Kael woke to the scent of iron and rot. His body ached as if every joint had been shattered and remade overnight. The darkness pressed against him, heavy and suffocating, like a living weight. His limbs trembled, slick with sweat and old blood. The ruins had shifted while he lay unconscious—or perhaps while he slept. Corridors bent at impossible angles, ceilings slanted sharply, walls pressed inward. Fog clung to him like a predator, twisting with intent.
He forced himself to rise. Pain tore through his shoulders, knees, and ankles. Every movement was agony, yet instinct drove him forward. His lungs burned, his heart pounded, and his mind screamed at the oppressive silence. Then he heard it—a scraping, wet, deliberate.
Before he could react, it struck.
A monstrous limb, impossibly bent and pale, smashed into his chest. Pain exploded through his ribs and lungs. He collapsed to the stone floor, blood running from his mouth, vision spinning. Another limb struck his shoulder, claws raking his flesh. Pain flared violently. He tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed by the thick air.
Instinct, raw and unthinking, forced him to roll. He scrambled over slick stone, hands shredding on broken edges. The fog curled tighter around him, brushing against his limbs, pressing into his chest. The walls shifted subtly, leaning inward, narrowing the corridors. The ruins themselves were alive. They were testing him, shaping traps, blocking escape.
The monsters circled him, silent, relentless, precise. Limbs twisted, mouths split, teeth glinting. One lunged, striking his leg. Pain tore through his muscles, sending him sprawling into jagged stone. Another hit from above, forcing him against the wall. Bones screamed under the impact. The black water shimmered in nearby pools, reflecting impossible faces: screaming, clawing, hollow-eyed. Kael glimpsed his own reflection—pale, gaunt, trembling violently.
He tried to move, to run, to find a corridor leading anywhere. But every path bent, shifted, closed. Floors buckled beneath him, opening into jagged voids. Ceilings lowered, forcing him to crouch, crawl, contort his body painfully. Archways collapsed behind him, walls pressed inward. Every motion had consequence. Every breath was agony.
The corpse's warning echoed faintly in his mind: "Run… before…" But Kael could not understand. Before what? What could be worse than this?
Another attack came. Limbs twisted impossibly, striking, tearing, raking. Kael fell, sliding across the stone floor, scraping raw palms and knees. He tried to crawl toward a narrow passage, but the monsters intercepted him, circling, testing, striking whenever he faltered. The ruins themselves shifted violently in response: walls pressed, floors tilted, staircases rose and fell, crushing space beneath him.
Kael stumbled into a vast hall. The ceiling arched impossibly high, yet the walls pressed inward. Shadows pooled unnaturally, forming shapes at the edges of his vision. Shapes that lunged, struck, twisted. The black pools shimmered with impossible reflections, showing screaming faces, clawing hands, and hollow eyes. Kael's own figure appeared pale, trembling, broken.
Another strike from a monster sent him sprawling across the hall, ribs cracking, blood streaming, muscles torn. The ruins groaned, twisted, pressing down on him, reshaping paths to force him into corners. The Tide pressed at him silently, invisibly, inevitability made flesh.
Step by agonizing step, Kael crawled forward. Limbs quivering, lungs burning, hands shredded. Monsters advanced, the ruins twisted, shadows lunged. Every corridor, every pool, every corner whispered threats, hiding dangers he could not name.
And yet, he moved.
Because stopping meant death.
Because understanding here—trying to reason, to question—was fatal.
Because the Tide was patient.
And the ruins would not forgive hesitation.
Kael ran into the deeper darkness, bleeding, broken, hunted, and terrified.
Kael's body screamed in protest with every movement. Muscles quivered, raw from the jagged stone and the relentless pressure of the ruins. The fog clung to him like a living thing, curling around his legs, pressing against his chest, coiling in his hair. Every breath felt thick with ash, iron, and decay.
Then they came.
From the shadows, limbs twisted at impossible angles, crashing into him like weapons forged from bone and nightmare. One slammed into his chest, and he collapsed, scraping across jagged stone. Pain flared violently, radiating through his ribs and spine. Another clawed his shoulder, tearing through skin and muscle. His vision blurred, and he tasted blood. A scream clawed at his throat, but it died in his chest, swallowed by the thick, suffocating air.
The ruins themselves shifted in response. Floors buckled beneath him, opening into jagged voids. Walls pressed inward, twisting the corridors into lethal traps. Ceilings arched downward, forcing him to contort, crawl, squeeze through impossibly narrow gaps. Every step, every motion, was anticipated. The monsters circled him, relentless, precise, watching his faltering movements and striking whenever he hesitated.
Kael scrambled forward. Pain seared every nerve. Blood ran from cuts on his hands and knees. His chest heaved. He tried to move faster, but another strike slammed into his side. He toppled onto the jagged floor, ribs cracking under the blow. Limbs tore at him again, dragging him across stone. Another monster lunged from the fog, slamming into him with impossible speed. His shoulder twisted painfully; a scream tore through his mind.
The black pools shimmered nearby, reflecting impossible faces: screaming children, clawing hands, hollow-eyed men and women. His own face appeared, pale, trembling, broken, eyes wide with terror. For a fleeting moment, he saw the corpse's warning echo faintly in his mind: "Run… before…" But he did not understand. Before what? What could be worse than this?
Another strike slammed into him, forcing him to roll sideways over jagged stones. Pain exploded in his back and legs. The ruins groaned and twisted. Walls pressed, ceilings lowered, floors split open. Every step forward was met with a new obstacle. Every breath was agony. The monsters did not tire. They did not hesitate. They did not falter.
