The cave swallowed them whole the moment they crossed its threshold. Darkness pressed in from every side, thick and almost tangible, broken only by the wavering torchlight Cedric carried aloft. The flame guttered with every step, its glow crawling weakly across jagged stone before retreating again, as though the shadows themselves resisted being seen. The air inside was cool and damp, carrying the scent of earth, moss, and something older—something that did not belong to fire or blood.
Thorwin felt it immediately.
A strange, shimmering pressure settled over his senses, subtle yet undeniable. It was not a sound, nor a scent, but a feeling—a deep, resonant thrum that seemed to echo within his chest rather than his ears. It pulsed slowly, like a distant heartbeat, sending faint ripples through his thoughts. The sensation was primal, instinctive, awakening something he did not yet have words for.
He had asked the others once.
Then twice.
Each time, Falstad had only grunted and shaken his head, beard swaying as he squinted into the dark. Cedric had listened carefully, eyes narrowing in concentration, before giving the same answer—nothing. No sound. No presence. No unease beyond the cave itself.
That was when Thorwin understood.
Whatever this was, it was meant for him alone.
His gaze darted along the cave walls, the torchlight briefly revealing a sight that made his breath hitch. Vines clung to the stone, thick and verdant, winding through cracks where no light should reach. Pale flowers bloomed in clusters, their petals faintly luminescent, casting a ghostly sheen across the rock. Moss carpeted the ground in soft patches, untouched by ash or scorch, as though this place had been carefully spared from the ruin beyond.
Life thrived here.
Unnaturally so.
The passage itself was narrow, little more than a cleft carved into the mountain's bones, forcing them to move in single file. Their shoulders brushed constantly against damp stone, slick with moisture and age, and every misstep sent a shiver through Thorwin's spine. The rock felt cold beneath his fingers, as though the cave had never known warmth, no matter how fiercely the world outside burned. With each step they took deeper inside, the air grew heavier, thicker, carrying the quiet scent of moss and something faintly metallic.
The ceiling dipped low in places, compelling them to bow their heads as they passed beneath uneven arches of stone. Water dripped steadily from unseen cracks above, each drop striking the ground with a soft, hollow sound that echoed far longer than it should have. The rhythm of it followed them—drip, drip, drip—like a slow, patient counting of their steps, marking how far they had strayed from the world they knew.
At last, the tight corridor began to widen. The walls pulled back, the oppressive closeness loosening as the path bent sharply and opened into a vast, cavernous chamber. Thorwin slowed, breath catching in his throat as the torchlight spilled outward, swallowed almost immediately by the enormity of the space. Shadows stretched and warped along distant stone, refusing to settle into clear shapes.
No matter how far the flame reached, it was never enough. The light failed to touch the far walls, leaving the edges of the cavern submerged in darkness. The space ahead seemed to extend endlessly, its depth impossible to judge, as though the cave itself was larger on the inside than it had any right to be. Thorwin felt a strange unease settle in his chest—the unsettling sense that they had not simply entered a larger room, but crossed into something deeper, older, and watching.
Thorwin swallowed, tightening his grip on his sword.
The pulsing sensation grew stronger with every step, not louder, but closer—as if whatever waited at the heart of the cave was drawing him in, gently and inexorably. It did not feel hostile. It did not feel kind.
It felt wounded.
Falstad halted so abruptly that Thorwin nearly collided with his back.
"D'ye hear it, lads?" the dwarf muttered, voice suddenly stripped of its usual bravado. He lowered himself to one knee, pressing a broad, calloused hand flat against the cave floor. The torchlight caught the furrows of his brow as he stilled, every ounce of him listening—not with ears alone, but with bone and instinct. "Stone's talkin'," he growled softly. "Somethin's comin'… an' it ain't walkin'."
He lifted his head, eyes fixed on the darkness ahead where the tunnel bent sharply out of sight. His fingers curled against the rock, feeling the vibration now—faint, rapid, purposeful. "It's fast," Falstad added, rising in one smooth motion. "Too fast fer anythin' that wants ta be seen."
The warning came a heartbeat too late.
