Tareth woke to the sound of water dripping rhythmically off the lean-to—slow, steady, like a clock with no numbers.

  He thought to himself it was weird how the dungeon created things like water on leaves in the morning since it never seemed to rain.

  The smell hit him next—old smoke, damp bark, the faint sour trace of dried fish. He blinked against the filtered green light, shoulders stiff, legs already half-cramped from another night curled wrong.

  He sat up, rolling the tightness out of his neck.

  "Time to finish the trap."

  The words tasted flat, automatic. But beneath them—under the weariness, the hunger, the dull throb in his ribs—something strange flickered.

  Excitement.

  He slung the pouch over one shoulder, checked the sword at his hip, and stepped out into the trees.

  The walk wasn’t long. He’d carved the start of the trap just past the clearing, near a ridge where the ground sloped and rabbits liked to dart in and out of the thorns.

  He picked his way through the brush, boots soft on the moss, hands brushing leaves aside.

  His thoughts wandered as he moved.

  Graymane.

  The name still gave him chills. That towering silver beast—[Level 6], and the way the others waited on it like it breathed authority.

  And yet…

  He didn’t feel dread, not exactly.

  It should’ve been fear. And it was, in part. A deep, bone-level caution.

  But also something else now.

  The way his body had moved in the last fight. The way his blade found its mark. The way the second wolf fell faster than the first.

  It made something burn in his chest. Dangerous, maybe. But real.

  A part of him wanted to see them again.

  Not close. Not stupid.

  But to know. To learn.

  To prove something.

  To who, he wasn’t sure.

  He crested the low ridge—and stopped.

  Tracks.

  Dozens.

  Splayed claws, deep prints. Circling. Sniffing.

  He crept closer and crouched beside the pit.

  The dirt was still damp from where he’d clawed at it days ago, but the real story was in the mess stamped around it.

  Wolf tracks.

  Heavy ones. Deep. Some pacing. Some circling. One set looked like it had paused, paw pressed hard enough to sink the mud flat.

  He dragged his fingers over one print—claws long, spacing wide.

  "Shit," he muttered. "They found it."

  He stood slowly, brushing his palms off on his thigh.

  Guess the trap’s useless now.

  If they’d sniffed it out, maybe even marked the ground, no rabbit in its right mind would come near it again. And the wolves—Tareth could only assume—were already hunting the same prey.

  They must’ve followed the scent here. Maybe even watched him digging.

  So they’re getting closer to my camp…

  He didn’t like that. Not at all.

  But what he felt more than fear now—was curiosity.

  He turned, scanning the trees.

  The tracks led off in a single direction—dragging lines through the moss, heavy prints with purpose. Not wandering.

  Following something.

  Or going home?

  He hesitated.

  Then, without thinking, took a step in that direction.

  "Well," he muttered, adjusting the strap of his pouch, "guess I’m doing some exploring today."

  He glanced back at the half-dug trap, lip twisting in a dry half-smile.

  "You win this round, rabbits."

  And then he followed the wolves.

  Quiet.

  Careful.

  Each step pulling him deeper toward the north—toward the wolves’ domain.

  He followed slow—bootprints careful, eyes always scanning. The forest changed the farther he went. Not louder. Not darker. Just… different.

  The trees grew wider apart. Their roots clawed deeper into the ground, thick enough to trip him if he didn’t watch his step. The moss didn’t squelch underfoot anymore—it peeled dry, crackling like old parchment. Every so often, the green light above flickered, not from movement, but like the world itself was blinking.

  He looked up.

  And froze.

  The sky—it wasn’t completely green anymore.

  Still tinted, sure. But thinner. Higher.

  There was blue now. Pale and stretching, like someone had started to scrub paint off a glass ceiling and hadn’t finished the job.

  And—was that…?

  He squinted.

  A smear of white.

  Faint. Wispy. Curling like breath held too long.

  A cloud?

  His chest tightened.

  The stories. From Thommel. Cranky, half-blind, smelled like dust and smoked sage. Always muttering about the elves, how they knew the old truths before humans ever crawled out of the mud.

  “The dungeons aren’t just dead things,” Thommel had said once, wagging a rolled-up scroll at Tareth like it might bite him. “They grow. Learn. Change.”

