The cave breathed like a living thing, its vast mouth opening into shadow where hundreds of rusted cages hung from the ceiling like grotesque chandeliers in some forgotten hall of torment.
They swayed gently in the damp currents that rose from unseen depths, iron bars creaking in low, endless lament, each one cradling a silhouette broken by time and despair. Torchlight flickered weakly from distant walls, casting long, dancing shadows that played across the prisoners' forms, making them seem almost alive in one moment—until the light shifted and revealed only the stillness of the truly defeated.
Among the larger cages dangled two smaller ones, fragile by comparison, holding creatures that had once known the open sky and the rush of wind through fur or feather. In the nearest sat a young woman, her long sharp fox ears twitching faintly at every subterranean rumble that rolled through the stone like distant thunder, a soft fluffy tail the color of smoldering embers curled tightly around her legs as though it could ward off the cold that seeped relentlessly from the rock. Her battered brown leather armor hung in ragged strips, straps frayed to threads, plates cracked and scarred like the hide of something that had fought too many losing battles and finally surrendered to the weight of endless captivity.
She turned her head slowly, tropez eyes settling on the man in the adjacent cage with a gaze that carried both weary curiosity and the guarded distance of someone who had learned trust was a luxury long lost. His messy black hair spilled across his shoulders in tangled strands like ink bled across pale parchment, framing a face grown sharp and hollow from months of starvation and silence.
A torn red shirt clung to his bony frame, black pants ripped and threadbare, bare feet pressed flat against the grimy iron floor as if drawing what little warmth remained from the metal itself.
When he had first been thrown in—screaming, thrashing against the bars, eyes wild with terror at the monstrous forms surrounding him—he had seemed almost vibrantly alive, a spark flickering defiantly in the gloom. But the weeks had stretched into months, and the screams had faded to whispers, then to nothing at all. Color had leeched from his azure eyes, leaving them flat and iced over, his expression distant as frost on forgotten glass. Night after night, the same nightmares dragged him under, pulling him back to worlds of fire and golden judgment, leaving him paler and more hollow with each dawn.
His suffering, at least, was nearing its end. He would die soon—if something in him did not awaken first.
He sat as he always did now, motionless with his back pressed to the cold bars, head bowed low as though the filthy cage floor might whisper answers to the questions that haunted his silence.
The fox woman watched him a moment longer, the thought drifting through her mind like a fleeting shadow,The same nightmare again, pulling him under like it always does. It came and went without lingering. She turned her gaze upward to the shadowed ceiling, ears flattening against the constant low growls that echoed through the cave—a twisted lullaby woven from beastial hunger and despair. The air hung thick with the taste of rotting flesh and rusted iron, coating the tongue like a film that never quite washed away.
She did not know what horrors repeated in his sleep for over half a year. Part of her did not wish to.
Her voice emerged eventually, low and edged with something that hovered between warning and indifference, cutting through the gloom without warmth.
"You should force something down. Eat, or you won't last the next fight. Humans break easily—even the strong ones don't survive long."
His head remained bowed. The reply scraped out hoarse and raw, as though words themselves had grown painful.
"Why bother caring? You're a monster too, aren't you?"
Her ears flicked sharply. She turned fully now, tropez eyes narrowing in an expression that defied naming.
"Don't misunderstand, if you die, your rotting corpse will only make my breathing harder."
The words hung between them a moment. Then, quieter, "I'm not dying. Not in here. Not anywhere. So save your worry."
She did not react, face remaining in its unreadable calm, tropez eyes cooling to distant amber.
After a pause, her voice returned—coldly neutral.
"Ever seen a magic screen flicker in front of your eyes? Or heard a voice that wasn't there, speaking inside your head?"
He lifted his gaze at last, azure eyes meeting hers with cold guardedness that had become his armor.
"And if I have?"
A flinch rippled through her—subtle, quickly buried beneath the mask—but he caught it, the brief tightening at the corners of her eyes. She did not turn fully, only glanced sideways, voice dropping lower.
"Then do yourself a favor and never admit that to another soul, dead or living."
Silence reclaimed the space between their cages, thick and heavy as the chains overhead. She closed her eyes eventually, letting sleep drag her down into its merciful dark.
He stayed awake longer, staring at the small wooden bowl of greenish sludge shoved into the corner of his cage. His face was grim under the flickering torchlight, cheekbones sharp shadows, body whittled by hunger to something half-ethereal, half-ghost. Food had become enemy as much as sustenance; eating felt like surrender.
Eventually his gaze shifted to the empty air before him.
Nothing at first—only the damp gloom and distant growls.
Then a faint ripple stirred the darkness, subtle as breath on still water. Unease prickled at the base of his skull immediately, instinctive and wordless—a quiet warning whispering from somewhere deep: Look away. Forget this. Pretend you saw nothing. It had come every time before, that cold tug urging aversion, as though whatever waited hated being witnessed.
He ignored it, as he always did. Stubbornness—or desperation—kept his eyes fixed.
The ripple deepened. Space glitched, warped, and something bloomed into existence where nothing should: a screen forged not of light but of dark—pure black radiance that drank the torchlight around it, edges framed in intricate ancient runes that twisted and curved like the handwriting of long-dead gods. A smoky black aura bled from its surface into reality, coiling lazily through the air like tendrils of living shadow, tainting the cave's gloom with something deeper, more profane. The disturbance felt wrong on a bone level, as though the screen's presence offended the natural order.