A sharp whistling shriek tore through the air, so sudden and violent it split Thorwin's thoughts clean in two. Something flashed through the torchlight—a blur of motion, angular and alien. Thorwin barely had time to register the figure before it was already upon them, hurtling forward with terrifying speed.
A blade of crystal arced downward, its edge catching the light in a spectrum of fractured colors. It was nothing like steel—translucent, faceted, humming faintly as it cut through the air. Its aim was precise and merciless, angled to pierce straight through Falstad's skull.
Instinct saved him.
Falstad twisted aside with a roar, boots grinding against stone as the blade sliced through empty space where his head had been a moment before. The crystal weapon struck the cave wall instead, exploding sparks of light and shards of rock outward with a piercing crack. The force of it sent a shock through the ground, rattling Thorwin's teeth.
The attacker did not slow.
It landed lightly—almost reverently—several paces away, boots touching stone without so much as a scrape. For a fleeting instant it stood still, framed by the wavering torchlight, and Thorwin's breath caught in his throat. The figure was tall and broad-shouldered, its posture proud despite the violence of its arrival, its silhouette unmistakably other. It was not orc, nor human, nor anything Thorwin had ever seen before. Azure skin glimmered beneath layered armor, etched with faintly glowing markings that pulsed in time with the strange presence Thorwin had felt deeper in the cave. Its eyes shone like distant stars, sharp and intent, fixed upon them with neither hesitation nor mercy.
The crystal blade in its hand caught the light as it rose—translucent, faceted, humming softly as if alive. Before Thorwin could fully process the sight, the being moved.
It became a blur.
In the span of a heartbeat, it closed the distance between them, speed so unnatural it made Thorwin's vision stutter. Instinct screamed louder than thought. He threw his sword up just in time, steel meeting crystal with a shriek that rang through the cave like glass being torn apart. The impact rattled his arms to the bone, sparks and fractured light bursting outward as he staggered back under the force.
Cedric lunged in from the side, blade aimed for the creature's flank—but the being pivoted effortlessly, its foot snapping out in a brutal arc. The kick struck Cedric square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and hurling him hard into the cave wall. Stone cracked on impact, and Cedric slid down with a groan, momentarily stunned.
Falstad roared and charged, axe swinging in a wide, deadly arc. Thorwin felt his own momentum falter as the crystal blade slid along his sword, twisting it aside with alarming strength. The loss of balance forced him back a step—just enough.
The figure used it.
It turned seamlessly, catching Falstad's axe on the flat of its blade, crystal ringing against steel. The force of the block sent a shudder through the dwarf's arms, boots skidding across the damp stone as he fought to hold his ground. The being did not press the advantage. It did not need to.
Behind them, harsh orcish grumbles echoed through the cave mouth.
Thorwin caught movement at the edge of his vision—two shapes shifting, bows raised. He barely had time to register the danger before an arrow whistled past him, slicing the air close enough to tug at his hair. It flew straight for the azure-skinned figure.
The being vanished from its path.
It twisted aside with fluid grace, the arrow shattering uselessly against the cave wall. In the same motion, it surged forward—not toward Thorwin, not toward Falstad—but past them, a streak of blue and light rushing straight at the orcs.
Falstad swore and lurched after it, axe already lifting for pursuit, but Thorwin caught the dwarf's arm, fingers digging in with desperate strength.
"Let him deal with 'em first," Thorwin hissed, breath coming fast, eyes never leaving the blur of motion ahead. "Then we—"
He turned just in time to see Cedric pushing himself upright, jaw clenched, eyes burning with pain and resolve.
"—kill it," Thorwin finished quietly.
They watched as the azure figure moved—and only then did Thorwin understand that what he was witnessing was not merely combat, but something closer to art. The figure did not charge. It did not rush. Instead, it flowed.
Each step was precise, measured, almost graceful, boots barely touching the cave floor as though gravity itself had loosened its grip. The crystal blade traced luminous arcs through the air, leaving faint afterimages that lingered for a heartbeat too long, like echoes of light. It spun, turned, and shifted its weight with impossible balance, every motion blending seamlessly into the next.
