Wooden tables, iron stoves, dented pots and pans surrounded him, along with thick, round barrels stamped with faded labels—most likely filled with ale or wine. Everything glowed under the white luminescence of ceiling-mounted crystals. The light had a sterile, magical hum to it—just faint enough to feel unnatural. The scent hit next: earthy vegetables, dried herbs, smoked meat, and the tang of iron from the cookware.
He was in a kitchen.
Heart pounding, Riven ducked behind one of the side counters. Spread across its surface was a chaotic array of vegetables—deep orange roots, leafy greens, and purples so rich they looked dyed. Some were chopped, others whole, as though someone had left mid-prep for a feast.
Peeking out cautiously, he scanned the room.
Empty.
Relief came—but only briefly. Something felt off. Too quiet. Too… still.
He turned his head slowly, taking in the hanging utensils, cured meats, and baskets of produce lining the walls and shelves. That's odd. With all this food out, someone should be cooking—or yelling at someone else to cook.
He frowned and stood up, less concerned now about being seen. The room had no windows, and only one door at the far end. No line of sight from anywhere else. He let his guard ease—just a little.
As he took a step forward, his stomach betrayed him, growling loud enough to echo off the wooden walls. His mouth felt like sandpaper, dry and gritty. He stopped, looking around. I guess it wouldn't hurt to help myself, he thought, reaching for the nearest apples.
He bit into one—crisp, sweet and juicy. The taste was almost too good. He made quick work of a second, then a third, then started a fourth. Halfway through, he froze.
The room… trembled.
He blinked, then felt it—a subtle, steady vibration beneath his feet. Eyes narrowing, he turned toward one of the open barrels off to the side. The water inside rippled in perfect concentric circles, disturbed by some unseen force. The ripples grew, small droplets sloshing over the rim and soaking into the wooden floorboards.
Riven stared, apple halfway to his mouth. "What now…" he muttered, eyeing the fruit like it had answers.
Finishing the last bite, he made his way toward the far door. His fingers gripped the handle, and he slowly cracked it open.
Beyond, a dining room stretched before him. No people. No sound. Just a single, lavish table set with ornate crystal dishes and centerpieces that sparkled in filtered sunlight.
Four windows—two on each long side—bathed the room in golden light. The air felt warmer here, kissed by the sun and tinged with the scent of wood polish and faint incense. Riven stepped into the light, almost involuntarily, letting it wash over him like a long-lost comfort.
For a moment, he forgot everything—his wounds, his escape, the danger. He closed his eyes and soaked it in.
Then common sense returned.
His eyes snapped open, body tensing. Someone could've seen me.
But as he approached the nearest window, his panic eased. The glass was thick, etched with intricate carvings—spirals, leaves, and arcane runes woven into the design. With detail like that, it would be nearly impossible for anyone outside to make out his features.
He wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow and continued forward, heading for the tall double doors at the far end.
His steps were deliberate and measured. I've been lucky so far not running into anyone… but I can't rely on that lasting.
Mid-step, a window shattered with a sharp crack, spraying shards of glass across the polished floor. A black blur tore through the opening and slammed into the wall behind him with a sickening thud that echoed through the room.
Riven spun around, instincts bracing for a fight—but there was no fight to be had.
The figure was already down—slumped against the wall, limp. Thick red lines sliced across his frame like a grotesque painting, blood pooling rapidly at his feet. More than enough to make it clear: he was dead.
The sight jolted something in Riven. Hunters were supposed to be used to this—death, blood, broken bodies. But he was still new. He'd seen wounds, sure—cuts, bruises, aftermaths—but death had a weight to it. A finality that pressed against his chest like a leaden hand. Seeing a corpse—fresh, brutal, and right in front of him—was something else entirely. Something his training hadn't prepared him for.
What steadied him was the emblem strapped to the dead man's shoulder: a hexagonal badge etched with a vertical scythe crossed by two bones. Recognition dawned like a shadow falling across his mind.
He's from Death's Grip, Riven realized, taking a cautious step back.
The moment he moved, the blood stopped flowing.
He froze.
The deep crimson liquid began to darken, shifting until it turned a venomous purple. Then it started to bubble. Frothy, toxic foam hissed where the blood had pooled, and an acrid, rotting stench hit his nose like a punch—wet earth mixed with decay and something sharper, chemical.
It made his eyes sting and his stomach churn.
Before he could make sense of it, the sharp clatter of clashing steel rang out from beyond the shattered window—close. Too close.
Riven turned swiftly, heart hammering, and looked out.