"Confusion is the first step toward clarity, if you survive it." — Unknown
The ceiling groaned above me. Stones shifted as if the ruin itself resented my presence. My legs ached. My head spun. The shard in my pocket pulsed faintly—warm, insistent, and utterly meaningless.
I tried to move. Debris crunched underfoot. Faint scratches marred the walls, almost invisible. Nothing was familiar.
Then a sound—soft, deliberate—echoed from the shadows ahead. Movement.
Before I could even react, a figure emerged from the gloom. Hood drawn low, bow slung casually across her shoulder. Her eyes swept the corridor, precise and unyielding.
"You," she said, voice steady. "Stop."
I froze, unsure whether to advance or retreat. She wasn't attacking yet, but every motion she made radiated intent. I realized she was testing me.
She raised her bow slightly. "Do not make a mistake. One wrong move and this corridor will be the last you see."
I swallowed. My hands hovered near the shard. The shard pulsed again. I didn't understand why, but instinct told me it mattered.
Clueless. But alive. That counts for something.
I took a cautious step. She flinched, just slightly, enough to remind me she wasn't a statue. I noticed the faint tension in her fingers, the way her boots tested the floor before each step. Professional. Dangerous. Relentless.
Interesting. She hunts for a purpose, not for sport.
I scanned the corridor. Loose stones, precarious beams, a faint whisper of movement somewhere in the shadows. Survival demanded choices—fast, precise, instinctive. I moved toward a wall, keeping my weight low, my hand brushing the shard in my pocket.
The bow lifted. She didn't speak. Her eyes tracked me like a predator assessing prey that didn't know it was being hunted.
I misjudged a loose tile. Foot slipped. Dust puffed. Her bow twitched. I reacted on instinct, rolling forward, hitting the floor just as she released the arrow. It thudded harmlessly against the stone behind me.
Lucky. Or reckless. Hard to tell sometimes.
She froze, assessing. I didn't look up. I could feel her calculation—the way she measured each motion I made.
"You move like someone who survives by chance," she said. "And yet, you do survive."
I stayed silent. Words would slow me down. Observation was faster.
Another arrow knocked in the bow. She stepped closer, careful, precise. Her goal was clear—she would not fail. And I realized, suddenly, that my survival depended entirely on reading her next move.
The shard pulsed again. Warm, steady, guiding—or warning—I couldn't tell. But I gripped it tighter.
A beam groaned overhead. Dust fell. Stones shifted. The corridor narrowed. She moved with purpose. I moved faster, instinct guiding where memory could not.
Something unspoken passed between us. Challenge, recognition, danger. I couldn't name it, but I knew it would shape everything that came next.
Perfect. Alive. And this is only the beginning.