They had not spent long in the market.

  James moved through it on instinct rather than interest, stopping only where experience nudged him to. Not for ingredients. Not for tools. Just the quiet gaps that appeared when a plan stretched beyond a single day.

  By the time they turned away, his inventory felt settled again. Enough to cook without rationing. Enough to improvise. Enough to not worry about hunger before danger. Whatever waited inside the dungeon, it would not be hunger.

  The dungeon did not look like a place that wanted visitors. At first glance, it barely looked like anything at all.

  It was a tree.

  Not a small one. Old, thick, its trunk wide enough that an orc could have walked into the hollow at its center without turning sideways. Its branches reached outward like grasping fingers, bare of leaves as if autumn had passed it by alone. Yet the bark was not dry. Not dead. The tree still felt alive in a way that made the absence of leaves unsettling rather than natural.

  Around it, the forest stood untouched. Green. Breathing. Birds still perched on nearby branches. Nothing else had shed its leaves. Nothing else looked wrong.

  The hollow was black. Not shadowed. Not dark. Black in a way that swallowed depth entirely. James stared into it and felt his eyes fail to measure distance, as if the space inside refused to exist until something entered it.

  James rested his hand on the hilt at his belt and tried very hard not to grin. The sensation made his fingers itch, the way they always did before a kitchen caught fire or a plan went wrong in interesting ways.

  “That,” Gerrard muttered beside him, “is not natural.”

  “Neither is a croissant,” James said. “Yet here we are.”

  A rope line circled the clearing to keep the worst of the crowd back. Adventurers clustered behind it in loose knots, some craning their necks for a better look, others pretending they were not craning their necks. Arguments flickered in low voices. Armor clinked. Someone retched into the bushes. Someone else prayed under their breath, the words tripping over each other.

  Near the front, a guild herald in a blue tabard stood on a crate, parchment in hand, doing his best impression of someone who was not absolutely terrified.

  “Next investigative team,” he called. “Step forward.”

  Vhara walked without hesitation. Her braids swung against the plates of her armor, the metal drinking in the warped light. James followed at her shoulder, Mira just behind him with her staff held a little too tightly. Gerrard trailed last, looking like a man who had already started drafting his last words in his head.

  The herald gave them a quick, relieved once-over. It was the look of a man who had just found four more people to stand between himself and certain death.

  “Names and party designation?” he asked.

  “James,” James said.

  “Vhara,” the orc answered.

  “Mira,” she added quietly.

  “Gerrard,” Gerrard sighed. “Regrettably present.”

  “Party name?” the herald prompted.

  James opened his mouth.

  Mira beat him to it.

  “Carpe Diem,” she said.

  There was a brief pause.

  Vhara glanced at her, then gave a single shrug, clearly uninterested in the matter. James closed his mouth slowly.

  The herald blinked once, then scribbled it down. “Very well. This will be your preliminary briefing. Please listen carefully.”

  He lifted the parchment and read.

  “Multiple parties have already entered,” the herald said. “We are still gathering reports. Assume incomplete information and adapt accordingly.”

  Mira swallowed. “Incomplete as in they are still exploring, or incomplete as in we are already carving memorial stones?”

  “We do not know,” the herald said. “Once you cross the threshold, long-range communication is unreliable at best. Flares might work. Spells often do not. If anyone returns, they return when the dungeon allows it.”

  Gerrard paled. “So the official status is missing in action with a side order of probably dead.”

  “The official status is under investigation,” the herald said flatly.

  James tilted his head, studying the hollow. It should have been just a tree, just an old trunk with a deep knot burned out by time. Instead, the darkness inside erased depth entirely, turning the hollow into something his eyes could not measure or trust.

  “So,” he said. “Walk in, and the dungeon decides whether you get to walk out again.”

  The herald cleared his throat. “That is an accurate summary. Treat it as uncharted and highly dangerous. Environmental hazards, spatial distortions, unknown fauna. You know the standard list.”

  James nodded, then smiled.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Less competition. More ingredients.”

  The herald stared at him. Mira covered her face with one hand.

  “Could you at least pretend to be concerned?” she hissed.

  “I am concerned,” James said. “Concerned that someone will eat the best things before I get there.”

  Gerrard rubbed his temples. “We have not even stepped inside and already I regret every life choice that led me to you.”

  He exhaled sharply and looked at James. “When I first met you, I thought you were missing a few screws. But I thought your ambitions were about cooking.”

  James smiled faintly. “They are.”

  Gerrard frowned. “This does not look like cooking.”

