The spiral stairs spat them into stillness.A single torch guttered against the far wall, its light swallowed quickly by the endless dark beyond the entrance. The air was colder here — not the damp chill of stone, but a dry, watching cold, as if the labyrinth itself held its breath.
Eliakim set his pack down. "We're blind from here. Rest first, push later."
They didn't argue. Wounds burned. Muscles ached. Fatigue weighed heavier than their weapons. Ezra moved between them, uncorking vials and applying salves, her fingers precise but gentle. The scent of crushed lavenderroot and emberleaf filled the air.
"Four hours," Gideon muttered, leaning back against the wall. "No more."
Ezra smirked faintly. "Four hours is enough for your body, but your ego might still need a week."
---
While the others dozed or sat sharpening steel, Ezra wandered to the entrance's edge, crouching among patches of pale fungus and vine-like herbs clinging to the cracks. She plucked sprigs, sorted roots, and tucked them into pouches with a soft hum.
Eliakim noticed first. "You know, for someone who claims to be a mage, you spend more time digging in the dirt than chanting spells."
Gideon grinned, leaning in. "I think we've been traveling with a potion master this whole time."
Ezra shot them both a flat look. "Laugh it up. You'll be kissing the ground in thanks when these herbs keep your legs moving."
Their laughter echoed off the walls — a small, warm sound against the oppressive quiet.
---
When the four hours passed, they shouldered their packs and moved into the labyrinth.
It was a twisting nightmare of corridors — some so narrow that their shoulders scraped stone, others wide enough to lose sight of the ceiling. Pale light seeped from unseen cracks, casting every shadow twice.
The first threat came fast — enhanced Vagabond Wolves, leaner and faster than their surface kin. Their eyes gleamed silver, their howls reverberating through the maze. Gideon met them head-on, his axes flashing arcs of steel.
From the side, a Viper thicker than a man's arm struck. Eliakim's blade cut its head in a clean swing. Ghosts drifted between the walls themselves, their forms half-formed, voices whispering fragments of sorrow.
Ezra stepped forward at last, chanting under her breath. The runes along her gloves blazed — and then boom — the nearest corridor shook with an explosion of green fire."Little… unstable," she muttered. Another spell, another detonation, this time scattering a cluster of ghostly forms into nothing.
---
The deeper they went, the stranger it became.A Mantis the size of a grown man skittered down a wall toward them, its forelimbs like serrated scythes. It slashed at Eliakim, who ducked under the blow while Gideon buried both axes into its chest.
Then came something almost absurd — a small ox, no higher than a young boy, but standing upright on two legs. It charged without fear, tiny horns scraping against Gideon's shin. They fought it quickly, the creature finally crumpling with a shudder.
But before anyone could speak, the walls themselves seemed to rumble. From far ahead, heavy footsteps shook the floor — slow, deliberate, each one like the fall of a siege ram.
---
The corridor widened into an open cavern, lit by an eerie red glow.Standing there was a Baphomet, taller than a house, its horns sweeping toward the cavern roof. In its clawed hand, it held a massive polearm slick with fresh blood. Its eyes — molten gold — fixed on them with an intelligence that chilled the air.
And at its feet lay the small ox they'd slain.The creature bent low, its breath a hot wind that reeked of iron. A guttural voice rumbled from deep in its chest.
"You killed my son."
The polearm lifted, the ground cracked beneath its hooves —