Chapter 7

  “So,” I said, turning to face the others with a raised brow, “who wants to go first?”

  Silence.

  The kind of silence that thickens with each passing second. One breath. Two. A full minute stretched out like an awkward eternity. No one moved. No one volunteered.

  Just as I opened my mouth—half-ready to suggest Maira take the lead (not for any noble reason, honestly, but simply… because)—Vin suddenly raised her arm.

  It wasn’t confident. It wasn’t eager. It looked more like a student in the back row of a schoolhouse, timidly volunteering in hopes of earning approval—or perhaps just stalling judgment.

  I blinked, surprised. “You want to go first?” I asked, my tone polite but tinged with doubt, gesturing toward the black maw of the tunnel beneath us.

  The effect was immediate.

  Vin’s eyes widened. All the color drained from her face. She looked at the hole, then back at me, then at the ladder disappearing into darkness. Her breath hitched.

  “I—could you maybe… go first?” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I-I really hate climbing. And that... that pit—” she swallowed hard, her throat visibly tightening “—it scares me.”

  She said it aloud. Her fear. And that alone took courage.

  She looked away quickly, ashamed. She probably expected mockery—maybe a smirk from Simon, or a sarcastic comment from me. Something to solidify her humiliation.

  But it never came.

  No one laughed.

  Instead, Maira stepped forward and gently wrapped an arm around Vin’s shoulder. She leaned in, whispering something soft—reassuring, maybe even protective. And as she did, Vin’s composure broke. Her shoulders began to shake, and a soft, choked sob escaped her lips.

  She tried to hide it, brushing tears away with trembling fingers, but the sound was unmistakable.

  I sighed—deep and heavy. This situation was already uncomfortable enough. Now I was shepherding a half-crying elven girl into a death tunnel in the middle of a haunted blizzard. Wonderful.

  “Alright,” I said at last, my voice steady but weary. “I’ll go first. Simon, you follow me. Maira, bring up the rear with Vin.”

  I turned to descend when suddenly—

  “No!” Vin’s voice rang out with more force than I expected.

  She stepped away from Maira’s comforting arm, wiped her nose with her sleeve, and stood up straighter. Her hands still trembled, her eyes still glistened with tears, but something had shifted in her expression. Resolve, maybe. Or pride.

  “I’ll climb right behind you,” she said firmly, though her voice cracked near the end. “I need to do this.”

  Before she could finish the sentence, she was already dabbing at her face again, wiping away the last remnants of emotion with the back of her hand.

  I stared at her for a long moment, somewhere between reluctant admiration and faint exasperation.

  How can someone be so dramatically sad and determined at the same time? I thought, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

  Finally, I muttered under my breath, “Guess I’m playing the leader role again.”

  And without another word, I placed my foot on the first rung of the ladder and descended into the dark.

  Eventually, after her breathing calmed and her nerves settled—at least somewhat—Vin followed me down the ladder. Slowly. One foot, one hand, one cautious breath at a time. The rungs were cold iron, slick with condensation. I could hear her quiet breaths above me, controlled but tight with lingering fear.

  Twenty long meters passed beneath our boots, rung by rung, until at last, we reached the bottom.

  Simon and Maira weren’t far behind. Their descent was quicker, less hesitant, and within moments, the four of us stood together in the strange, silent world beneath the inn.

  A tunnel stretched out before us—broad, arched, and three meters wide. Carved into the stone with precision and purpose. It looked old… and yet strangely preserved. No rubble, no roots, no decay. It was unsettling.

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  There was something eerie about it. The very existence of a tunnel like this, hidden beneath an ordinary tavern in the middle of nowhere, begged too many questions. Who built it? Why? And what was still using it?

  And yet… there was something oddly comforting, too.

  The tunnel was well lit—surprisingly so. Every three meters, on both sides, hung sturdy iron sconces holding bright, flickering torches. The flames danced gently, casting warm golden light that pushed back the darkness. In fact, the air down here, while still damp, was warmer than in the freezing storeroom above. Ironically, this hidden underground passage was one of the coziest places in the entire inn.

  But that warmth did nothing to ease the suspicion forming in my gut.

  Wait...

  I narrowed my eyes and stepped closer to the nearest torch.

  “Simon,” I said, keeping my voice low but firm, “can you check if these torches are powered by magic—”

  “—or if they were placed here recently,” he finished for me.

  I nodded slowly. He was already thinking the same thing.

  As Simon stepped forward and held a hand out near the flame, I looked to the others. The realization had hit them too. I could read it in their faces.

  Vin, who had only just managed to settle her panic, now looked ready to bolt again. Her eyes darted down the length of the tunnel like she was searching for something—an exit, perhaps, or something hiding in the shadows.

