The ceiling collapsed behind them.

  Steve didn’t look back.

  There was no time.

  The entire corridor was collapsing — stones falling like deadly rain, the ground cracking beneath every step, the air filling with dust so thick that breathing became an act of pure will.

  — KEEP MOVING! — Dagon shouted from somewhere ahead.

  Steve tried.

  His legs burned. His lungs burned. Every breath brought more dust than air, scraping his throat like ground glass.

  Around him, others were running too.

  The prisoners who had been freed — the ones who could still walk. Some staggered, leaning on each other. Others ran with strength born from pure panic.

  A deafening roar came from behind.

  Steve turned his head on instinct — a fatal mistake.

  His foot caught on a loose stone.

  The world spun.

  Then hands grabbed him, yanking him back up with a force that nearly tore his arm out of its socket.

  Keara. Her face was covered in dirt and blood — not all of it hers.

  — MOVE! — she shouted, dragging him forward.

  Behind them, the sound grew worse.

  It wasn’t just falling rocks.

  It was total collapse. As if the world itself were being sucked into that cursed hole, reality folding in on itself.

  One of the prisoners — a middle-aged woman Steve didn’t know — stumbled.

  She fell hard.

  Tried to get up, but her legs wouldn’t respond. She looked back, saw the wave of debris coming, and opened her mouth to scream.

  The sound never came.

  An entire column crashed down on her.

  Her body disappeared under tons of ancient stone in an instant. No chance. No time. Just… end.

  Steve felt bile rise but kept running.

  Don’t look. Don’t think. Just run.

  Another scream to the left.

  A man — another freed prisoner — was trapped under a fallen block. His leg crushed, pinned while more debris fell around him.

  He reached out, begging.

  — HELP ME! PLEASE—

  The ceiling came down.

  The scream was cut off.

  More bodies. More wet, horrible impact sounds.

  Keep going. Keep going. Keep going.

  The light ahead — small, distant, but REAL.

  The exit.

  That was when he heard a different scream.

  Recognizable.

  One of Finn’s sisters.

  Steve turned his head while still running.

  He saw her on the ground, clutching her ankle, her face twisted in pain. She had stumbled. Her foot twisted at a wrong angle, already swelling.

  She tried to get up.

  Fell again, screaming.

  Finn was far ahead, carrying Diana, not seeing.

  — DAGON! — Steve shouted, pointing.

  The man had already seen.

  He didn’t hesitate for a second.

  He turned and ran back, against the flow of desperate people trying to escape.

  He reached Finn’s sister.

  — I’m sorry, girl — he said.

  He scooped her up in one fluid motion, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, ignoring her cries of pain.

  And ran.

  But now he was slower. Carrying extra weight. And the debris was coming faster.

  A stone the size of a human head passed inches from Dagon’s skull.

  Another hit his shoulder. He staggered but didn’t fall.

  — DAGON! — Steve shouted, watching him fall behind.

  He’s going to die. He’s going to die carrying her.

  Fog appeared out of nowhere.

  He slammed his hands against the ground while running, shouting words in a language Steve didn’t understand.

  The earth answered.

  A rough wall of stone and compacted dirt exploded up from the ground behind Dagon, temporarily blocking the wave of debris chasing him.

  Not for long.

  But long enough.

  Dagon crossed the opening ahead, still carrying Finn’s sister, and rolled onto the ground outside the ruins.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Fog crossed right after.

  Then Jelím, dragging another wounded prisoner.

  Then Keara, supporting Steve, who could barely stand.

  Then Finn, carrying Diana as if she were made of glass.

  And then more prisoners — the ones who managed to keep up, the lucky ones, the fast enough ones.

  Not even half of those who had started running.

  The underground entrance disappeared completely behind them, buried under a mountain of ancient stone that collapsed with one final, definitive roar.

  And then…

  Silence.

  No one moved for several long minutes.

  They were just lying or sitting where they had fallen, breathing, bleeding, existing out of sheer stubbornness.