  “It is,” James said. “Just a larger kitchen.”

  The herald looked between them as if trying to decide whether to send them in or send them to a healer for evaluation. Finally, he sighed.

  “Very well,” he said. “Final reminders. Once you pass the threshold, communication spells will likely fail. Do not rely on teleportation or long range messaging. Use flares if possible. If you find a stable exit that is not the main entrance, mark it and report. If you encounter overwhelming danger, retreat. The guild will not compensate deaths resulting from reckless behavior.”

  James raised his hand. “What if the reckless behavior results in very interesting recipes?”

  “The guild,” the herald said flatly, “will still not compensate your death.”

  “Good to know.”

  Vhara stepped closer to the boundary. Her eyes touched the hollow without flinching.

  “Is there a classification yet?” she asked.

  “Not until we have more data,” the herald said. “For now we are listing it as an Unclassified Dungeon. That will change once we have proper mapping and hazard reports.” He hesitated. “If we get them.”

  “We will bring you something worth a name,” Vhara said.

  Mira gave a tight little nod. “Mapping. Right. Hazards. Right. Not dying. Top of the list.”

  Gerrard looked at the distortion and then at James. “Last chance to pretend this was a very vivid dream and go home,” he whispered.

  James patted him on the shoulder. “Relax. It is just a hole in reality. How bad can it be?”

  “The last guild record says dungeons are never generous to first visitors,” Gerrard hissed.

  “Yes,” James said. “Which means everything inside is untouched. That is practically a clearance sale.”

  Mira made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh if it had not been dragged over nerves.

  Vhara moved past the boundary line. “Briefing received. We proceed now.”

  The herald looked like he wanted to say something else, then thought better of it. He simply nodded and stepped back.

  “May the guild record your safe return,” he said.

  James flashed him a quick grin and followed Vhara toward the spiraling air.

  The closer they came, the more the forest felt wrong.

  The breeze that stirred the leaves around them died near the tree, as if the air itself refused to move closer. The hollow waited, black and depthless. The space around it felt damp and heavy, carrying the scent of wet bark and old stone.

  James tasted it on his tongue. It made his teeth hum.

  “Anyone else feel the temperature doing whatever it wants?” Gerrard asked. “I am sweating and freezing at the same time. That seems indecisive.”

  “That is the dungeon,” Vhara said. “It presses. It pulls. Do not fight it. Move wrong, and it will break you.”

  “Very comforting,” Gerrard muttered.

  Mira traced a quick sigil in the air. Pale light flickered around her staff and then died. She frowned. “Spells are already misbehaving.”

  James stepped up to the hollow. The darkness swallowed light without reflection, without depth. It reminded him of standing at the threshold of a kitchen mid service. One step away from calm. One step away from heat and steel and shouting.

  He had always stepped toward the heat.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Vhara nodded once. Mira swallowed and nodded too. Gerrard closed his eyes very tightly.

  “Too late to be ready,” he said. “Let us go before I change my mind.”

  James reached forward.

  The moment his hand crossed the threshold, the air changed.

  It felt damp. Not wet, but heavy, like mist pressed too tightly together. Sound dulled instantly. His breath came back to him strange and soft, as if wrapped in cloth. There was no force pushing back, no pressure exactly, but his ears filled all the same, a faint, uncomfortable fullness like standing inside thick fog before a storm.

  The world snapped.

  For a heartbeat there was nothing. No sound, no sight, no weight. His stomach tried to escape upward, his bones tried to do something similar, and his thoughts went very briefly on break.

  Then the dungeon exhaled and gave him back to gravity.

  He staggered one step, caught himself, and blinked.

  The forest was gone.

  He stood in a wide cavern that curved gently upward into darkness. The walls pulsed with dim light, veins of pale green phosphorescence running through stone. The air was warm and wet, thick enough that each breath felt like drinking fog. A low vibration throbbed under his feet, a steady pulse that might have been distant machinery or the heartbeat of the place itself.

  Behind him, the entrance was no longer a hollow in a tree. It had become a thin arch of translucent stone, solid and humming, framing a view of the clearing outside. The image wobbled as though seen through water.

  Vhara stepped through after him with more grace. Mira followed, then Gerrard, who stumbled into James’s back.

  He cursed, clutched his chest, and then looked up.

  “What,” he whispered, “in all contractual agreements is this.”

  The system chimed, the sensation sharper than usual, as if something had been waiting.

  [Masterless Dungeon Discovered]

  Status: Unclaimed

  Core: Present

  Threat Level: Unknown

  Quest Issued: Survey the dungeon.

