The flame flickered, casting shadows on the walls that seemed to breathe.

  Lucanis, bent over the torch, inhaled too quickly—a breath cut short by the smell.

  A metallic smell. Heavy. Too real to be forgotten.

  Kael stepped forward, his hand tight around the Needle-Blade.

  "So, remind me why we came down here again?" he asked, a joyless smile at the corner of his lips.

  "To die in a cellar, or to play anxiety-driven cave explorers?"

  Lucanis didn’t answer.

  His throat tightened. Beads of sweat were already rolling down his temples.

  He raised the torch a little higher.

  The corridor stretched out before them—narrow, suffocating, saturated with the smell of time: dust, grease, rotting wood… and beneath it, stronger with every step, the iron tang of dried blood.

  The walls seeped in places, blackened by the years.

  Hooks hung from the ceiling—old, rusted—some still threaded with scraps of rope.

  Kael swept the flame to the left.

  Familiar shapes emerged from the shadows:

  haunches of venison hanging, shriveled, dry enough to crack.

  Barrels stacked all the way to the ceiling.

  Poorly maintained hunting weapons, propped against a wall, coated in dust.

  "Charming," he muttered.

  "If hell has a pantry, I think we just found it."

  Althéa didn’t reply, her eyes fixed straight ahead, as if the slightest glance at the walls might contaminate her.

  Lucanis, meanwhile, was trembling slightly.

  Each step seemed to cost him a piece of courage.

  "The smell is coming from the back," he said.

  "Yeah, we figured," Kael replied dryly.

  They moved on. Slowly.

  The torches made the light dance across the stone, intermittently revealing faded carvings—indistinct symbols, as if traced by someone who did not want to be understood.

  The corridor finally widened.

  A circular opening appeared, carved into the raw stone.

  The air there was heavier, more humid.

  And the floor, this time, was no longer stone.

  Sand. Fine. Stained in places.

  Kael felt the flame of his torch twist in a draft coming from within.

  Then he saw it.

  "Oh… shit."

  At the center of the chamber, a man.

  Lying on his back.

  His hands were still trying to hold something in, to press down on an invisible wound.

  But his chest was already rising and falling less and less.

  He was drowning in his own blood.

  No scream.

  No sudden movement.

  Just that rattle—that wet, almost intimate sound—of a body still refusing to die.

  Lucanis staggered back a step, choking.

  "By all the gods…"

  Althéa swayed, one hand over her mouth.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  She closed her eyes, as if that could erase the image.

  Kael, however, stayed where he was.

  Frozen.

  Neither brave nor cowardly. Just… present.

  Watching. Trying to understand.

  The man turned his head toward them.

  His eyes, glassy, already expressed nothing.

  But his lips were still moving.

  One word.

  Maybe two.

  Inaudible.

  Then his body slackened.

  Slowly.

  Like a puppet with its strings cut.

  Silence returned.

  Heavier than before.

  Kael finally muttered, under his breath:

  "Great."

  "So we found the nightmare’s wine cellar."

  Kael stepped forward.

  The flame flickered in the gloom, casting the half-sunken body in the sand onto the stone walls.

  The man no longer moved.

  Not a breath. Not a spasm.

  Lucanis took a step as well, torch raised.

  But Kael lifted his hand.

  "Stop."

  The word snapped out—clean, almost calm.

  Lucanis froze instantly.

  Even Althéa stopped, her gaze locked on the corpse.

  Kael scanned the room, narrowed his eyes, then slowly lowered his torch. His other hand dipped toward the ground. He picked up a cracked glass bottle, coated in dust.

  "Before we play strange-field medics, let’s test something, alright?"

  Without waiting for an answer, he threw the bottle toward the corpse. It struck the sand with a dull sound, rolled, and came to rest a few inches from the inert hand.

  Nothing.

  No movement.

  No scream. Not even a ripple of air.

  Kael stayed still for a few seconds, watching. Then he shrugged.

  "Good news," he muttered.

  "Apparently, it’s not yesterday’s lycaons. Otherwise they’d have jumped on him already."

  He turned his head toward Lucanis, a crooked half-smile on his lips.

  Lucanis didn’t answer. His eyes were still locked on the body, and his breathing had quickened without him noticing. At last, he exhaled, his voice low, almost trembling:

  "They could have adapted."