  Steve looked at the sky.

  It was dawn. When they had entered the temple, it had been daytime. Then they descended, fought, almost died, escaped…

  How much time had passed?

  He didn’t know.

  It didn’t matter.

  He was alive.

  Somehow impossibly, still alive.

  Beside him, Fog coughed violently, spitting black dust mixed with blood. Jelím floated a few inches above the ground, completely still, the cracked mask revealing part of a pale cheek underneath.

  Dagon sat with his sword planted in the ground beside him, his hands trembling slightly. Finn’s sister lay nearby, conscious but clearly in pain, holding her swollen ankle.

  The other surviving prisoners — maybe ten, maybe twelve — were scattered around in various states of shock and injury.

  Finn…

  Finn was kneeling beside Diana.

  She lay on the ground, eyes open but empty, her body trembling in small, constant spasms that wouldn’t stop.

  Finn’s other sister clung to the healer who had saved Steve — both silently crying, holding each other as if they would disappear if they let go.

  Keara tried to stand and go to Diana.

  She took three steps.

  Collapsed.

  Simply… collapsed.

  As if her legs had forgotten how to work, as if her body had decided it had done enough and now it was time to quit.

  Steve saw Dagon move to help her, but the man barely managed to stand, staggering before leaning on his planted sword.

  Everyone was at the limit.

  Beyond the limit.

  Functioning only because stopping meant accepting what they had just survived.

  And none of them were ready for that yet.

  The sun kept rising, indifferent.

  Birds began singing again in the surrounding forest.

  The world went on.

  Even when it felt like it shouldn’t.

  Time passed.

  Maybe half an hour. Maybe an hour. Steve wasn’t sure.

  Eventually, Keara managed to truly stand. She dragged herself to Diana with determination born from pure necessity — someone had to care for her, so it would be her, broken body or not.

  Finn finally managed to get Diana sitting, supported against a rock.

  He held her hands — cold, trembling, too small in his.

  — Diana — he whispered hoarsely. — It’s me. I’m here. You’re safe now.

  She blinked.

  Slowly.

  As if processing words required impossible effort, as if every second took an eternity to exist.

  Her eyes moved until they found his face.

  For a second, Finn saw recognition.

  For a second, he thought it worked, that she was coming back, that everything would be okay.

  Then she started screaming.

  It wasn’t loud.

  It was worse.

  It was the scream of a destroyed throat, hoarse and broken — as if she had screamed so much in that temple that no voice remained, only torn, horrible sound.

  She tried to push away from him, her hands shoving his chest with surprising strength, her eyes wide with absolute terror.

  — NO! DON’T TOUCH! DON’T TOUCH!

  Finn instinctively backed away, hands raised, confusion and pain crossing his face.

  — Diana, it’s me! It’s Finn! Your— — his voice failed — —your fiancé.

  But she wasn’t listening.

  She kept backing away, dragging herself across the ground, her back hitting a rock, nowhere left to go, still trying to escape something only she could see.

  Her nails scraped against stone. Her eyes didn’t focus on anything real.

  Keara dragged herself to her, ignoring her own exhaustion and injuries.

  — Diana, dear… — she said gently, too gentle for someone covered in blood, making no sudden movements. — No one is going to hurt you. You’re safe. I promise.

  But Diana only shook her head violently, blonde hair stuck to her sweaty face.

  — They said… — her voice came out broken, barely audible — —they said they were going to do… to the baby…

  Her hand instinctively went to her belly.

  — They said they were going to use it… when it was born… for the Goddess…

  Her voice completely broke, dissolving into dry sobs that shook her entire body.

  Finn felt something break inside his chest.

  Not physically.

  Something deeper. More fundamental.

  The slow, brutal understanding that he had arrived in time to save her body…

  But too late to save who she was.

  The woman he knew — who laughed at the way he tripped over his words, who sang while cooking, who touched her belly every night and whispered promises to the baby —

  That woman had been left in that temple.

  What remained were only… fragments.

