The dungeon air tasted of rust and old ash, like something the world had tried to bury.
Vincent stood at the stone threshold and listened.
No roar. No scream. Only a soft scrape—drag… drag…—like nails pulled across wet rock.
Julia waited a step behind him, shoulders tight, fingers clenched around the cleaning cloth she'd brought out of habit. In this darkness, it looked less like a tool and more like the last thing she could hold onto.
"My Lord…" she whispered. "Do we… go in?"
Vincent lifted his left hand.
Black-blue scales drank what little light remained. The oval gem at his wrist stayed dull.
But the gauntlet felt awake.
"Slowly," Vincent said.
He stepped in.
Cold wrapped his calves. The floor was damp and slick, as if the dungeon sweated. The corridor ahead was narrow and uneven—some stone rough like an ordinary cellar, some too smooth, polished by whatever had been moving here for a long time.
The morning light behind them thinned to a strip.
Darkness took over.
Vincent moved carefully, keeping his breathing quiet. This body still fought him—balance off, limbs slow to answer—like a sword jammed into the wrong sheath.
Drag… drag…
Closer.
Then the smell hit.
Bitter.
Rust and ash, with something sour underneath.
The gem at his wrist gave a faint tremor.
Julia noticed anyway. Her breath caught.
"My Lord, the—"
Vincent raised one finger.
From the bend ahead, something crawled into view.
Low to the ground. Long-bodied. Skin black and crusted, like burnt meat that never finished burning. Too many legs moved in a synchronized wave. Dark fluid dripped from its mouth and stained the stone.
Its eyes were fractured.
Like cracked glass.
It turned its head.
Sniffed.
And froze when it saw them.
For a heartbeat, everything held still.
Then it shrieked—harsh and scraping, like gravel thrown against iron—and launched forward.
Fast.
Too fast for something that crawled.
Vincent's instincts snapped awake.
Move.
His body lagged behind.
He stepped in anyway—not to be brave, but to keep it off Julia.
The monster slammed into him.
Pain flared up his forearm as impact drove him back half a step. His heel slipped on wet stone.
Julia reached forward instinctively—
"Stay back," Vincent said, low and sharp.
The creature snapped for his throat.
Vincent twisted and brought his left arm up.
The gauntlet took the bite.
Teeth scraped over dragon scales with a metallic screech that set his molars on edge. His bones shuddered; his arm went numb from the force.
He shoved hard, trying to make space.
The monster clung.
His heart hammered—this body's heart, too fragile for his instincts.
Vincent forced his right hand down and grabbed the first thing he could: an uneven stone jutting from the floor. He tore it free. The rock peeled skin from his palm.
He ignored it.
He brought the stone down once.
The creature recoiled.
He struck again.
Its head split with a wet crack.
It dropped—legs spasming, mouth still gaping.
Vincent staggered, breathing hard.
The dungeon went quiet again.
Then the gem pulsed.
A low, ember-like flicker.
From the corpse, a thin black mist rose—more like a last exhale than smoke—and drifted toward Vincent.
Toward the gauntlet.
The mist touched the scales and vanished.
As if the gauntlet had taken a quiet bite.
Vincent felt a needle-cold pull along his nerves, followed by a faint metallic aftertaste at the back of his tongue.
The cold sharpened for a heartbeat…
then settled.
Satisfied.
The gem held its ember pulse, dim but steady.
"Of course," Vincent muttered, breathless. "Even my left hand has an appetite now."
Julia stared, pale.
"My Lord…" she whispered. "That… came out of it."
Vincent forced his voice steady. He couldn't let fear take the wheel.
"It absorbs essence," he said. Simple. True. Not the full truth. "From certain things."
Julia swallowed. "From… anything that lives?"
Vincent didn't answer.
Not now.
He looked deeper into the corridor instead.
Because the dungeon answered first.
More scraping.
Not one set of legs.
Many.
Shapes spilled out of the dark—several of them, glass-eyed and black-crusted, mouths dripping the same filthy dark.
Vincent stepped forward on instinct.
His lungs burned immediately. His legs felt one mistake away from folding.
The first creature slammed into his raised arm—teeth shrieking against scales—and the impact drove him into the wall.
