Dungeons were strange things.
They bloomed like wounds in the earth—labyrinths born of mana, walls of stone that should not exist, filled with monsters that should not be alive. No kingdom could predict where one would open, nor how deep it would burrow.
Some dungeons were shallow, no more than a few corridors. Others stretched down for miles, housing legions, birthing horrors strong enough to slaughter armies.
But all dungeons had one thing in common: at their heart, a Dungeon Core.
A crystal of condensed mana, worth more than gold, worth more than land, worth more than lives. Whoever controlled the core controlled the dungeon. To kings, it was a source of power. To adventurers, it was a prize beyond compare.
This dungeon was new. Barely six floors. Nothing compared to the sprawling labyrinths whispered of in legend.
That was why Garron's party had claimed it for themselves. A dungeon so young would be easier prey. The core would be weaker, but still—still worth a fortune. Enough to earn the king's favor, enough to bathe in glory.
Simple for them.
Hell for Ashveil.
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"Move faster, boy! Or do you mean to crawl the whole way down?"
Ashveil flinched at the barked command. Garron's voice carried easily in the stone corridors, echoing like the growl of an angry beast.
Garron was the leader of the party , a man carved from muscle and arrogance. His greatsword was taller than Ashveil, its edge nicked from dozens of battles, its handle worn from the crushing grip of his calloused hands. His beard was dark and thick, his eyes sharp and always looking down on others. To Garron, Ashveil wasn't even a person. He was weight with legs.
"I—I'm keeping pace," Ashveil murmured, adjusting the leather straps digging into his shoulders.
"You call that keeping pace?" Selene's voice was sharp, filled with disdain. "At this rate, the dungeon will close up before we reach the bottom."
Selene, the mage. Regal as if she belonged in a noble's manor instead of a damp dungeon. Her robes shimmered faintly with enchantments, dyed in colors no commoner could afford. Her blond hair was bound with a silver clasp, a necklace of emerald mana-crystal resting on her chest. Fire coiled at her fingertips whenever she grew irritated—something that happened often when Ashveil was near. She wielded her magic like a queen wields authority: cruelly, with the expectation of obedience.
"I… I'm doing my best," Ashveil whispered.
"Your best?" Rurik scoffed, stringing his bow lazily. "Your best wouldn't get you past the front gates of a guild hall, mule. Be glad Garron even lets you walk behind us."
Rurik, the archer. Lean, sharp-eyed, and mean in the way a wolf is mean—never attacking head-on, always biting from the side where you couldn't see him coming. His dark hair hung loose, his leather armor was light for speed, and his quiver bristled with arrows fletched from hawk feathers. He had a habit of sneering when he spoke to Ashveil, like every word was a bad taste on his tongue.
At the rear walked Kaelen, the healer. He was quieter than the others, soft-spoken, his white robes marked with the sun emblem of the Church of Auris. But though he did not hurl insults as often, his silence was no kindness. When Garron or Selene mocked Ashveil, Kaelen never stopped them. When Rurik sneered, Kaelen smirked faintly but said nothing. To him, Ashveil was not a brother to be healed—only baggage to be tolerated until the dungeon was cleared.
Garron grunted his agreement with Rurik. "And don't forget it. You're baggage, boy. Nothing more. So don't act like you're one of us."
Ashveil lowered his head, silence.
The weight of three packs bent him nearly double. He carried everything—food rations, spare weapons, bundles of firewood, cooking pots, and the growing hoard of loot they stripped from every floor. His knees wobbled beneath the burden, but he did not stumble. He could not.
The packs reeked of smoked meat and hard cheese, salted dear meat and spiced wine. Each step made the scents rise, tormenting him. His stomach cramped, gnawing at itself.
But those were not for him.
No matter that his back bled raw from their straps. No matter that it was his shoulders that bore the food through the dungeon's suffocating air.
When the party stopped to eat, they roasted strips of meat over firewood he had carried. They poured themselves wine from skins he had borne down the winding stairs. They chewed and laughed and mocked his silence, their voices filling the dungeon with the careless noise of predators unafraid of being prey.
And when Ashveil's turn came, they tossed him a crust of bread so stale it crumbled in his hands, the edges sharp enough to scrape his throat.
"Eat quickly," Garron told him. "You'll need your strength to haul the rest of our spoils back up."
Ashveil chewed the dust-dry bread, forcing it down his aching throat. The firelight flickered on their faces—Selene's smug smile, Rurik's mocking grin, Garron's self-satisfied confidence, Kaelen's cold indifference. He tried not to look at them.
Instead, he thought of his parents.
His father's voice had been soft, but steady even as illness hollowed his chest.
"Ashveil, the world will not give you kindness. So you must endure. Endure, and someday, find your place."
His mother's hands had been worn from work, but gentle as they brushed his hair from his eyes.
"Even if you are small, even if the world forgets you, you must never forget yourself. Hold on to who you are, Ashveil."
He remembered those words as he swallowed stale bread, washing it down with nothing but a trickle of lukewarm water.
He remembered, and he endured.
As they pressed deeper, Ashveil tried, once, to offer his knowledge.
At a fork in the dungeon, the walls carved with faint claw marks, he said softly, "The gouges are fresh. A pack of lesser trolls passed this way—if we head left, we can avoid—"
"Left?" Garron barked a laugh. "Boy, you think you know more than me?"
Rurik spat to the side. "The mule's probably trying to save his own skin. Trolls, ha! I've seen stray cats with sharper claws than those marks."
Selene's lip curled. "Do you really think you, of all people, should tell us which way to go? You're lucky we even let you speak."
Kaelen adjusted his robes, smiling faintly. "Perhaps silence would better suit him."
They went right.
Moments later, the air reeked of rot. Two trolls emerged from the shadows, slobbering, their flesh hanging loose in strips. It was a hard fight—Garron's greatsword split one skull, but not before Rurik was nearly disemboweled and Selene's robes were shredded by claws.
When it was over, they cursed their luck. They cursed the dungeon. But not one of them looked at Ashveil. Not one admitted he had been right.
He said nothing. He adjusted his packs, shifted the weight, and walked on.