  Tareth remembered sitting on the shop floor, listening. Too old for stories, but too young to stop wanting to believe them.

  “You stay long enough,” Thommel had warned, “and the world inside starts to notice. Starts to twist itself around you. Like it’s… becoming.”

  Tareth exhaled.

  The sky above stretched wider than before.

  Bluer than before.

  He was inside something that was waking up.

  Becoming.

  He walked quieter after that.

  The air shifted with him—more open, more sky above the canopy. Birds didn’t sing here. But the silence didn’t feel as hollow.

  Hours passed.

  He didn’t count them. Didn’t need to. His body kept the rhythm—foot after foot, breath after breath. He kept the tracks in view, careful not to leave too much of his own behind. The wolves hadn’t doubled back yet. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t.

  Then the land began to rise.

  Slow at first. A steady slope, scattered with stone. Then sharper, more uneven. He followed a path that wasn’t quite a path, one hand brushing the bark beside him for balance.

  And at the top—he stopped.

  The hill fell away ahead of him, dipping into a shallow basin of trees.

  And nestled in the hollow—half-buried, draped in ivy, and cracked through the center—stood ruins.

  Not towers. Not full walls.

  Just ribs of stone. A dome, collapsed to one side. Broken spires. The bones of something once-built, now forgotten.

  And weaving through the brush below—pawprints.

  Wide.

  Fresh.

  Leading straight to the ruin’s heart.

  He crouched low, heartbeat thick in his ears.

  “They live there,” he breathed.

  The wolves.

  Graymane.

  This was their den.

  He didn’t move.

  Not for a long time.

  He found a dip in the ridge—flat enough to lie on, just steep enough to hide him from view—and watched.

  The ruin below wasn’t just shelter.

  It was theirs.

  He saw them not long after settling in. Two wolves—no mistaking them. Same thick-shouldered gait, same stalking precision. Both Level 4, just like before.

  And then—

  Graymane.

  It stepped from the shadow of a collapsed archway, silver hide catching what little light the new sky allowed. Not shimmering. Not glowing.

  Just… wrong. Like the world bent slightly around it.

  Level 6.

  Tareth’s throat dried.

  He stayed low, cheek pressed to the dirt, breath shallow. The wolves didn’t rush. They didn’t bark. No sound at all.

  The two moved together.

  Not as a pack. As something smarter. Synchronized. Like dancers taught by instinct, not voice.

  One circled the ruin’s edge, sniffing. The other trotted out, then doubled back.

  Graymane stood still.

  Watched them.

  Watched everything.

  It didn’t command. It didn’t need to.

  Eventually, one of the Level 4s padded over. Bumped its snout against Graymane’s flank. A pause. A low rumble—not a growl. Not quite speech either.

  But Graymane turned its head.

  Sniffed the air.

  Then gave a short, single exhale. Barely sound at all.

  The sleeker of the two peeled off from the others.

  No hesitation.

  No look back.

  It ran.

  Not fast. Not careless.

  But straight.

  Southwest.

  Tareth tracked the angle.

  His jaw tightened.

  The pond.

  The same direction. Maybe not exact. But close enough.

  He swore under his breath. Thought about following it. About sprinting back. About what might be waiting for him when he got there.

  Instead, he stayed.

  Watched a little longer. Let the image burn.

  Graymane’s head turned—once. Almost toward him. Then away again.

  Tareth didn’t breathe.

  Only when the wolf vanished back into the ruin did he let his chest rise again.

  They’re getting close, he thought. Too close.

  He backed away from the ridge slow, careful not to break a single twig.

  Then turned.

  He realized it would take hours to get back and needed to now incase more changes came with the sky.

  And so he started the long walk back.

  He crept back down the ridge slow, one hand bracing the slope, the other resting on the sword hilt out of habit. The air shifted with every step—lighter than it had been that morning, not by weight, but by color.

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  Halfway through the descent, he looked up.

  The green was fading.

  Not gone—not entirely—but streaked now with soft blue, like a painter testing sky shades against moss. Higher up, he could’ve sworn he saw a wisp of cloud. Thin. Shaky. Like a memory trying to form.

  He stared at it for a long moment.

  Seven days, he thought. That’s all it took.

  Why?

  Why now?