He tried to swing the stone again, but his wrist shook—slow and wrong.
Julia cut in.
She seized a jagged shard from the floor and drove it up under the creature's jaw in one clean thrust.
No hesitation.
No wasted motion.
It went slack instantly, collapsing at Vincent's feet.
Another skittered for Vincent's ribs.
Julia didn't chase it.
She intercepted it.
Hairpin—sharp as a nail—into its eye.
Before it could shriek properly, she brought a heavier rock down once.
Precise.
Brutal.
The thing folded.
Vincent managed one shove with his left arm, forcing a third monster off-balance long enough for Julia to finish it with an economical strike.
Then the corridor went still again—only their breathing left to prove it had happened.
From the bodies, dark wisps lifted like reluctant breath.
They drifted toward Vincent's left hand—drawn, not invited—and slipped into the scales with soft, soundless pulls only he seemed to feel.
Each pull sent a needle-cold line through his forearm.
Each left that iron taste behind.
The gem's ember pulse strengthened, still restrained but unmistakably awake.
Julia watched the mist disappear, breathing hard.
"My Lord…" she said, voice shaking despite her control. "It's… drinking them."
"It's taking their essence," Vincent corrected softly. "That's all you need to know for now."
Julia nodded—because she trusted him, because she had no better option, because the house above them had already proven safety was a lie.
Vincent looked down at his hands.
His right palm bled.
His left arm trembled inside the gauntlet—numb, heavy.
He tried to take a step forward.
His legs refused.
The dungeon tilted.
He caught himself against the wall—
too late.
His body slid down stone and hit the floor.
Breathing hard.
Empty.
He'd poured everything into not dying.
Julia spun toward him immediately. "Lord!"
Vincent tried to speak. Tried to say I'm fine.
What came out was a breath that sounded like a lie.
Julia crouched in front of him, eyes wide.
Then she made a decision without asking permission.
"My Lord… forgive me."
She turned her back to him.
Hooked his arm over her shoulder.
And hauled him up with practiced strength that didn't match her slender frame.
Vincent blinked.
"You—" he managed, voice weak. "Julia…"
"I'm carrying you," she said simply, like it was normal. "Hold on, my Lord."
His cheek brushed her shoulder as she adjusted her grip.
Warmth under his cheek pulled an image up so sharply it hurt—
A smaller Julia, knees scraped raw, crying on the garden steps.
Vincent crouching in front of her with that awkward seriousness he wore when he didn't know how to comfort anyone.
"Stop crying," he'd said, rough and breathless. "You're too heavy to carry if you keep shaking."
Then he'd lifted her onto his back anyway.
Now the roles were reversed.
Now it was Julia's back under his weight.
Julia's steady steps carrying him out of darkness.
Vincent closed his eyes for a heartbeat.
So this is what it felt like.
They emerged from the dungeon into the mansion's stale air.
Gray morning light stabbed Vincent's eyes. Behind them, the hidden panel slid shut with a soft finality.
Julia didn't stop. She carried him toward the front hall, breathing hard but refusing to slow.
"Julia," Vincent whispered, half ashamed. "Put me down."
"No," Julia replied.
One word.
Absolute.
Then—
voices.
Not outside.
Inside.
Vincent's eyes snapped up.
Clean fabric in the front hall—people who had no right to be here. Sacks on the floor. Hands lifting what little remained like they were picking fruit.
One man turned.
Not because he heard them.
As if he'd been certain all along.
His gaze swept the room and stopped on Julia with Vincent on her back.
He smiled.
Thin.
Not friendly.
More like a stamp that said mine.
On his chest was a silver badge—an eight-pointed star framed by laurel.
Vincent's stomach tightened.
Not the Hero Association.
A counterfeit.
Merchants loved wearing other people's legitimacy like perfume.
The real star had weight. This one was polished too bright, edges too shallow—made to impress, not to command.
The gem on his wrist pulsed once.
Cold.
Steady.
Julia's grip tightened.
"My Lord…" she whispered, hoarse. "He sees us."
The man's eyes flicked—briefly, greedily—to Vincent's left hand.
To the gauntlet.
Then his smile sharpened.
"Well," he said lightly, like greeting old property. "So the Aldebaran heir finally woke up."