  Objective: Explore its depths and document all viable flavors, ingredients, and edible anomalies.

  Evaluation Criteria: Diversity discovered, preparation potential, and survival efficiency.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Reward: Variable.

  Additional rewards will be calculated based on depth reached, resources identified, and overall contribution.

  Failure Condition: Death.

  James smiled. “At least it is honest.”

  Mira wrinkled her nose. “It smells like mushrooms and wet socks.”

  Gerrard dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. “I am sweating before anything has even tried to kill me. This feels rude.”

  “Breathe slowly,” Vhara said. “Do not fight the feeling. Stiffen up, and it breaks you.”

  James took another breath, testing her advice. The vibration under his feet synced with his pulse, an odd double beat that made his fingers itch. He flexed his hand, imagining a knife hilt that was not there, and the itch settled into something almost familiar.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  Vhara pointed down the tunnel. “Deeper. The air changes.”

  Gerrard frowned. “That tells you direction?”

  “It tells me enough,” Vhara said.

  They walked.

  The tunnel sloped gently downward. Drops of moisture clung to the ceiling and occasionally let go, cold kisses on the back of the neck. The light from the walls was just enough to see by. Their footsteps echoed in a damp hush.

  As they moved, the air changed again. A faint sweet scent slipped into the mix, something earthy and warm, like bread left too long in a proving drawer.

  Mira sniffed. “Do you smell that?”

  “Yeast,” James said absently. “Or something pretending to be yeast.”

  “That is very specific,” Gerrard muttered.

  They rounded a bend.

  The tunnel opened like a mouth.

  The first cavern was enormous, a shallow bowl scooped out of the stone. The ceiling arched high overhead and vanished into shadow. The floor was a layered garden of fungus.

  Mushrooms of every shape and size carpeted the hollow. Fat, round caps glowed with a soft green light. Thin frilled shelves climbed the walls in delicate steps. Long, dangling strands like pale vines swayed gently without any breeze. Some mushrooms pulsed slowly, their luminescence rising and falling like breaths.

  Steam hissed from cracks in the ground, curling around stalks and drifting in slow, lazy ribbons. From above, a constant series of soft drips fell, blue droplets that splashed onto caps and hissed faintly, leaving tiny trails of darker color.

  The light from the fungus painted everything in shades of teal and ghost white. Shadows moved in strange ways, swelling and shrinking with each faint pulse of bioluminescence.

  Mira’s mouth fell open. “Okay,” she said. “I take it back. It smells like mushrooms and a bakery. A very haunted bakery.”

  Gerrard stared in horror and awe. “If one of these things starts talking, I am leaving.”

  James took one step forward, eyes wide, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.

  “This,” he breathed, “is beautiful.”

  Vhara frowned. “It is a hazard.”

  “It is a pantry,” James said.

  The system chimed softly.

  [Culinary Insight Activated]

  Airborne particulates detected.

  Analysis: Spore-based vapors with edible and reactive properties.

  Secondary effect: Mild hallucinogenic response when inhaled.

  Distribution: Uneven. Localized pockets.

  James blinked. “...hallucinogenic vapors?”

  Mira squeaked. “Hallucinogenic vapors? Why does that sound like a potion recipe and a health warning at the same time?”

  Gerrard pulled his handkerchief up over his mouth and nose. “I knew I should have asked for hazard pay.”

  James stepped carefully onto a relatively bare patch of stone. Even here, tiny clusters of pale caps huddled in the cracks.

  “Hold,” Vhara said quietly. “Do not touch anything yet.”

  James froze mid reach, hand hovering over a cluster of mushrooms that looked like a bundle of half-open parasols. “I was only going to say hello,” he said.

  “Say it from a distance,” Vhara replied.

  Mira peered past him. “Do you recognize any of them?”

  “Not yet,” James said. “However.”

  He focused, drawing a breath that tasted of damp earth and faint sweetness, and reached with his mind instead of his fingers.

  [Culinary Insight Activated]

  Thin lines of light outlined the nearest fungi. Information skimmed into his head, crisp and clear.

  Item identified: Mushglow Cap.

  Properties: Edible when cooked. Raw consumption may cause mild disorientation and visual trails. Emits low level bioluminescence for up to six hours after harvesting.

  Flavor Profile: Earthy, nutty, slight sweetness. Pairs well with fatty cuts, bone broth, and panic.

  Side Effects: Possible giggling, poor depth perception, and a tendency to find everything slightly funnier than it is.