  The stories always said dungeons grew—expanded as they fed, shifted as they tested you. But they didn’t say how. Or who made them. Or why.

  He remembered the trader’s cluttered shelves back home—Old Thommel. Covered in dust and maps nobody bought, always muttering about sealed domains and forgotten entrances.

  He’d mentioned once—just once that the elves had beaten tons of dungeons in the past.

  Said they’d seen them breathe.

  Grow.

  Even dream.

  The Empire didn’t like talk like that. Called it backwater myth.

  But Thommel had looked scared when he said it.

  Tareth rubbed the back of his neck. The sweat there had gone cold.

  This one had been hidden. No records. Just a hole in the world waiting to be stepped through.

  Six known dungeons, the Empire said. Six. Guarded. Measured. Barely understood.

  So what was this?

  A seventh?

  Or something worse?

  A new dungeon?

  It didn’t feel like the death-traps his father talked to john about when he thought no one was listening. Just wolves. Hunger. Time.

  But maybe that was worse.

  Because it was changing.

  And if it kept changing…

  If it kept growing…

  Would he be able to beat it?

  Or would it outgrow him?

  The thought dug deep.

  He kept walking.

  Faster now.

  Toward the pond.

  Toward his lean-to.

  Toward the one thing he could still call his.

  He knew something was wrong before he even saw it.

  The air was different.

  Not the color—though the sky behind the trees was deepening, that odd blue now shading toward bruised dusk—but the smell. Damp. Disturbed. Like the moss had been clawed up. Like sweat.

  He crept slower, boots silent against the root-veined ground.

  Branches parted—

  And his heart dropped.

  The lean-to was torn open.

  Not broken.

  Gutted.

  The roof hung half-collapsed, stripped of moss and leaves. His pouch lay ripped open beside the firepit, herbs scattered, fishbones strewn like snapped twigs. The firewood he’d gathered had been tossed aside—bitten, chewed, pissed on.

  And there—

  Snarling, digging through the wreckage with its nose low—

  A wolf.

  Not just any.

  Not Graymane.

  But big.

  Broad-shouldered.

  Fur like scorched charcoal, thick around the neck, tail lashing like it already owned the place.

  Red light bloomed behind Tareth’s eyes—

  [Wolf – Level 4]

  He didn’t hesitate.

  Didn’t breathe.

  Just moved.

  He lunged from the underbrush, sword already drawn, voice a half-choked yell as he swung low toward the creature’s flank—

  Steel bit fur—

  Then bounced.

  The wolf spun, teeth flashing, jaws snapping inches from his ribs.

  Tareth rolled, landed hard, came up cursing.

  It lunged.

  He dodged again—barely—blade scraping its side, not deep enough. The beast snarled, pawing the dirt like it meant to dig him out of it.

  It charged.

  Tareth ducked, slammed his shoulder into its ribs, shoved with everything he had.

  The wolf staggered—recovered.

  Then leapt.

  He braced.

  Caught the weight midair with his blade sideways—steel met teeth, force driving him backward into the dirt.

  He hit hard.

  The world tilted.

  The breath left his lungs.

  Then claws.

  On his chest.

  Digging.

  He screamed—twisted—drove his knee up into the wolf’s gut.

  It yelped—more surprise than pain—and he pushed, shoving it off with a surge of raw panic.

  He rolled.

  Came up bloody.

  Gripping the sword with both hands now, knuckles white.

  The wolf paced. Snarled.

  He stepped left.

  It mirrored.

  The firepit lay between them now—ashes cold, stones kicked apart.

  His camp.

  His shelter.

  Gone.

  He let the rage boil behind his ribs.

  “You came to my home,” he whispered.

  Then charged.

  The wolf lunged to meet him—jaws wide.

  Tareth feinted—ducked low—came up with a two-handed swing across the chest.

  This time—the blade sank deep.

  Flesh tore.

  Blood sprayed.

  The wolf howled—snapped at his shoulder—missed by inches.

  Tareth didn’t stop.

  He turned the blade.

  Drove it home.

  One strike.

  Then another.

  Then—

  The wolf collapsed.

  Breathing once.

  Then not at all.

  The red light flickered.

  Then faded.

  He stood over it.

  Breathing hard.

  Blood on his hands.

  Ash in his throat.

