The tunnel behind him spat out the last breath of forge-heat, and Zairen let it slide off his armor like steam rolling off cooling metal. He emerged into a corridor wider than any hall below, its stones pale under the soft blue wash of moonlight filtering through cracks in the ceiling far above.
Moonlight—not sunlight.
Cold, quiet, thin.
The air tasted different here. No molten pressure. No trembling metal. Just the stillness of a place that had once been cared for, then abandoned, then left to sleep under vines.
Floor 4.
He moved slowly at first. The shift from underground heat to this cool, moon-drenched quiet pulled at something inside him. Pulse Sense rippled outward, grazing polished tiles, ruined balustrades, and shallow pools that mirrored the moon like pieces of broken sky.
He didn't know the word "calm." But he felt it here.
He crossed beneath a stone arch with ivy spilling down its spine, then another. Broken pillars stood like forgotten guardians. Some leaned, others remained perfectly upright despite the centuries. Vines wrapped their middles in slow spirals, dark green under the moonlight.
Zairen wasn't searching for danger.
He was searching for meaning.
The murals downstairs still pressed against his mind like hands through fog. But this floor held none of that weight. No divine shapes. No broken thrones. No warnings carved into the walls.
Just a maze.
A palace-maze softened by time.
He padded across a cracked mosaic depicting… something. Hard to read, faded by weather and silence. The moons mirrored themselves on each tile, giving the floor the look of water.
Water…
Yes.
He heard some.
A few steps later, he found a circular pond no deeper than his ankle, still as glass. Moonlight touched its center. The ripples from his movement broke the reflection into a thousand quiet moving pieces.
He looked at them only for a moment. Then he moved on.
Somewhere far above, wind slipped through broken stone and hummed—not the kind of hum he avoided using in thought, but the actual sound of air brushing old architecture. He didn't give it language. He only listened.
He was turning down another corridor when the scent hit him.
Human.
Fresh.
Four scents.
Sweat. Lantern flame. Leather. Metal rubbed against careless hands.
Voices too.
He went still.
Everything inside him stilled.
Humans had never entered the floors during his time. They shouldn't have been able to. The dungeon had been sealed. Dead.
And yet—
Laughter echoed faintly from the ruins ahead.
Rough laughter. Untrained footsteps. Nervous breathing.
Zairen melted into shadow and followed.
Ragor shoved aside a hanging root with a grunt and stepped into the corridor like he owned it.
Lantern light bled gold along the walls.
"Look at this," he said, sweeping his hand at the architecture. "Old stone, old craft. Nobody's touched this in what—two hundred years? Three? That means treasures everywhere."
Mirro, thin as a stick and twice as jittery, nearly tripped over a pebble. "Treasure? In a place that looks like it eats people? We shouldn't even be here. It's the middle of the godsdamned night, Ragor."
"Exactly," Ragor said, lifting his lantern higher. "Night keeps competition away."
"Or keeps monsters awake," Mirro shot back.
Tava snorted as she pushed past both of them. The moonlight caught the red rings under her eyes, making them look like bruises. Her cloak was patched and soot-stained; she carried herself like someone too tired to care but too angry to stop.
"Stop whining," she said. "If there are spell scrolls in this place, I'm taking all of them. You boys can fight over the gold scraps."
Borrik lumbered behind them, each step a thud that felt too loud for a midnight palace. "I call any giant weapons," he said. "Like… old king swords. Or a hammer that glows green. Bet this place has one."
Mirro made a face. "Why would it glow green?"
"Because cool things glow," Borrik said confidently.
Tava snickered. "Your brain glows, but only when it's on fire."
"Ha. Ha."
Ragor grinned, all teeth and cockiness. "Relax. We're not here to fight monsters. We're here to grab whatever hasn't been looted."
"This dungeon was sealed!" Mirro whispered harshly. "Nobody looted it because nobody survived it!"
