The chamber stank of smoke and blood. Goblin shrieks echoed once, twice more before cutting off in wet gurgles, and then only the sound of steel sliding back into a scabbard remained.
Kairon stood trembling, his dagger still slick, the magic stone warm in his satchel. His arm burned where claws had raked him, his shoulder throbbed with each breath. His knees wanted to give way, but he locked them, refusing to crumple.
The others regrouped quickly. Sera's shield was dented, smeared green-black, and Corin wiped ichor from the fletching of an arrow before sliding it back into his quiver. Bren spun his dagger idly, grinning, though the fresh nick on his cheek betrayed how close the fight had been. Lars alone seemed unchanged, his expression unreadable as he shook the last drops of blood from his blade.
Sera's eyes darted to Kairon, then narrowed. "You're hurt."
Kairon swallowed, gripping his forearm. "It's… shallow. I'll manage."
Bren's grin widened, sharp as a wolf's. "Didn't expect our porter to come back breathing. You've got more bite than I thought."
"Enough," Lars said. His tone cut through the chamber sharper than steel. His gaze rested on Kairon, heavy but measured. "You killed it. Remember the feel. Remember the weight. Monsters won't pity hesitation."
Kairon nodded quickly, though his throat was too tight for words. His hands shook as he adjusted his satchel, the leather strap cutting into his sore shoulder.
Corin exhaled, slinging his bow across his shoulder. "If you had a Falna, this would mean something more. Your first kill's a mark the gods don't overlook."
Kairon blinked. The word hung in the air—Falna. The blessing. The invisible script of a god or goddess etched into flesh, turning battle into growth, experience into power. He'd heard of it back home, but only in fragments, whispers carried by travelers. Now, standing among true adventurers, the gulf between them felt sharper than ever.
Sera's voice softened as she knelt to scrape grime from her shield. "The Falna records everything—strength gained, battles survived, even failures. With it, you can grow stronger every day. Without it…" She trailed off, eyes flicking to him with a quiet, unreadable weight.
Bren chuckled. "Without it, you're just carrying rocks and hoping not to die."
Kairon's stomach tightened. He forced himself not to look away, though his fingers curled tighter around the strap of his satchel.
"Don't mock him," Sera snapped, but her tone was tired, not sharp.
Lars finally sheathed his sword. "He's here. That's enough. Falna or not, fear teaches faster than any blessing."
The group settled briefly near the stairwell. Sera cleaned her shield with a rag, the scrape of metal on leather loud in the heavy silence. Bren hummed under his breath as he sharpened his dagger, a tuneless sound that made Kairon's skin crawl. Corin leaned against the wall, eyes half-lidded, but his fingers never strayed far from his bowstring. Always ready.
Kairon sat a little apart, pressing cloth to his shoulder, the sting reminding him he was still alive. His mind replayed the fight in flashes: yellow eyes, rancid breath, claws grazing too close, the desperate shove of his dagger. The memory left him hollow and burning all at once.
He thought of Mira. Of the wind that had howled outside their home, indifferent, endless. He wondered if she'd believe him now—if she'd look at him and see not just her brother, but someone who had fought, bled, and survived.
The stairwell loomed, slick stone steps twisting downward into another level of darkness. The air rising from below carried a sharper bite, damp and thick, like the Dungeon was exhaling.
Lars stood, his silhouette stark against the faint glow of veins in the wall. "We move."
Kairon's legs felt heavy as he pushed himself upright. His shoulder throbbed with each motion, his satchel dragged against his back. But he followed, because the others did, and because stopping meant being left behind.
The descent into Floor Four began, shadows swallowing the chamber above, the silence broken only by the echo of boots on stone.
And though Kairon's heart pounded with fear, it carried something else now—a spark buried beneath the terror. Proof that he had fought. Proof that he had bled.
And the Dungeon was far from finished with him.