  [Swordsmanship – Level 5]

  The words echoed hollow through his skull.

  He dropped to his knees.

  And the silence returned.

  The wolf’s body twitched once, then began to crumble—fur to ash, bones to dust.

  Tareth sat on the ground, sword limp in his grip.

  Then the pain hit.

  Not from the arm. Not from exhaustion.

  His chest.

  He looked down—his shirt shredded, blood soaking through in three long, wet streaks across his ribs. The claw marks ran deep, just missing bone.

  “Shit,” he gasped.

  He dropped to the moss, hands shaking. Fumbled through the scattered herbs on the ground—what hadn’t been crushed under paws or scattered by the fight.

  There—bloodleaf. Red-veined. Still whole.

  He peeled off what remained of his shirt—fabric stained—then pressed the leaves hard against the gashes.

  Pain exploded.

  White-hot. Sharp enough to blur his vision.

  He bit down on the shirt just to keep from screaming.

  The burning crawled through every nerve like fire under his skin.

  Breathe.

  Just breathe.

  He wrapped the rest of the shirt tight around his chest, knotting it awkwardly at the side, each pull a curse.

  Still shaking, he reached into his pouch and pulled free a twisted scrap of feverroot.

  Bitter.

  But it dulled the edge enough to see again.

  He spat blood into the dirt.

  Staggered back to the corpse—now nothing but ash curling in the wind.

  Where it had lain—loot.

  A fang. Pale. Curved. Still warm.

  A thick strip of pelt, rough but intact.

  And two wrapped pieces of raw meat, clean and ready.

  He grabbed them all, shoving them into what remained of his pouch. His fingers slipped once. Bloody.

  Then—

  A sound.

  Distant.

  But familiar.

  A howl.

  Not just any.

  Graymane.

  His blood went cold.

  That weight behind the cry—deep, commanding. The way it shook the branches even though it came from far off.

  Too far to reach him right now.

  But not far enough.

  Not anymore.

  Tareth froze, listening.

  No other howls.

  Just the one.

  And that was worse.

  “That’s not a pack call,” he whispered. “That’s a hunt.”

  He didn’t wait.

  Didn’t stop to gather more.

  Didn’t mourn the wreckage.

  Just grabbed his sword, tied what was left of his pouch, and turned south—away from the den, away from the wolves, into the only stretch of dungeon he hadn’t explored yet.

  Night was falling overhead.

  The blue sky dimmed.

  Shadows stretched long over the moss.

  And somewhere behind him, the echo of that howl lingered—

  Heavy.

  Knowing.

  “I need to move,” he whispered, voice cracked. “Now.”

  And he did.

  Into the dark.

  Toward whatever came next.

  The forest blurred around him.

  Each step dragged.

  His breath came shallow. Short. Uneven.

  The bandage around his chest had soaked through. Blood stuck the cloth to his skin, tacky and warm.

  The pain wasn’t sharp anymore. It was dull. Wrong. Like something was sinking deeper than it should’ve.

  His feet moved anyway.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been walking.

  South. Maybe.

  Just... away.

  His sword dragged behind him, tip leaving a faint trail through the moss.

  He stopped once—leaned against a tree, head tilted back.

  And blinked.

  Above the canopy—stars.

  At least, they looked like stars.

  Small. Flickering. Pale blue with halos of white.

  But they moved too slow. Shifted too soft. Like they weren’t above the dungeon.

  Like they were part of it.

  “The dungeon’s growing,” he whispered.

  And not just in trees. Or wolves. Or ruins.

  In sky.

  In structure.

  He remembered the trader—Thommel showing him old elven sketches of dungeon skies that changed as you lived inside them.

  “The elves knew,” Thommel had said, running a cracked finger down the spine of a book too old for human hands. “Knew the dungeons learn. Knew they grow when entered.”

  Tareth closed his eyes. Swayed.

  He needed shelter.

  Bad.

  He pressed a palm against his chest—flinched.

  Still bleeding. Slower now, maybe. But it was bad.

  “I need somewhere to stop,” he whispered. “Anywhere.”

  He kept walking.

  The sky above pulsed faintly.

  Some of the “stars” drifted.

  Others flared, then vanished.

  He didn’t know how long it was before he saw it.

  A glow. Faint. Purple.