"Which means the loot is untouched," Ragor said, lighting another lantern with practiced ease. "Sounds like profit to me."
Mirro groaned into his hands.
They wandered deeper into the maze, lanterns swinging, boots scraping. The walls reflected their light in uneven glimmers.
They found broken chests.
Bent coins.
A silver candlestick missing its twin.
A few buttons that might've once belonged on a noble's coat.
Nothing magical. Nothing rare. Nothing worth risking a dungeon for.
After four hours of endless corridors and no major find, Mirro finally broke.
"We're lost," he muttered, tying his coat tighter around himself. "We're lost, it's cold, and I think I heard something breathing behind us an hour ago."
Tava rolled her eyes. "That was Borrik."
"Not me," Borrik said, defensive. "I haven't breathed heavy in at least thirty minutes."
Ragor glared at him. "You breathe heavy all the time."
"Only sometimes," Borrik mumbled.
They kept going.
The corridors shifted gently, guiding them toward something without their noticing. Moonlight dripped through cracks overhead like pale rain. The palace felt alive, but not in a threatening way—more like it was nudging them along, ushering them to one specific place.
When they stepped through the final archway, all four stopped.
"Whoa…" Ragor whispered.
The court was enormous.
Moonlit.
Silent.
Beautiful.
Stone pillars lined the space in perfect symmetry, each wrapped with pale vines. The floor sat a step lower than the entrance, polished smooth. At the center lay a wide, still pool, the moon resting peacefully on its surface like a silver coin.
No murals.
No eerie statues.
Just royal architecture softened by time.
"It's…" Tava's voice cracked slightly. "It's… gorgeous."
Mirro rubbed his arms. "It's too gorgeous. We should leave."
Ragor ignored him. "Treasure rooms look like this," he said. "This is it. We're close."
Borrik bent down, wiping dust off a cracked tile. "Feels like someone important lived here. Or died here."
"Stop helping," Mirro said.
They fanned out, lantern light stretching long shadows behind each of them.
"Okay," Ragor decided. "We split. Two left, two right. Meet in the center after fifteen minutes."
"No," Mirro said instantly.
"Yes," Tava said instantly.
Ragor pointed. "Tava, you take Mirro."
"What? Why?" Mirro squeaked.
"Because if you run screaming, she'll drag you back."
Tava grabbed Mirro by the collar. "Come on. And stop shaking like a wet chicken."
"I am a wet chicken—emotionally!"
"Stop."
Zairen entered the court quietly, the scent of humans layered like threads in the air.
He didn't rush.
He didn't stalk.
He simply drifted across the polished stone, claws touching the floor without a sound.
Lantern smoke still lingered—warm, sharp, irritating.
He followed it to the far wall, where the echoes of human voices had begun fading down two branching corridors.
He scanned the room with slow, patient eyes.
He checked for movement.
For old traps.
For essence traces.
Nothing.
No danger.
No meaning.
Only a place shaped by hands long gone.
He found it… peaceful. Too peaceful to be interesting.
He turned toward the right-hand corridor. He didn't need reasons. The scent trail there was fresher.
Tava and Mirro crept through the narrow hall.
Well—Tava crept.
Mirro stumbled repeatedly.
"Be quiet," Tava whispered.
"I am quiet."
"You sound like you're stepping on your own skeleton."
"That doesn't even make—!"
"Shh."
They paused at a corner. Mirro leaned in, listening.
"I hear something," he whispered.
"It's your heartbeat."
"No, it's— listen—"
Tava sighed and crossed her arms. "Mirro, I swear, if you scream again—"
Something shifted behind them.
Very softly.
Too softly for a person.
Mirro froze.
His spine went rigid.
"…Tava," he whispered, "we're… not alone."
She rolled her eyes—until she turned.
Moonlight cut a thin, pale line along the corridor.
Just enough illumination for her to see the outline behind the pillar.
Not a man.