Kael clawed his way through a narrow corridor. Limbs struck from above, behind, beside him. He flinched, twisted, rolled. Blood ran into his eyes. His vision blurred. He fell to his knees, trembling violently, muscles quivering, ribs aching, skin raw and torn. The ruins pressed in, shaping corridors, twisting walls, forming deadly corners. Every motion he made was anticipated, countered, resisted.
He stumbled into a chamber. The black water pulsed, faces screaming silently. Shapes moved within the fog, twisting, curling, lunging. The monsters attacked again. Limbs bent impossibly, striking, tearing, raking. Kael fell forward, scraping across wet stone, blood running freely. The floor buckled beneath him, forcing him to roll into another corridor. The ruins themselves seemed to enjoy his struggle, reshaping paths to trap him, block him, punish him.
Pain and terror consumed him. Exhaustion pressed down. Fear screamed in his chest. And yet, step by agonizing step, Kael moved forward.
Because stopping meant death.
Because understanding here—trying to reason, to question—was fatal.
Because the Tide was patient.
And the ruins would not forgive hesitation.
Kael ran into the deeper darkness, bleeding, hunted, broken, and utterly terrified.
Kael staggered forward, every joint screaming, every muscle trembling. His hands were shredded, knees raw, chest burning from broken ribs. Every step through the ruins felt heavier than the last. The fog clung to him like a living predator, wrapping around his legs, brushing his face, pressing down on his chest, choking him.
The monsters struck again. This time, they came without warning, all at once. Limbs twisted impossibly, teeth glinting, claws raking through the air like sharpened blades. One slammed into his side, pain exploding through his ribs and spine. He fell, rolling across jagged stone. Another struck his shoulder, tearing skin and muscle. Blood ran into his eyes. He tried to scream, but the sound died in his throat, swallowed by the suffocating air.
The ruins themselves joined the assault. Floors buckled and split, jagged voids opening beneath him. Walls pressed inward, narrowing the corridors until he could barely squeeze through. Ceilings arched downward, forcing him to crawl, twist, contort. Every step was anticipated. Every motion was countered. The monsters circled him, relentless, patient, precise.
Kael stumbled into a hall where black water shimmered in fractured pools. Faces flickered in the surface—screaming children, clawing hands, hollow-eyed figures. One mirrored face stared back at him—pale, trembling, broken, eyes wide with terror. The corpse's whisper echoed faintly: "Run… before…" But Kael did not understand. Before what? What could possibly be worse than this?
Another strike hit his leg, sending him sprawling onto stone. Pain ripped through him. He rolled, trying to scramble to a safer position, only to be met by another strike from above. Bones cracked under the impact. Limbs tore at him from every direction. The ruins groaned and twisted. Walls pressed, floors tilted, staircases rose and fell, shaping themselves into traps that left no escape.
Kael clawed his way to his feet, chest heaving, vision blurring. Limbs struck again. He twisted, rolled, fell, clawed, and stumbled. Blood ran freely from his wounds. His muscles quivered. He was barely moving forward. Every movement threatened to kill him. Every breath was agony.
Then, the ruins shifted violently. A corridor collapsed behind him, cutting off any retreat. Ceilings lowered like crushing jaws. Floors buckled beneath him, forcing him to the ground. The monsters advanced, circling closer, patient, unyielding. One lunged, striking his side, sending him sprawling over sharp stone. Another landed on the floor beside him, limbs flailing, teeth snapping. Pain flared in every nerve.
Kael tried to crawl forward, to escape, but the black pools pulsed violently, reflections twisting and screaming. Faces reached out as if alive, trying to drag him into the water. The shadows flickered and lunged, striking from angles he could not anticipate. He tried to dodge, tried to roll, tried to flee—but the ruins and monsters acted in perfect coordination, herding him, crushing him, punishing every hesitation.
His limbs ached. Blood soaked the stone. Vision blurred. Pain radiated through his entire body. His chest burned with broken ribs. And still, step by agonizing step, he forced himself to move forward.
Because stopping meant death.
Because hesitation was impossible.
Because the Tide—silent, patient, eternal—watched, indifferent to suffering.
Kael stumbled into a chamber where shadows twisted like serpents, reaching for him with impossible limbs. Limbs struck, tearing at his flesh, crushing his bones. The walls shifted, pressing inward. Ceilings threatened to collapse. Pools of black water shimmered, faces clawing and screaming silently, reaching for him. He fell to his knees, trembling, exhausted, barely conscious.
And then, from the fog, a new shape emerged—massive, monstrous, more impossible than any before. It moved with intent, pressing him into a corner, blocking any path of escape. Limbs twisted and flailed. Teeth snapped inches from his face. Pain exploded through him as he tried to roll, to move, to survive.
Kael's strength faltered. Limbs quivered uncontrollably. Vision blurred into red and black. Blood ran freely into his eyes and mouth. His breathing was ragged, shallow, desperate. The monsters circled him. The ruins pressed in. The black pools shimmered with screaming faces.
He collapsed entirely, sprawling over the jagged stone floor, broken, bleeding, trembling violently. Every joint screamed. Every muscle burned. The monsters advanced closer, relentless, patient. The ruins themselves seemed to loom, reshaping, pressing, closing in.
And in that crushing, suffocating moment, Kael understood one thing: he might not survive this night.
He tried to move. He tried to drag himself forward. The monsters lunged. The ruins twisted. The black water pulsed, and the shadows closed. His limbs failed him. Blood ran freely. Pain consumed every nerve.
And yet—somehow—he kept crawling, step by painful step, into the endless, living darkness.
Because he had no other choice.
Because stopping meant death.
Because the Tide waited, patient, indifferent, inevitable.