  Steve watched from a distance, feeling like an intruder in a moment that didn’t belong to him.

  Around them, the other prisoners processed in different ways.

  Some cried. Others sat in absolute silence, staring at nothing. An older woman laughed — a sharp, broken sound that had nothing joyful about it.

  Everyone dealing with traumas that would take years to heal.

  If they ever healed.

  More time passed.

  The sun was already high when Dagon finally stood fully.

  He walked over to Steve, who was sitting apart from the group, staring at his own hands.

  He sat on a nearby rock, keeping respectful distance.

  Silence for a full minute.

  Then:

  — What did you do down there?

  The voice carried no accusation. Just… curiosity. Maybe concern.

  Steve didn’t look at him.

  — I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  — Steve.

  The tone made him finally turn.

  Dagon stared at him with eyes far too tired, yet steady.

  — Those three. The cultists you… — pause — —do you remember killing them?

  Steve’s stomach tightened.

  — I…

  The words died in his throat.

  Because the truth was that he didn’t.

  Not completely.

  He remembered entering the room. Seeing the prisoners’ bodies. Feeling the rage — pure, burning, consuming everything.

  And then…

  Then there was blood on his hands and three bodies on the floor.

  — No — he finally admitted softly. — I don’t really remember.

  Dagon nodded slowly, as if that confirmed something he already suspected.

  — You were different. For a few seconds. Your eyes… — he gestured vaguely — —they weren’t yours.

  Steve looked at his hands again.

  He could still feel the blood there, even after cleaning them. As if it had soaked into his pores, become part of him.

  — Am I becoming a monster? — he asked, unable to hide the fear in his voice.

  Dagon didn’t answer immediately.

  He stared at the horizon, at the endless forest stretching around them.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy.

  — I don’t know, Steve. I don’t know what you are. I don’t know what any of us are in this cursed place.

  Pause.

  — But I know what happened down there wasn’t normal. And I think you know that too.

  Steve swallowed hard.

  He wanted to deny it. Say it was just adrenaline, fear, survival.

  But it would be a lie.

  And they both knew it.

  — What do I do? — he asked, his voice cracking.

  Dagon finally looked straight at him.

  — Survive. — he said simply. — And try to figure out what the hell is happening to you before it’s too late.

  — And if I don’t figure it out in time?

  Dagon didn’t answer.

  He didn’t need to.

  The answer was clear in his eyes, in the way he subtly shifted his gaze, in the hand that unconsciously moved closer to his sword.

  If Steve completely lost control…

  Dagon would do what had to be done.

  The rest of the day passed in a heavy fog of exhaustion and shock.

  No one had energy for anything beyond existing.

  Keara cared for Diana as best she could, murmuring gentle words that didn’t seem to reach the woman lost in her own terror. Finn stayed nearby, but every time he tried to approach, Diana recoiled again, fear reigniting in her empty eyes.

  Eventually, he gave up.

  He sat several meters away, just watching, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  His sisters huddled together, the one with the twisted ankle softly groaning whenever she shifted. The healer did what she could with limited resources — chewed herbs, improvised bandages, whispered words in an ancient language that might have been prayers.

  The other prisoners spread out in small groups, some sleeping from sheer exhaustion, others awake but absent, staring into nothing.

  Fog and Jelím stayed apart, talking in voices too low for Steve to hear. Occasionally, Fog glanced in Steve’s direction with an expression Steve couldn’t decipher.

  Concern? Fear? Both?

  Dagon remained where he was, sword resting across his lap, eyes half-closed but never fully.

  Always alert.

  Always ready.

  Steve didn’t move from his rock.

  He just stayed there, processing, trying to understand what was happening to him.

  Trying to remember those lost moments in the temple.

  But the more he tried, the more the memory slipped away, like trying to hold water in his hands.

  He knew he had killed.

  He knew it had been brutal.

  He knew something inside him had… awakened.

  And that was the scariest part.

  It wasn’t that he had killed.