  Warning: Avoid overconsumption in combat situations.

  James blinked, then laughed softly. “These are edible,” he said. “And mildly hallucinogenic.”

  Mira immediately stepped back. “No.”

  “What?” James asked. “I am not saying we eat them now.”

  “You are absolutely thinking it,” she said. “I can hear the recipes forming in your skull from here.”

  Gerrard eyed the mushrooms warily. “If I see you chewing on glowing fungus during a fight, I am filing a complaint.”

  “Where?” James asked. “With whom? The mushrooms?”

  Vhara walked around another patch, her steps sure and measured. “Hallucinations in a dungeon are invitations to die,” she said. “If you must use them, do so in camp, not here.”

  “I could dry them,” James said. “Powder them. Microdose for focus or creativity.”

  “No,” Mira said.

  Gerrard nodded in fervent agreement. “For once, I agree with her. No chef drugs.”

  James sighed. “Fine. I will limit us to medicinal applications and the occasional party.”

  Mira stared. “What part of no sounds like party to you?”

  He did not answer. He was already kneeling beside a different cluster, smaller caps clustered together like a tiny city.

  [Culinary Insight Activated]

  Item identified: Blue Drip Spores.

  Properties: Condensed mana residue. Not directly edible. Can be processed into tinctures or used as reagent.

  Side Effects: None when handled properly. Direct ingestion may cause mouth numbness and loss of dignity.

  Warning: Keep away from fire. Vapors may concentrate and induce dizziness.

  “Interesting,” he murmured. “These are more for alchemy. We could sell them.”

  “Assuming we live to reach a market again,” Gerrard said.

  James drew his knife, the metal catching the teal light. The blade felt steady in his hand, familiar. Mana prickled along his skin.

  [Knife Precision Activated]

  He slid the blade in at an angle, cutting cleanly through stalks without disturbing the surrounding caps. A small cluster dropped neatly into his waiting palm. He slipped them into a cloth pouch and tucked it into his inventory.

  Vhara watched him with one raised brow. “Take only what you can carry without slowing your blade,” she said.

  “Taking things is the point of a dungeon,” James replied.

  “Surviving is the point,” she corrected.

  James did not argue further.

  Instead, he worked faster.

  His knife moved with quiet confidence, slipping between stems, trimming clusters free with practiced motions. Caps vanished into his palm, then into the pouch, then into his inventory in a steady rhythm. Golds. Silvers. He caught himself smiling.

  “Clearance sale,” he murmured.

  Caps vanished into his inventory one after another. Golds. Silvers.

  James hummed under his breath, pleased.

  Mira pointed with her staff. “What about those?”

  Across the hollow, a series of thin fissures broke the ground. Steam puffed out in regular bursts, timed like slow breaths. Each exhale sent a ripple through the nearest fungi. The Mushglow Caps dimmed fractionally, then brightened.

  Vhara’s eyes narrowed. “The vents breathe. Move when they stop.”

  James watched one cycle. Steam, hiss, pause. Steam, hiss, pause.

  “Got it,” he said. “Dungeon humidity vents. Lovely.”

  He edged forward during a pause, testing the ground. Heat rose from the cracks even when they were not exhaling. He decided to keep his boots firmly out of the direct plume.

  Gerrard stayed well back. “You know, when I signed up to be a merchant, there was a form. It did not mention steam vents and hallucinations.”

  “You should read the fine print better next time,” James said.

  “I did,” Gerrard said. “That is the problem. There was none.”

  Something tickled James’s wrist.

  He frowned, looked down, and saw nothing.

  The tickle came again, higher this time, along his forearm.

  “Do not move,” Vhara said suddenly.

  James froze.

  “What is it?” he asked carefully.

  She did not answer immediately. She stepped closer, eyes scanning the mushroom carpet.

  The light shifted, and James saw it.

  At first he thought it was a shadow. Then the shadow moved independently of anything casting it. Tiny, pale shapes crawled along the underside of a Mushglow Cap in a dense cluster, each one no larger than a fingernail. They looked like mites carved out of glass, their bodies faintly luminous, their many legs ending in delicate hooks.

  They dropped from the cap in a small, glittering shower and landed on the stone. The moment they touched, they spread, fanning out in a pattern that felt uncomfortably deliberate.

  More clusters shifted in the distance. The mushroom bed shivered.

  Mira squeaked. “What are those?”

  The system chimed.

  [Culinary Insight Activated]

  Glowspore Mite

  Threat Level: Low individually. Moderate to High in swarms.