  Far ahead. Hard to measure in this haze.

  A mile? Two?

  The light wasn’t welcoming. Didn’t flicker like fire. Didn’t warm the edges of the dark.

  Just was.

  Unmoving. Cold.

  But he was too tired to care.

  Too wounded to turn back.

  He moved toward it.

  One step. Another.

  And finally—

  It came into view.

  A shack.

  Wooden walls, warped with damp and age. Moss curling up from the base, creeping toward the roof. No door—just a gaping frame, leaning crooked on its hinges.

  The window shutters hung askew. One was missing. The other swung in the windless air, creaking once. Twice.

  The purple light spilled from inside.

  Not bright. Not fire. Not magic he knew.

  Just a glow, steady and unnatural.

  The shack sat alone, hugged by gnarled trees and crooked root, like it had been dropped here by something that never meant it to last.

  But it was walls.

  It was a roof.

  And right now, it was hope.

  Tareth took a slow, limping step toward it.

  “Better than dying in the open,” he muttered.

  Then crossed the threshold.

  He stepped through the crooked doorframe.

  And stopped dead.

  It was like walking into another world.

  The air changed—immediately. Still and warm. Dry. No moss. No rot. No scent of old blood or bark-sweat or wolf-fear.

  Just... stillness.

  And inside—no decay.

  No dust.

  No mold curling up the walls.

  The wood was clean. Smooth. The floor swept. The ceiling tight, unmarred. Everything straight and whole, like time itself had been stopped before it ever touched this place.

  And then—like before, like that first moment under green sky—words slid into his skull without sound, without warning.

  You have entered The Fisherman’s Shack.

  1 of 2 Hidden Rooms Discovered.

  Tareth swayed.

  His hand found the wall.

  And his knees nearly gave out.

  It wasn’t big. Just one room. Bare, but alive with impossible quiet.

  A bed sat against the far wall—simple, tucked with gray cloth.

  A table, square, no chairs, centered in the middle of the room.

  In one corner lay a fishing pole upright.

  A shelf on the far wall, just two levels—on it, one book, a small bag, and a glass bottle, stoppered with a dark cork, filled with soft red liquid that glowed faintly.

  Tareth’s eyes locked on the bottle.

  He stumbled toward it, breath hitching.

  The tag on the neck read, in curling black ink:

  Health Potion.

  He let out a strangled laugh.

  “Yes. Yes—thank you—gods—whoever—whatever—” He didn’t finish.

  Just uncorked it.

  Drank.

  Half, maybe. No more. Couldn’t waste it.

  The taste was sharp—like crushed mint and ash and something hotter underneath. It bit down his throat.

  But the pain in his chest?

  Already fading.

  The ache dulled. The throb softened. His breath came easier. The blood slowed.

  He dropped into a crouch by the table, head bowed.

  Looked up toward the ceiling.

  And whispered, hoarse, grateful:

  “Thank you.”

  Whatever had built this place—

  Whatever left it here—

  Hadn’t wanted him dead.

  Not yet.

  Not today.

  The glow of the potion dimmed in his hand.

  And the one-room building stood untouched by the wild outside, like it had been carved from time itself and set aside.

  Safe.

  Real.

  A pause between storms.

  Tareth lay back on the bed.

  It didn’t creak. Didn’t sag.

  The blanket was warm. The pillow soft.

  He stared at the ceiling for a long time—until the tears came.

  Quiet. Ugly. The kind that didn’t need sobs to split you open.

  “I almost died,” he whispered.

  Just to say it. Just to make it real.

  Then—

  a voice, lazy and amused, slid straight into his skull:

  “Yeah. You sure did. Gods, that was hard to watch, boy.”

  Tareth froze.

  Eyes wide.

  Mouth open.

  But no voice came again.

  Just the warmth of the blanket. The soft hum of silence inside a room that didn’t breathe like the rest of the Hollow.

  Maybe he imagined it.

  Maybe the potion went deeper than he thought.

  He didn’t know.

  He didn’t care.

  He rolled onto his side, one arm curled against his chest, the other still damp from where he’d wiped away the blood.

  Sleep took him like a tide—quiet, strong, full of dreams that didn’t feel like dreams at all.

  ***

  Tareth woke warm.