  Kael narrowed his eyes.

  "What?"

  Lucanis turned toward him, pale, fingers clenched around the torch handle.

  "The lycaons. They learn fast.

  They’ve already mimicked human gestures, postures.

  Maybe now… they know how to wait.

  To pretend.

  To make us believe they’re dead."

  An icy silence fell over the room.

  Even Althéa, who until then had forced herself to stand tall, slightly averted her eyes toward the body.

  The flame of her torch barely trembled—but her wrist did.

  Kael let out a small, nervous laugh.

  "Yeah. And the next step is them reciting a poem before ripping our throats out, right?"

  He tried to smile, but the sound caught in his throat.

  Because somewhere, at the far end of the room… something had moved.

  Slowly. Quietly.

  Like a breath.

  Lucanis went pale.

  Kael tightened his grip on the Needle-Blade. His gaze shifted from the corpse… to the wall behind it.

  And that’s when they saw it—at the edge of the circle of light—the mark.

  An imprint.

  Large. Wet.

  Like that of a hand… that had just been placed there.

  Althéa leaned forward slightly, her voice low:

  "Put your hand here. Tell me what you feel."

  Kael didn’t answer.

  He did as asked, without a word, palm pressed against the wall. His fingers tensed for a moment.

  Then he opened his eyes again. The stone was cold, but beneath the surface, something was vibrating. Not strong. Not clear. A pulse, almost imperceptible, like the beat of a heart through the rock.

  "It’s still vibrating," he said calmly.

  "But not like before.

  It’s more… faint."

  Lucanis frowned.

  "Faint how?"

  Kael lifted his eyes toward the ceiling, his face pale.

  "Like something crawling. Slowly.

  And not on the ground… no."

  He paused, his gaze following an invisible line above them.

  "It’s above us. On the ceiling."

  Lucanis swallowed.

  His torch trembled in his hand.

  "Then it’s certain. It’s a lycaon," he whispered.

  And he drew his weapon with a sound that was too sharp, too loud.

  Althéa did the same, silently, straight as a blade.

  Her amethyst eyes gleamed in the gloom.

  Kael, however, stayed still for a moment.

  Then he raised a hand.

  "Wait."

  Lucanis stared at him, eyes wide.

  "What?!"

  "I have an idea," Kael said.

  He slowly sheathed his weapon.

  "Don’t follow me. Stay where you are.

  I need to test a theory."

  Before Althéa could react, he stepped forward.

  One step.

  Then another. His foot touched the sand without a sound.

  No rustle.

  No breath.

  Even the flame of his torch seemed to quiet.

  Althéa followed him with her eyes, frozen, jaw clenched.

  Lucanis bit his lip until it bled, on the verge of shouting at every movement.

  Kael entered the circular chamber.

  Torch raised, he advanced with a slow, calculated step. Each breath cost him an extra heartbeat.

  His gaze swept the walls, the cracks, the ceiling.

  And then he saw it. Just above the corridor exit.

  Something pressed flat against the stone.

  A dark mass, motionless. Black fur, gleaming.

  No breath. No sound.

  A lycaon. But different.

  Kael froze.

  He didn’t blink.

  Then, without a sound, he stepped back.

  One step. Then two.

  Still without making the sand crackle.

  Lucanis was trembling. He was moments away from collapsing.

  Kael finally reappeared in the corridor, his face pale, torch in hand.

  Althéa let out the breath she had been holding for what felt like an eternity.

  "You’re completely insane," she snapped under her breath.

  Kael didn’t answer right away. He stood there, still, staring into nothing.

  Then he spoke, his voice low, flat.

  "There’s one."

  "On the wall. Just above the passage."

  He slowly lifted his head.

  "But it’s different."

  "It has black fur. Jet black."

  "Not like the others."

  Lucanis went even paler, sweat clinging to the back of his neck.

  He tightened his grip on his weapon, teeth clenched.

  "You’re completely fucking stupid, Kael!"

  "It could have seen you!"

  Kael slowly turned his head toward him.

  His expression was empty.

  Calm.

  "That’s exactly it. No."

  "It didn’t see me."

  He paused, his voice barely more than a breath.

  "Because it’s blind."

  Silence fell all at once.