Not a beast they'd ever learned about.
A shape made of dark angles and a shimmer like metal dreaming of violence.
Her breath caught.
Mirro grabbed her sleeve. "Don't panic."
"I'm not panicking."
"You're absolutely panicking!"
"No, Mirro, I'm annoyed—this is different."
Zairen remained perfectly still.
His body lowered instinctively, weight distributed in a way humans would misread. Claws retracted then extended, shadow-plates bristling as he prepared for unpredictable movement.
Humans did unpredictable movement a lot.
Tava, for reasons unclear even to herself, stepped forward. "Hey—creature—monster—whatever… you—stay there!"
Mirro smacked his own forehead. "He doesn't speak our language!"
"Then maybe he speaks body language!"
"That is NOT body language you want to test!"
She lit a small ember-thread spell between her fingers—orange light flickered weakly around her knuckles.
"Okay," she muttered, half to herself, "if you attack us, I'll roast your face. Just warning you."
Zairen tilted his head slightly.
Not aggressive.
Not friendly.
Just… curious.
Mirro nearly fainted. "Tava. Tava. Tava. Something is behind us. Something is behind us!"
"No," she muttered, "something is in front of us, Mirro, and it's very rude—"
"No I mean—Ragor and Borrik are far away—if this thing is right here—what was that sound behind—"
Another sound echoed down the hall.
Boots.
Heavy.
Fast.
Ragor's voice boomed: "Tava? Mirro? Where'd you rats go?!"
Zairen didn't move, but the pressure in the corridor shifted. His body read the incoming threat—human footsteps, human breath, human weapons—and the instinct to retaliate twitched beneath his ribs.
Tava flung her ember-thread at Zairen on pure reflex.
It burst against the pillar beside him, scattering sparks.
The heat brushed his armor, rippling across plates like a warning, and he stepped sideways—smooth, controlled, almost elegant.
Mirro saw it clearly.
He screamed.
Tava grabbed him by the scruff. "Mirro, RUN!"
Ragor and Borrik rounded the corner a half-second later.
Their lantern light washed over Zairen's silhouette.
Borrik's jaw fell open. "What… is THAT?"
Ragor tightened his grip on the hook-axe. "I don't know. But it's in our way."
Tava hissed, "Don't you dare swing first!"
"Why not?!"
"Because THAT—" she pointed at Zairen, whose eyes gleamed in the dark— "—is not something you want angry at us!"
Zairen didn't lunge.
He didn't roar.
He simply watched them.
Measured them.
Learned them.
Ragor took a step forward anyway.
Humans were often bold when they should be quiet.
"Alright, creature," Ragor growled, "you picked the wrong group to—"
Zairen moved.
Just a shift.
A step sideways.
A ripple of shadow down his limbs.
But to the humans, it was impossibly fast.
The lantern flames bent from the air displacement.
Mirro tripped over his own leg.
Tava's spell flickered out completely.
Nobody attacked.
Nobody breathed right.
Nobody understood what they had just seen.
And Zairen, sensing their rising panic, held still again.
He wasn't hungry yet.
Not exactly.
He was studying.
Behind him, the corridor stretched deeper into the palace.
Ahead, the humans gathered, alive and loud and unguarded.
Two instincts warred inside him:
The instinct to retreat.
The instinct to stalk.
Neither won.
He simply stepped back into the shadow of the pillar again—
—and vanished from their sight.
The humans erupted into chaos.
"WHERE'D IT GO?!" Mirro screamed.
"Spread out!" Ragor barked.
"NO, DON'T SPREAD OUT!" Tava shrieked.
"Someone hold my lantern—my hands are sweaty!" Borrik yelled.
Their voices tangled with the moonlit silence of the palace, bouncing off pillars and stone in messy, frantic bursts.
Zairen watched from the darkness, unseen, unhurried.
He didn't strike.
Not yet.
But the hunt had begun.
---