  For a second, he didn’t move—just lay there, eyes half-open, breath slow, the feel of the blanket still wrapped around him like it might vanish if he shifted too fast.

  The room was still.

  No creaks. No wind. No sounds from the forest.

  Only the soft weight of silence and the strange, low glow from the corners.

  He sat up—slowly. His ribs ached, but not like before. Dull now. Heavy, but distant.

  The potion had worked.

  He turned his head toward the window—what was left of it. The shutter still hung crooked, swinging faintly even without breeze.

  Through the gap, he could see the sky.

  Blue.

  Not just hints. Not smeared.

  Blue.

  Wide and open, with white clouds drifting through like they belonged there.

  Tareth stared for a long time.

  Something about it made his skin crawl.

  It was too perfect. Too… normal.

  Like the kind of sky painted on a ceiling to make prisoners feel free.

  He shivered.

  It felt like a lie.

  He moved to the shelf.

  Three items.

  The potion, still glowing faint red.

  A small leather bag—gray, scale-patterned, drawstring tight.

  And the book.

  He reached for the bag first.

  It was light. Almost too light. The leather cool against his fingers, the pattern shimmering like fish-skin in shallow water.

  He loosened the cord.

  Peeked inside.

  Dark. Deep.

  Wrong kind of deep.

  He reached in slow, fingers brushing past empty space until they hit glass.

  He pulled another potion bottle came out and he thanked the gods again.

  A full-length fishing rod sat in the corner, smooth and polished, line already strung.

  Tareth stared at it.

  Then at the bag.

  Then at the rod again.

  “…What?”

  He set the potion on the table.

  Opened the bag again.

  Stuck his hand in.

  More space. Too much. Like reaching down a well that had no bottom.

  He pulled out a folded blanket. Then a small iron pot.

  His breath caught.

  “It’s magic,” he whispered. “Real magic.”

  He gripped the edge of the table with one hand, bag still dangling from the other. This wasn’t an enchantment. Not like glowing swords or warmth charms.

  This was different.

  Bigger.

  Older.

  He set the bag down carefully. Like it might vanish if he looked away too long.

  Then picked up the book.

  Cloth-bound. No title. Just a faded leather strip tied around the center like a belt.

  He carried it to the bed, sat down slow.

  Set it in his lap.

  Looked toward the open window, toward the clouds.

  Seven days.

  Fighting. Running. Bleeding.

  He reached for the blanket and pulled it over his legs.

  “Today,” he muttered, “I rest.”

  And he opened the book.

  ***

  [Journal – Entry One]

  Didn’t plan on writing, but the quiet gets heavy sometimes. Maybe it’ll help.

  Caught two perch this morning. Big ones, fat with roe. Took them back, gutted them by the shack. Fire smoked a little longer than usual—still figuring out how the wind runs here.

  Lake’s steady. Trees feel the same. But something is off.

  South’s still a mess, from what the last runner said. Orcs raiding the woodlines, goblins picking scraps. Cowards, mostly, but they travel in packs now. Village pulled out three weeks back. Headed further south. Said it’d be safer closer to the forts.

  Didn’t make sense to me.

  I’m north.

  Always have been.

  Too far for raiders. Too small to matter. Just a shack, a pole, and a good patch of trees.

  I’ll stay.

  Something in me says this place still has peace in it.

  Fishing again tomorrow.

  ***

  He lowered the page, thumb hooked against the seam of the book.

  So simple.

  No magic. No monsters. Just a man, alone, fishing because he still could.

  It made Tareth ache a little. The kind of ache that didn’t come from wounds.

  The world changed so fast now. But this man—this old fisherman—had sat by a lake and believed the quiet would last.

  Tareth glanced toward the bag on the table. The rod still leaned in the corner.

  Was it his?

  Maybe.

  He turned the page.

  ***

  [Journal – Entry Two]

  Sky’s not right today.

  Woke up before the sun and it never came.

  Not really.

  Still light out, but the color’s gone wrong. Sort of green. Not like stormlight. Like when you press leaves over your eyes too long and everything stays tinted after.

  Didn’t feel like fishing.

  Stayed close to the shack. Cleaned the pot. Took stock.

  Nothing missing. No signs of anything strange. Just that sky, hanging too low, sitting too still.

