Chains walked toward the door like she had too many times already. Same shape. Same feeling. Same pit in her stomach.
Wood, thick and dark. Iron-edged, sealed flush to the stone like it had never been meant to open. Not even a gap at the bottom. Vines had grown over it in coils, heavy with moisture. Cold droplets clung to the edges like sweat. She grabbed a handful, tore them down, and let the leaves slap against her boots.
The handle was cold.
She cracked the door open and leaned in. Darkness. Stillness. Nothing moved. She listened. Waited. Not even a breath.
She opened it wider, just enough to slip through.
Inside, a narrow stone staircase spiraled upward, tight against the wall. The stone was dry, too clean. The kind of clean that came from disuse. She took one step, then another, her hand pressed to the wall. Her eyes never left the corners. Her ears strained for sound.
No footsteps. No shift in air.
She reached the top and crouched low. There was no door ahead. Just an archway opening into a square room, lit by faint blue light from those same glowing stones embedded between cracks. The room was empty—mostly. No monsters. No traps in sight. Just a pile of blackened debris in the center and a sealed door on the far wall.
And a window.
Chains stepped in slowly, checking every tile before moving forward. Her movements were sharp, methodical, not rushed. She didn't trust stillness anymore. Especially not here.
She glanced up. The ceiling drooped with vines. The walls pulsed slightly with roots pushing through the seams. She kept her steps light, her weight balanced, and stopped first at the barred window.
It looked like a way out.
But it wasn't.
Just beyond the bars was another wall. Smooth. Cold. Close.
Her shoulders tightened. Of course it was.
She pulled herself away, circled the center, and crouched beside the charred remains. Burned bone, brittle sticks, and something foul. She sifted through it carefully. The bones were small. No weapons. No armor. Whatever had died here hadn't been ready.
At the far wall, the door was sealed tight. No handle. No hinge. Just faint symbols scratched into iron. Useless.
She tried pressing on it. No give.
She spent the next hour combing the room. Checked the corners. Pulled on roots. Knocked on seams in the stone. She watched for cracks, pressure plates, anything out of place.
Nothing.
No answers. No threats either.
She set to work building the fire. Vines were dry enough to burn. So were a few dead branches stuffed in the corners. She arranged them beside the ash pit, struck a few sparks with stone, and fanned the smoke until a low flame caught.
It warmed the room just enough to be bearable. It gave her light. Shelter, if only for a while.
Satisfied, she turned back toward the stairwell.
Then stopped.
She had to get blue fast
She made her way down again. Quietly. Listening for change. Always listening.
Then stopped.
The goblin.
The remains were still there—what little hadn't been smashed flat. She crouched beside the mess. No gear. Just scraps. A torn tunic. A crude earring made of bent metal. She pried it free. It was sharp enough to use. Better than nothing.
She turned the tunic into a makeshift sack and shoved the rest inside. Then stood.
Blue was still curled where she'd left her. Pale. Damp with cold sweat. Her skin was clammy, but she was breathing. The shivering hadn't stopped.
Chains didn't know if it was pain or fear. Maybe both.
She didn't ask.
She knelt, slid an arm behind her back, and lifted her gently. "I've got a place. It's clear. Fire's going."
Blue didn't respond, but her head rested against Chains's shoulder.
Chains tightened her grip and started back up the stairs.
One step at a time.
Because silence like this never lasted.
Not here.