  It was that a part of him — small, whispering, horrible — had liked it.

  ---

  The sun began to decline.

  Keara finally stood, unsteady, and walked to the center of what remained of the group.

  — We need to move — she said hoarsely. — Diana and the others need real care. Clean water. Food. A safe place to rest.

  Finn lifted his head.

  — Where?

  — West. Three days of walking, maybe four in our condition. There should be a village. People who can help.

  She looked around, meeting every face.

  — We can’t stay together. We’re too many, too weak, too slow. If those… things… come after us, we won’t be able to fight.

  No one argued.

  The logic was cruel but undeniable.

  Fog stood, leaning on Jelím.

  — Then I and the remaining prisoners will go west with Finn.

  Dagon looked at Steve.

  — North.

  One word. Heavy with meaning.

  Steve understood.

  It was an invitation. And a test.

  Dagon wanted to keep him close. Watch him. Understand what was happening.

  And be ready to act if necessary.

  Steve nodded slowly.

  He didn’t really have a choice.

  He didn’t know where else he could go.

  The rest of the afternoon and early evening were spent organizing.

  The prisoners were divided. All would go west with Finn, Fog, and Diana. The others — Jelím, Keara, Dagon, and Steve — would go north.

  They shared supplies in silence.

  Water. Dried food. Bandages. Weapons for those who had none.

  It wasn’t enough.

  But it was what they had.

  Steve spent the final minutes checking his own pack, avoiding looking at the others.

  He knew if he did — if he saw their faces one last time…

  No.

  He couldn’t think like that.

  One month. City of Valdris. They’ll be there.

  He had to believe that.

  Finn approached him as darkness fell.

  — Steve.

  He turned.

  The big man extended his hand.

  — Thank you. For everything. For helping us find her.

  His voice faltered at the end, eyes drifting to where Diana lay curled in on herself, the healer beside her.

  Steve shook his hand.

  — She’ll get better, Finn.

  A gentle lie.

  They both knew it.

  But sometimes gentle lies were all that remained.

  Finn nodded, not trusting his voice, and walked away.

  ---

  Night fell completely.

  They lit a small fire — enough for warmth, not enough to attract unwanted attention.

  They sat around it in silence.

  No one truly slept.

  They only dozed in shifts, always someone awake, always alert.

  Steve stared into the flames.

  They danced and crackled, hypnotic, slowly consuming the wood as his mind drifted through a thousand thoughts.

  Morning came gray and cold.

  They extinguished the fire.

  Packed their things.

  Checked weapons, adjusted packs, tied boots.

  Mechanical movements. Automatic.

  Finn carried Diana in his arms — she didn’t resist, just lay there, inert like a doll.

  His sisters leaned on each other, the healer following behind, along with Fog and all the prisoners.

  Finn smiled at Steve and his group in clear farewell and waved.

  Steve smiled back, happy for the short time they had shared, and waved as well.

  And then they disappeared toward the western lands of the central continent.

  Silence.

  Only wind in the leaves. Distant birds. The indifferent world.

  — Ready? — Dagon asked.

  Steve looked at him, Jelím, and Keara.

  Then north.

  At the forest they still had to cross.

  At the unknown waiting for them.

  — No — he admitted. — But we’re going anyway.

  Dagon nodded.

  — Then let’s go.

  And they started walking.

  Steve adjusted his pack on his shoulders, feeling the weight of the few supplies he carried.

  He looked back one last time, along with Keara.

  The temple ruins were hidden by dense forest. Invisible. But Steve knew they were there.

  They always would be.

  Buried. But not forgotten.

  Never forgotten.

  He turned forward.

  Dagon was already several meters ahead with Keara and Jelím, walking with steady steps despite obvious exhaustion.

  Steve took a deep breath.

  One step. Then another.

  Keep walking.

  Keep surviving.

  And he entered the forest behind Dagon and the others, leaving the ruins behind.

  The Great Forest closed around them once again.

  Ancient. Silent. Waiting.

  Always waiting.