  Wind didn’t blow.

  Birds didn’t sing.

  Didn’t hear frogs, either, and they’ve always been louder than they should.

  Firewood’s still dry. Water’s still clear. So maybe I’m just getting old.

  Still.

  Not going to the lake today.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  ***

  He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the page.

  Sky turning green.

  The dungeon must’ve been beginning to form around him—even back then.

  And the man didn’t know.

  Tareth leaned back in the bed, knees drawn up under the blanket.

  It was worse this way.

  The man hadn’t done anything wrong. Just lived.

  Tareth didn't know you could get caught in a dungeon forming.

  ***

  [Journal – Entry Three]

  Woke up to Mountains.

  Every direction.

  Didn’t notice right away. Thought maybe the light was just strange again.

  But when I stepped outside—I saw it.

  Ridges. Cliffs. Close.

  Too close.

  Wasn’t like that before.

  There were peaks to the north, past the lake—distant, soft, always half-hidden in mist.

  Now?

  They’re here.

  Sharp. Black. Ringing the trees like teeth. Can’t see the tops. They just go up, past the sky.

  I don’t understand it.

  Walked south half a mile, maybe more. Thought I’d find the break, or a path down. Nothing. Just more stone. The ground’s wrong too—feels sloped now, like the forest’s been tilted.

  Sky’s still green.

  Wind doesn’t blow.

  No regular animals except fish in the pond. No birds. Not even the frogs by the shore. I thought i saw a rabbit but it looked wrong.

  Everything’s... watching.

  Feels like I’m not supposed to be here.

  Or maybe—

  Not allowed to leave.

  ***

  He ran his thumb along the page edge.

  The tone hadn’t changed much. Still quiet. Still careful.

  But the cracks were showing.

  The man wasn’t used to fear—but it was leaking in around the edges now.

  Tareth looked up at the sky through the window. It was blue again. He couldnt stop thinking about why it changed.

  But he knew that meant nothing.

  He turned the page.

  ***

  [Journal – Entry Four]

  I saw something today.

  Not a bear. Not quite a wolf.

  Not anything i've ever seen before.

  It came near the lake—early, I think. Hard to tell time now. The sky’s stuck. But I hadn’t eaten yet.

  It was... big.

  Gray fur. Long. Too long. Legs like spears. Eyes like fire behind ice.

  It moved wrong. Like it knew what I was. Like it had been looking.

  I grabbed the spear I made last winter. Oak handle. Iron tip.

  Thought it might scare off like animals do.

  It didn’t.

  It circled.

  Then charged.

  I don’t know how long we fought. I don’t even remember swinging. Just—breath, blood, noise.

  Then it was dead.

  Split through the ribs.

  But that’s not the part I can’t stop thinking about.

  After—

  Words. In my head.

  Not a voice. Just there.

  [Spearman – Level 1]

  I don’t know what that means.

  I’ve never felt anything like it. Never heard of it happening. Not to humans. Maybe elves—I remember stories from travelers, old men rambling about skills and spirits. But not to humans.

  I left the spear by the water.

  Was too shaken to remember it.

  Might try to find it tomorrow if I can.

  ***

  He stared at the page.

  Didn’t blink.

  Didn’t move.

  Just let the silence stretch while the words sank in.

  A skill.

  A human skill.

  Fifty-five thousand years, Thommel had once said. That was the first known record—if you believed him. Most didn’t. Called him senile. A relic with too many scrolls and too few friends.

  But he’d been right about elves.

  And maybe right about this.

  Tareth closed the book gently.

  The man in the journal had never come back for the spear.

  Never wrote again.

  He looked toward the bag.

  Then toward the window.

  Then he looked down at his hands.

  Rough. Calloused. Split along the knuckles.

  They didn’t look like anything special.

  Didn’t feel like the hands of someone meant to—

  “Funny thing,” a voice drawled, smooth and distant, like water through hollow stone. “Dungeon creation. Anything in the area a dungeon god claims becomes theirs. Even the people.”

  Tareth jolted.

  He shot to his feet, eyes scanning the corners of the room. “Who’s there?”

  Silence.

  Then—

  Laughter. Low. Dry. Like it hadn’t been used in a while.

  “I’m in your head, boy. Not in the shack.”