The descent into Floor Three left Kairon's legs heavy, his satchel pulling down with the combined weight of magic stones, hide, and the constant reminder of the monsters they'd felled. The party's movement slowed slightly, not from exhaustion, but from careful calculation; every step mattered more as the corridors twisted unnaturally, the veins of faint light casting wavering shadows along walls slick with condensation.
Lars led as always, his greatsword slung loosely across his back, eyes scanning every nook. Even he bore faint signs of the previous encounters—scratches on forearms, dust and grime streaking his armor—but his gait remained unshakable, measured, unwavering. Sera's shield carried scratches and small dents, her breathing steady but deliberate, as though each swing, each block, required careful conservation of energy. Corin's quiver was lighter, arrows fewer, but his lazy posture and sharp gaze betrayed the predator beneath. Bren's grin had dimmed slightly, the tuneless hum he carried fading into occasional mutters under his breath, his dagger slick with the residual sheen of their kills.
Kairon struggled to keep pace, satchel tugging at his shoulder, back sore from the weight, and palms still sticky from collecting the last goblins' remains. He swallowed hard, his chest tight with nerves. Every echo, every creak, every subtle shift in the air reminded him that Floor Three was no less dangerous than the previous levels, only different—more enclosed, more labyrinthine, and unforgiving to those who let their guard down.
The walls curved inward in unnatural ways, forcing the party to navigate single-file in some places. Kairon's eyes darted constantly, trying to memorize patterns in the veins of light, trying to anticipate what lay around each corner. He noticed small things—the faint scratches on the walls where monsters had likely emerged before, the smell of damp earth mixed with faint sulfur, the whisper of air as it funneled through narrow passages. Every sense screamed caution.
"Keep it tight," Lars muttered, voice low but carrying the authority of someone who had faced death too often to be startled by it.
Kairon's pulse thudded in response. He imagined Mira's face again, the home he left behind, and forced himself to take deliberate steps. His fingers ached from gripping his satchel so tightly, knuckles white. His stomach twisted each time a shadow shifted in the periphery of his vision, though nothing emerged.
Minutes stretched. The corridors twisted, then opened into a wide chamber. Patches of faint magical glow revealed jagged rock formations, small pools of stagnant water, and scuffs where previous encounters had left evidence. The air was heavier here, more oppressive, and the hum of latent magic throbbed faintly through the stones.
Bren crouched, examining the ground. "Too quiet," he muttered, voice low. "I don't like this."
Corin adjusted an arrow, eyes narrowing. "Goblins. Floor Two was easy compared to what might hide here. Stay sharp."
Sera's shield tilted slightly, testing angles. "Nothing yet, but don't let your guard down. Floor Three is less predictable."
Kairon felt a chill run down his spine. This was different from the goblins they had encountered earlier. He realized the floor's unnatural curves and shadowed corners could hide a dozen ambushes, and for the first time, he understood that the Dungeon itself seemed aware of them—aware of movement, aware of life.
A faint rustle to his left made him jump. His fingers tightened around the dagger in his satchel, the metal pressing cold into his palm. The satchel seemed impossibly heavy now, every stone, every scrap of hide a tangible reminder of death survived—but also a weight of responsibility.
Lars raised a hand, halting the group. "Eyes open. Sound carries here."
The party slowed, the rhythm of movement becoming deliberate. Every scrape, every tap, every breath measured. Kairon's chest throbbed; sweat stung his eyes as he tried to match their coordination, afraid to lag behind, afraid of the silence that stretched before them.
Then, a faint, low hiss emerged from a darkened corner. Kairon froze. His heart raced as a small, wiry shape emerged—a goblin, lone and unafraid, its yellow eyes gleaming and teeth clicking in a wet, rasping hiss. It crouched low, ready to spring.
Kairon's hands shook. His legs threatened to give way. This was the first time he truly felt alone, even with the party surrounding him. He gripped his dagger tighter, trying to summon courage, trying to convince himself he could act, not just follow.
Lars' calm voice cut through the tension. "Form up. No mistakes."
The party readied themselves, each movement precise: Sera's shield positioned, Corin nocking an arrow, Bren's dagger poised, and Lars adjusting the angle of his greatsword. Kairon swallowed hard, stepping forward hesitantly, the satchel digging into his shoulder as if reminding him of everything he carried—not just stones and scraps, but experience, fear, and resolve.
The goblin's hiss echoed again. Kairon's eyes met its yellow gaze. This was the first time he would truly strike, not just watch. The floor beneath them seemed to hold its breath, the Dungeon waiting to see if he would falter—or rise.