Damaris felt the burning weight of the sun pressing down upon her bare skin, each ray like fire against her exhaustion. Her eyelids dragged heavily as she stirred awake, finding herself sprawled upon a cold and merciless shore. Around her, the sea breathed like some wounded beast, its violent waves slowly calming, now only slapping against the jagged, blackened rocks that loomed in silence. Pain coursed through her body, her back burning as the sand pressed into her wounds.
A groan slipped from her lips. Looking down, she saw herself barely clothed, her top torn apart by a blade's strike. Forcing herself upright, she brushed the sand from her skin and limped to the water's edge, where she let the sea wash away the blood and dirt clinging to her.
After washing off any potential disease from her body and ridding herself of the booze that still lingered, she gazed back at the forest area with trees that stood tall, bearing leaves, some dried out while others were still fresh.
"Clothes," she muttered to herself.
She began to move, one arm wrapped around her top half, covering her chest, while the other was between her thighs. She was the only person on this strange island, and the wave of vulnerability washed over her. She remembered how she was in such a state when she was at least in her nineteenth year, Darragh looming over her in the same state as well.
Damaris shuddered, thankful nothing worse had happened then, though the thought of other women robbed of that chance sent an icy chill down her spine.
As she closed in on the forest, her feet brushing against the tall grasses, she stopped, a strange sensation blooming inside her, like sound tugging at her very soul. From her right ear, a humming—faint humming, yet irresistible.
Her thoughts began to whisper, head turning instinctively. What was that?
She hadn't remembered seeing it there, but now it was present. A cave. Its maw yawned wide, large enough to swallow giants whole, its edges blackened and strange. She hadn't noticed it before, but now it pulsed in her vision, calling to her. Inside, a monumental stone gate stood with carvings etched deep into its surface, glowing faintly as though breathing.
The humming swelled—demanding, pulling her forward.
Damaris blinked—and gasped. She was no longer outside. The forest was gone. It was dark, but the torches placed on the walls pushed it back. Everything was carved from ancient stone, old and forgotten, the air heavy with age.
Looking down, she gasped again—she was fully clothed, her body draped in garments of woven leaves. She had no memory of entering the forest, no memory of being dressed like this. And yet… she felt different. Stronger. Her body thrummed with newfound vigour, her mouth carrying the lingering taste of coconut milk, as though she had feasted, though she could not remember when.
Her hand touched her lips in disbelief.
Spinning, she rushed back to the stone gate, slamming against it with desperate force. It would not budge. No voice came to answer her panic. She was trapped.
Her only choice was forward.
With trembling fingers, she seized a torch from the wall and pressed on. The hall stretched endlessly into shadow, the walls etched with spiralling symbols and grotesque designs. Her father's voice echoed in memory, teaching her histories she had hated, yet now—she understood. This was no treasure vault.
There was no use in calling for help, either, and she knew of this; she was all alone, her mission to find help and free the slaves now being much harder to accomplish.
Seeing that there was no hope, she stopped her attempts to break out of this place. She gazed forward now, looking into this long hall that stretched on, merging into the blackness. With the torches and the strange designs on the walls, she knew what this was.
Most would think that there was hidden treasure, but despite Damaris's slave background, she knew what this was. Her father always forced her into reading about history; she never liked it, but that limited knowledge paid off. This wasn't a treasure cove; it was known for possessing gold and silver, but it also housed dead bodies of otherworldly beings.
She didn't believe it to be true after her father tried to convince her, but now she was in it. She was inside what many called a mythical 'TOMB'
Damaris shook as the realisation dawned on her, "How could dis be true?" she muttered to herself, eyes widened.
Whatever this tomb housed, it could potentially be of evil or goodness, and she was about to find out, as her only way of escaping this place was to find what being this thing housed. Hesitant but determined to escape, she grabbed one of the torches close to her, her grip tight on the wood as she ventured into the unknown, her body shaking from the slightest critter.
With a quarter of the journey through this place reached, Damaris stopped, a strange feeling hitting her as crunching sounds could be heard under her feet. Gazing down out of curiosity, she stumbled upon a terrifying sight: they were people, or at least were people once, past individuals who ventured into this space, reduced to nothing but bones left to wither.
From a place of mystery, this tomb had turned into a place of danger. Now she had to be cautious, her steps slowing down as this place could be rigged with traps and tombs were quite known for having that, but slowing down wasn't an option anymore as strange sounds emerged from behind her, something black passing through her blind spot.
Then, movement. Something black darted past her vision.
Damaris gasped, torch whipping around to reveal nothing but empty stone. Her heart hammered as she raised the light higher—yet silence pressed in again.
Then a drip. Damaris paused, her body jerking as she felt something cold and wet touch her body in the form of a viscous drip, slithering through her back where her clothing had left a small space. Slowly turning, she was met with something.
In every tomb, it was anticipated that the cause of the body count was traps, but this tomb held something different. Traps never really mattered, as certain humans were experts in deciphering many ancient things.
But with something that couldn't be deciphered or controlled, intelligence wasn't a priority; survival instinct was. And now, Damaris had to be the one to use that instinct, as the past people who failed to harness it had fallen at the hands of what she was seeing.
Standing at a height that dwarfed Damaris, this creature stood, its jaws wide open, bathed in complete black, but small features could be made: a wolf head and the body of a humanoid, hairy and muscular, with claws that could tear anything it touched.
Trickling down from its open jaws was a black, viscous substance, the thing that Damaris felt on her back.
Her body locked. The only word it spoke, echoing directly into her mind:
"Human."
Then it roared—an ear-splitting, breath-steaming bellow that rattled the stone walls.
In that moment, panic broke her paralysis. She ran, legs pumping, lungs burning—but no matter which direction she turned, it appeared ahead of her, as if stepping between folds of reality itself. One became two, both closing in, scythes raised high.
Her chest tightened. This is it. This is how they all died.
Now she was close to her last breath, her soul trapped in this place. As the monsters loomed, coming closer, a growl emanated from their breath, and Damaris felt her death arriving.
But then—suddenly—they stopped. Their heads twitched, as if hearing a command. Their forms unravelled into light and shadow, vanishing like smoke.
The flames on her torch turned blue. Along the walls, other torches flared the same way, bathing the tomb in an eerie azure glow.
Damaris staggered, breath trembling. "What… just happened?"
The end of the hall revealed a towering stone door, marked with a human-shaped carving. She approached warily, pressing her hand into its groove. A deep click resounded.
The ground rumbled, the colossal door groaning open to reveal a vast chamber.
She stepped into this vast chamber. Circular walls stretched into unseen heights, lined with ancient texts that spiralled upward like the coils of a serpent. At the centre hung something suspended by glowing roots of blue and red light, pulsing rhythmically from the darkness above.
A figure.
Tall, draped in white cloth, its face obscured but hollow eyes visible, staring without seeing. The glowing roots bound its arms and legs, fixing it in place like an eternal prisoner—or sacrifice. Its hair, long and white, merged with the same roots, making it impossible to tell where the body ended and the binding began.
And before it, set into a stone pedestal engraved with intricate lines, was a blade. Enormous, heavy, gleaming faintly as if alive.