  Maira’s reaction was different. Controlled, but intense. Her eyes swept every wall, every crack in the stone, scanning for movement like a cornered predator. Her fingers twitched near her belt—close to her relics or a holy symbol, perhaps preparing to call upon her god again.

  I let my gaze drift slowly across the tunnel, senses on high alert. The silence down here was not peaceful. It was watchful. Too still. Too expectant.

  Behind me, Simon let out a small, frustrated sigh.

  “They’re not magical,” he said, shaking his head. “Natural flame. Freshly lit. Whoever came down here... it wasn’t long ago.”

  His words settled over us like a shroud.

  I exhaled slowly and looked back at the others. The grim understanding was shared, unspoken.

  We weren’t the first ones down here.

  I swallowed the knot forming in my throat and offered a few quiet words—half reassurance, half plea. To them. To myself.

  “Let’s move.”

  And so we did.

  One step at a time, deeper into the tunnel that should not have existed.

  -

  We walked for what must have been ten minutes, maybe a little more, heading in a single, unwavering direction. No forks. No doors. Just a long, stone corridor stretching endlessly into the depths.

  It was… strange. Not frightening, not yet. Just strangely monotonous. The walls were plain, hewn from dull gray rock. The ground was solid underfoot, slightly damp, but well-kept. No cobwebs, no debris. Just stone. Cold, empty, unremarkable stone.

  And then—suddenly—it changed.

  At first, it was just a shift in the light. A softer glow. Warmer. Then I noticed the walls.

  And my breath caught in my throat.

  The tunnel had transformed into something else entirely.

  Gone were the bare, lifeless stones. In their place, every inch of surface—walls, ceiling, even the floor beneath our boots—was covered in carvings and paint. A story stretched out before us in full, uninterrupted detail. Murals, ancient and vibrant, as if they had been preserved perfectly through magic or sheer reverence.

  We stopped in unison, like we had all crossed an invisible threshold.

  The story was told in stunning detail: etched battle scenes where warriors clashed with creatures of impossible size; great cities with towering spires and marketplaces teeming with life; crumbling temples lost in jungles. Portraits of crowned kings, weeping queens, robed mages with eyes of flame or starlight. Maps of realms I’d never seen, some that might not even exist anymore. And dragons—so many dragons. Coiled around mountains, soaring above burning forests, clashing with titans and gods.

  Simon and Vin both gasped audibly. Without a word, they reached into their satchels and pulled out notebooks. Pens scratched furiously across paper. Their eyes flitted from one mural to the next, desperate to capture as much as they could, their scholarly instincts kicking in like a storm.

  Maira and I didn’t move.

  We simply stood there.

  Awestruck.

  Humbled.

  It wasn’t just art. It was memory. History. Worship. Fear.

  My gaze drifted across the walls until it landed on one image that froze me in place: a massive water mage, arms raised like a tidal god, extinguishing the fire of a great dragon mid-flight. The beast shrieked as waves collapsed over it, crashing like a mountain falling from the sky. The fire turned to steam. The wings shattered. The mage stood calm at the center of it all, cloaked in mist.

  And I knew that story.

  I had read it years ago, buried deep in a forgotten tome in the library of the Eagle Order—back when I still believed knowledge alone could give me a path to revenge. I had studied that tale while desperately seeking a way to kill my dragon—the one that had burned everything I once loved.

  Seeing it here, painted and carved as though by the hand of a god, struck something deep inside me. I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. For a long moment, I wasn’t in a tunnel—I was in the memory of smoke and ash.

  I turned my eyes away before the emotion could take hold. Letting it rise now would serve no one.

  Maira had wandered several feet away, staring intently at a large painting that dominated an entire stretch of wall. It depicted a tall, skeletal figure with a halo of darkness—Erebos. Death incarnate. Around his head was a crescent of runes carved into the stone like a crown of teeth. His cloak was made of writhing shadows, and his arms were outstretched, touching the souls of the dead as they bowed before him.

  Maira was whispering something under her breath, scrawling notes with almost frantic speed. I stepped closer and looked at the runes. They were in an old dialect, but I could read some of them.

  One stood out.

  "The Father of Rot."

  Even Maira, for all her devotion, seemed shaken by the depiction. Her face was pale. Her brow creased.

  "He’s… not usually drawn like this," she muttered, her voice trembling just slightly. "This is… grotesque. Even for Erebos."

  I didn’t disagree.

  This wasn’t reverence. It was fear. Whoever painted this didn’t worship Erebos—they survived him.

  I looked around again, feeling the chill of the tunnel crawl back into my bones.

  Whatever lay ahead, this was more than just a passage beneath an inn.

  It was a forgotten world.