He focused on the glowing script that floated across its void surface—dark runes burned against the swallowing black.
Name: Tyler
Given Name: None
Grade: Dormant
Aspects: None
Treasures: None
Seals: 1
The unease lingered, that silent plea to avert his gaze growing louder in his mind, but he pushed it down again. A long, bone-weary sigh escaped his lips. He dismissed the screen with a thought, watching the dark aura retract like smoke sucked back into flame. Exhaustion settled deeper into his frame. Sleep knocked persistently, but he spared the sleeping fox one final, lingering glance before turning away from the untouched bowl.
**********
Morning seeped in as thin blades of white light piercing the high cracks in the cave roof, slicing through the perpetual gloom like cold, indifferent knives.
Tyler woke gasping, breath coming fast and ragged, hands trembling as they hovered before his sweat-slick face. Beads trickled down his chin, pattering softly onto the iron floor below. He closed his eyes, drew a deep, deliberate breath to steady the storm inside, then leaned back against the bars, arms draped loosely over raised knees.
His glance drifted left.
The fox woman slept still, back turned, tail curled tight like a shield. Even the larger beasts stirred slowly now, but their eyes remained hollow—any fire of madness or hunger long burned to cold ash, leaving only the wait for whatever came next.
Hesitation gripped him a moment before words formed.
"Hey... fox lady."
She raised her head just enough to throw a cold, piercing stare over her shoulder—sharp and unwelcoming enough to send unease coiling through his gut like cave chill.
What's with the death glare? I was trying to be civil—didn't even say monster this time.
He swallowed the flash of irritation, kept his tone neutral.
Before he could continue, she lowered her head again, resuming the pretense of sleep as though he were beneath notice.
He exhaled slowly, letting it go. She ranked low on the list of burdens weighing him down.
Drawing his legs closer, he settled into a meditative posture—spine straightening, hands resting on knees with index fingers touching middle in quiet circles of focus. Eyes closed. Breath deepened, slowed.
Today, he would face what he had avoided for months.
Darkness enveloped him gently, familiar as the void that greeted every nightmare death. But this time, he stepped into it willingly, seeking rather than fleeing.
He stood on still, mirror-black water that reflected nothing—neither wetting his bare feet nor chilling them. All around stretched impenetrable void, silent and absolute, pressing close like held breath.
Except for the tree.
It loomed ahead, colossal and solitary, its black silhouette the only anchor in the endless dark. Tyler felt insignificant beneath it, an ant gazing up at ancient ruin. In distant nightmares, it had always stood far away, unreachable across the void. Now, after months trapped in this world, it had drawn nearer—calling with a pull he could no longer ignore.
He approached slowly, the water rippling faintly underfoot though it left no trace.
The tree was dead, its majesty reduced to tragedy. Branches severed and jagged, trunk marred by deep sword scars that gaped like old wounds. Black wood, charred and broken, yet it stood unyielding—refusing the void's patient embrace, refusing to crumble and vanish.
Disappointment settled heavy in his chest, cold as the water beneath him. All this time, something immense had waited within his soul—and it was only this: magnificent ruin.
With a quiet, sorrowful sigh that echoed strangely in the void, he moved closer, climbing carefully through one of the massive cracks into the hollow heart of the tree.
The interior opened vast and unexpected—wide as grand halls merged together, ground rough and crunching beneath his steps like shattered charcoal. Darkness clung thick, but faint outlines emerged in the gloom. The air carried the heavy scent of ancient burned wood, lingering like memory.
Deeper in, another note threaded through the char—metallic, unmistakable.
Blood.
His heart quickened, unease prickling as he squeezed through a narrow passage into a smaller chamber. The smell intensified, oppressive in the confined space. Movement grew limited, walls pressing close, the atmosphere thickening with something unspoken.
The wood here was blacker still, scarred and burned as though fire had raged from within. One crack drew his eye—thin, deliberate, running vertical like a vein. He leaned closer, peering into its depths.
Stagnant blood pooled inside, dark and unmoving, catching what little light existed in dull gleam.
A tree bleeding. The impossibility of it twisted in his mind.
He pulled back, scratching his head as theories spun and collapsed, each more strained than the last, a faint ache building in his mind—thinking wasn't really his strong suit.
One more look, he decided—perhaps clarity waited in proximity.
He leaned in again, pressing close to the narrow crack.
Something struck his face with sudden, shocking force—warm, thick liquid erupting from the depths of the fissure like pressure long contained finally released. His head jolted back sharply, the impact stinging as the fluid splashed across his skin and forced its way past eyelids, burning into his eyes with insistent, invasive heat.
Hands flew up instinctively, fingers touching the wetness streaming down his cheeks. It was metallic, ancient, unmistakably the same stagnant blood that had pooled unmoving in the crack moments before—the tree's blood, dark and profane, now coating his face and seeping relentlessly into his vision.
He stumbled back in the confined space, wiping frantically at his eyes, but the liquid clung, blurred the dark interior into smeared shadow. The burning sensation deepened, not painful exactly, but wrong—foreign essence burrowing deeper, claiming territory it had no right to.
"Okay," he whispered to the hollow dark, voice trembling with the shock of violation. "I've had enough soul-diving for one morning."
Before retreat could take hold, a voice rang clear and ancient inside his mind—resonant, inevitable, as though the tree itself finally spoke.
"You have absorbed the blood of Silthya, The Sin of Envy."
"Your Aspect has awakened."