The cavern was eerily quiet after the slaughter, the silence broken only by the slow drip of water somewhere in the distance and the ragged pull of their own breath. Caleb's arms felt like lead, every muscle screaming from the strain of shaping and swinging the Riftbone. His clothes were torn, streaked with dark blood—some his, most belonging to the Cragfangs. He lowered himself against the wall and nearly slid down, chest heaving, as the adrenaline drained from his body.
Gorrin leaned heavily against the opposite wall, wiping his blade clean with a scrap of cloth that had once been part of his cloak. His chest rose and fell like a forge bellows, but his eyes—sharp, unyielding—remained fixed on the darkness beyond. Even with the alpha and its pack defeated, he didn't relax. His entire stance seemed to say: the Rift was never done.
"Sit," Gorrin muttered finally. "Your legs are shaking worse than mine, and I've been running in these tunnels for years."
Caleb sank to the ground, exhaling slowly. His palms were raw, blistered from gripping the Riftbone too tightly. He turned it over in his hand, the weapon still faintly humming with that strange, alien energy. "I thought…" he began, but trailed off, shaking his head.
"You thought killing the alpha would end it." Gorrin's voice was grim, the edge of a weary laugh in it. "That's the first mistake every Riftborn makes. You don't end anything in here. You just buy yourself more time."
Caleb frowned, staring at the jagged ground between his boots. "Then what's the point? Fighting, bleeding, running—if the Rift just keeps spitting out monsters?"
"The point," Gorrin said, sheathing his sword with a deliberate motion, "is to keep standing until you're strong enough to make the Rift kneel instead." His gaze shifted toward Caleb, eyes glinting with that same strange iron resolve. "That's the lesson most don't live long enough to learn."
The words cut deep, but they planted something inside Caleb—a seed of stubbornness. He clenched his fists, ignoring the sting of raw skin. "Then I'll be one of the few."
A low grunt of approval came from Gorrin. "We'll see."
For a while, the two sat in silence, letting the fatigue wash over them. The air was damp, the faint glow of Riftcrystals embedded in the rock painting the cavern in an otherworldly light. Caleb finally spoke again, his voice quiet. "Back when the fight started… when I shaped the wall, when I moved faster than I should have—it felt like… like I was borrowing strength from somewhere. Like it wasn't all mine."
Gorrin studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "That's the Rift testing you. Or maybe it's the Blut, whispering promises it hasn't kept yet. Don't question it too much—for now, you take what strength you're given and use it."
Caleb nodded slowly, though unease lingered. Borrowed strength. What if it came with a price?
"Eat," Gorrin said suddenly, pulling a strip of dried meat from a pouch at his side and tossing it across. Caleb caught it clumsily. "You won't last three days in here if you keep fighting on an empty stomach."
The meat was tough, almost tasteless, but Caleb forced himself to chew. Each bite grounded him. He drank from his canteen after, wincing as the water washed down grit and blood. "How do you do it?" he asked quietly. "Fight like that, again and again. Without breaking."
Gorrin chuckled, low and rough. "You think I haven't broken? Boy, I've broken a thousand times. Every scar on me is a memory of breaking. The difference is, I learned how to stand back up after." His gaze softened for the briefest instant. "You'll learn too. Or you won't. That's all survival is."
Caleb swallowed, feeling the weight of the man's words. There was no comfort in them, no false hope—just raw truth. He respected that.
After a while, Gorrin pushed himself upright, groaning as his joints cracked. "We can't stay here. Too much blood on the ground—draws scavengers. There's a cavern not far from here I've used before. Shelter, water, and stone walls thick enough to hear a beast coming before it tears your throat out."
Reluctantly, Caleb pushed himself up as well. His body protested every step, but he refused to fall behind. They walked in silence, following the faint glow of Riftcrystals that pulsed faintly along the walls. The tunnels twisted and narrowed, sometimes forcing them to squeeze through crevices or climb over jagged boulders. At last, the passage widened into a cavern that felt ancient, its high ceiling lost in shadow and a pool of clear water glimmering at its center.
Gorrin knelt by the pool, cupping water into his hands before splashing his face. Caleb followed, washing the blood from his arms and watching the crimson swirl into the pool before fading. His reflection stared back at him—pale, hollow-eyed, and far too grim for someone his age.
"Get some sleep," Gorrin said, lowering himself onto a flat slab of stone. "I'll keep watch. Your body's no good to me broken."
Caleb hesitated, lying down only after another mouthful of water. The stone was hard, the air damp, but exhaustion dragged him under quickly. Still, his thoughts whispered restlessly. He thought of his family, of Lys, of the world outside. Did they think he was dead? Did they mourn him? Or had they already forgotten?
Gorrin sat in silence, sharpening his blade in slow, deliberate strokes. His gaze never left the tunnel they'd come from. Somewhere, faint but growing clearer, the distant echo of claws scraped against stone.
The old warrior's lips thinned. He didn't wake Caleb. Not yet. Let the boy have his rest. There would be plenty of time for blood and fear tomorrow.
The hunt wasn't over. It never was.