"A blade dance," Falstad murmured, awe creeping into his dwarfish growl despite himself. "Ancient one, by the stones…"
The first orc never stood a chance.
He fell with a guttural cry as the crystal blade cut through him in a single, fluid motion—too fast, too clean. Blood sprayed against the cave wall in a dark fan, steam rising where it struck the cold stone. The body hit the ground moments later, lifeless before it even finished falling.
The second orc reacted with panic rather than precision.
With a snarl of rage and fear, it hurled its bow aside and yanked the sword from its back, heavy steel scraping loudly as it stepped forward. This one was larger, broader through the shoulders, muscle corded tight beneath scarred green skin. It roared—a challenge, a refusal to die quietly—and met the figure head-on.
Steel met crystal.
The clash rang sharply through the cave, sparks scattering as the orc forced the figure back a step. For the first time, the dance faltered. The orc pressed the advantage, hacking downward with brutal strength, forcing the azure figure to block rather than evade. One blow slipped through, biting into the figure's left arm. Blue blood spattered across the stone, glowing faintly before dimming.
The orc laughed, a harsh, triumphant sound.
But triumph lasted only a heartbeat.
The figure shifted its stance—subtle, almost imperceptible. The next strike came, but this time the orc overcommitted, anger guiding his blade instead of skill. The figure twisted aside, letting the sword pass harmlessly through empty air. In the same motion, the crystal blade flashed upward.
There was no roar.
No drawn-out struggle.
Just a clean, decisive cut.
The orc's laughter died in his throat as the blade opened him from hip to chest. His sword slipped from numb fingers, clattering uselessly to the ground as he collapsed, eyes wide with shock rather than pain.
Silence followed.
The figure stood amid the fallen bodies, chest rising and falling heavily now, blood—its own and others'—dripping from crystal and armor alike. The glow along its markings flickered faintly, strained but unbroken.
Thorwin drew a slow, unsteady breath and glanced back at his companions—at Falstad with his axe held low but ready, at Cedric forcing himself upright despite the pain etched across his face. Their eyes met his, and no words were needed. Whatever stood before them, wounded or not, was still a threat. Then Thorwin turned his gaze forward again, fixing it on the azure figure.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword until the leather creaked beneath his grip. With measured steps, he moved toward the figure, boots scraping softly against the stone. As he advanced, that familiar sensation returned—the shimmering pulse deep in his chest, stronger now, insistent. It was not fear, nor was it pain. It was an urging, a quiet pressure that seemed to plead rather than command. For the briefest moment, Thorwin felt as though the cave itself wanted him to stop, to lower his blade, to listen. To understand.
He crushed the thought without mercy.
Understanding had no place here. Trust had long since been beaten out of him in the pits and cages of the orcs. Feelings did not keep you alive. Hesitation did not spare your friends. There was only a choice—death, or another day stolen from it. His jaw set, resolve hardening into something cold and sharp. Another day it would be.
Thorwin lunged.
He swung his sword in a wide, forceful arc, steel slicing through the torchlit air toward the figure's torso. The figure reacted instantly, leaping backward with a fluid grace that would have carried it far beyond reach moments ago. This time, it did not go as far. Its boots skidded against the cave floor as it landed, breath coming heavier, movements no longer effortless. The glow along its markings flickered, dimmer than before.
The figure countered, crystal blade flashing toward Thorwin's shoulder—but the strike lacked its earlier speed. Thorwin met it head-on, parrying with surprising ease. The impact still jarred his arm, but he did not stagger. He held his ground.
That was when he felt it.
Not the pulse in his chest, but something else—a subtle shift in the air, a weakening. The figure's strength was ebbing, bleeding away with every motion, every breath. Its steps grew heavier, its guard slower. Where once it had danced beyond reach, now it struggled to keep pace.
Thorwin pressed forward, heart pounding, eyes locked on the figure before him. Whatever it was, whatever sorrow or purpose had driven it to fight, it was fading.
And he knew, with a sickening certainty, that if he did not end this now, it would still end in blood—his own, or Falstad's, or Cedric's.
So he raised his sword again, preparing to strike, even as the pulsing sensation in his chest flared brighter, almost aching, as though mourning what was about to be lost.