One Night Later — Somewhere Beyond the Citadel
The moon hung low and heavy in the ash-streaked sky, its pale light filtering through the swirling dust that forever haunted the outskirts of the Citadel. The wind carried a strange, whistling moan — a constant reminder that the world beyond the walls was anything but safe.
Crunch. Crunch.
Five figures moved slowly across the uneven, cracked terrain. Each step echoed with the dull scrape of boots over broken stone and brittle earth. Their breath misted faintly in the cold night air. Sword hilts clanked against armor, the metallic sounds subdued but steady — the soundtrack of hardened men preparing for violence.
They were the same group of Awakened from the bar the previous night. Confidence still simmered in their blood, but it was now laced with something else — tension. Out here, far from the warmth and noise of the Citadel, even bravado felt like a weak shield.
The burly man who had led the boasting the night before was now at the front of the group. His face, weathered and grizzled, was set in a stern scowl. A two-handed broadsword rested across his back, and the thick plates of his armor caught the moonlight with each careful step. Behind him followed the other four: two swordsmen, a lean man carrying twin daggers, and the youngest of them — the boy who had nervously voiced doubts back in the tavern.
"Sir…" the boy called out hesitantly, his voice tight. His eyes darted to the shifting shadows cast by the jagged rocks. "Are you sure we're on the right track? I mean… what if we—"
The leader didn't turn. His voice came out gruff, tinged with disdain.
"Are you scared, little boy?" he asked, continuing forward. "You're the one who wanted to follow us. Now you're acting like a child."
The boy flinched but said nothing. The weight of the man's words, and the quiet judgment in the silence of the others, was enough. The group continued onward.
Eventually, the jagged terrain gave way to something darker, more suffocating — a cave, wide-mouthed and silent like a yawning beast. The leader stepped into the shadow without hesitation. One by one, the others followed.
The cave was massive, the ceiling lost in shadow, and every surface bore the jagged signs of violence. Deep claw marks scraped across the stone walls like a history of silent screams. Dried blood painted the floor in long, faded smears — brownish-black and cracked with age, but recent enough to retain its sickly scent. The air inside was heavy. Not just with the iron smell of blood, but with something else — something wrong. The cave breathed, faintly, like something alive.
Fifteen minutes passed in eerie silence as they pressed deeper. Their torches flickered, casting wild shadows. No one spoke. Even the leader's earlier arrogance had faded into a cautious vigilance.
Then, without warning—shing!
A dagger screamed through the air.
It came from the dark like a ghost, moving at a speed that defied instinct. The leader — sharp-eyed and battle-hardened — managed to duck at the last possible moment. But the same could not be said for one of his men.
Thunk!
The dagger struck with sickening force, burying itself deep into the shoulder of the man walking third in line. The sheer impact hurled him backward, his body slamming against the cave wall with a dull crack. The weapon pinned him there, metal buried to the hilt in muscle and stone.
"Agh—!" the man gasped, blood pouring from his lips as he coughed violently. His eyes went wide with shock.
"Shit!" the leader snarled, rushing to his side. Sweat dripped down his forehead, more from dread than heat. "Rick—stay with me!"
Without wasting a second, he grabbed the hilt of the dagger and wrenched it free. Blood sprayed, and Rick screamed in raw agony, the sound echoing through the cave like a bell tolling doom.
"Shut up, Rick!" the leader hissed, panic edging into his tone. "You'll attract—"
But it was too late.
Skritch. Skritch. Skritch.
A sound like a thousand legs scraping across stone.
Then, from the black ceiling above, something dropped.
The corrupted spider landed like a thunderclap.
Seven feet long. Its chitinous body shimmered with unnatural gleam, veins of corrupted energy glowing faintly beneath its armored hide. Its many eyes glistened red, soulless, locked onto them with a predator's hunger. Its legs — long, bladed, dagger-like — clattered against the ground with every twitch.
The beast moved fast.
It lunged toward them with blistering speed, its monstrous form a blur.
Clang!
The leader reacted in the blink of an eye, yanking his broadsword free in a single motion. The heavy steel caught the spider's front leg in mid-swing. Sparks flew as metal clashed with corrupted bone. The impact drove the leader back several feet, his boots skidding over the stone, but he held his ground.
"Form up!" he shouted.
The others didn't need to be told twice.
They moved with the precision of men who'd fought together a hundred times before. Twin daggers flashed out from the lean man, circling to the spider's side. The other two swordsmen fanned out, flanking the beast. Their movements were quick, sharp — a dance choreographed through years of shared blood and battle.
Together, they lunged at the spider from three sides, blades raised, voices silent.
And for a moment, it looked like they might have the upper hand.