  Behavior: Drawn to movement and heat. Feed on spores and organic residue. Attach to surfaces and shed bioluminescent dust.

  Effect on Targets: Itching, local numbness, delayed luminescent marking.

  Warning: Do not inhale dense spore clouds.

  James’s eyes widened. “Ah. New friends.”

  The first wave of mites scurried toward his boots, tiny legs moving with unnerving speed.

  “Step back,” Vhara said sharply.

  He did.

  The mites followed.

  “Persistent little things,” Gerrard said.

  Another cluster dropped from a nearby cap, landing closer to Gerrard. They moved toward his shoes like he had just spilled nectar.

  Gerrard yelped and scrambled back, nearly tripping over a lump of glowing fungus. “Why are they chasing me?”

  “Body heat,” Mira said. “They go for the warmest target.”

  Gerrard clutched his chest. “Of course. My charming heart finally betrays me.”

  James flicked his hand.

  [Butchery Activated]

  The knife blurred. He swept it in a low arc, the flat of the blade skimming across the stone. The edge did not need to cut flesh; it needed to redirect. The force of the motion sent the front line of mites tumbling, scattering them like a pile of glinting sand.

  “Do not crush them,” he said. “They might release more spores.”

  “So how do we stop them?” Mira demanded.

  Vhara answered by moving.

  She stepped forward and slammed her heel into the stone. The impact sent a small shock through the ground. The nearest mites froze, their legs curling inward for a heartbeat, stunned by the vibration.

  “Like that,” she said.

  Mira lifted her staff. “Right. Vibration. I can do that.”

  She whispered a quick incantation. The gems along the head of her staff pulsed. She brought the staff down gently, not enough to crack the stone, but enough to send a soft wave through it.

  The Glowspore Mites in a wide ring spasmed, their tiny bodies curling and uncurling.

  James grinned. “Beautiful. Crowd control.”

  Gerrard had not moved. He stood in the middle of a slowly advancing circle of mites, eyes wide.

  “Do something,” he whispered. “Quickly.”

  Several mites had already reached his boots, climbing the leather and disappearing into the folds. A faint glitter began to dust the edges.

  “Gerrard,” James said, “do you trust me?”

  “No,” Gerrard said immediately.

  “Good,” James replied. “Lower your dignity and stand still.”

  Gerrard whimpered. “I hate this plan.”

  James stepped into the circle, careful not to crush too many mites. He swung his knife low and flat, not to cut but to push, the motion sending a shallow rush of air across the stone. The mites skittered and tumbled away from Gerrard’s boots in a messy ring.

  Then James reached into his inventory and pulled out a small glass jar with a metal lid.

  “I picked up a few empty ones at the market,” he said. “Figured I might need something to put ideas in.”

  He twisted the lid, then scooped a clump of mites with the flat of his blade, sliding them neatly into the jar.

  The mites hit the glass, tried to climb, and failed. Their tiny bodies glowed faintly, turning the jar into a dim lantern.

  Mira stared. “You are capturing them?”

  “They shed bioluminescent dust,” James said. “Imagine a broth that glows in the dark.”

  Gerrard made a strangled noise. “I do not want my intestines to glow.”

  “Not the intestines,” James said. “The presentation.”

  [Culinary Insight Activated]

  Sample scanned: Glowspore Mite.

  Edibility: Conditional. Safe when boiled thoroughly and strained. Raw ingestion may cause mouth tingling, minor numbness, and the feeling that your teeth are humming.

  Flavor Profile: Mild, slightly nutty, texture similar to tiny shrimp shells.

  Culinary Potential: Broth enhancement, decorative luminescent oils, novelty tavern dishes.

  Risks: Excessive quantities may stain teeth and nails temporarily.

  “Excellent,” James said. “We have confirmed they are technically food.”

  “That is not reassuring,” Gerrard said. “Get them off me.”

  “Lift your foot,” James said.

  Gerrard obeyed. James scraped the remaining mites off the leather, sending them skittering into another small pile that he herded quickly into the jar. He snapped the lid shut.

  The glass jar now glowed with soft blue light. Tiny bodies bumped against the inside like ill tempered stars.

  Mira eyed it warily. “You are going to name that jar, are you not.”

  “Probably,” James said. “Later.”

  They were not done.

  More mites were dropping from distant caps, drawn by the disturbance. The fungal bed underfoot shivered faintly with the movement.

  Vhara tightened her grip on her sword. “If we stay here, they will drown us in tiny bites,” she said. “We move.”

  “Where?” Gerrard demanded.

  Vhara pointed to a stone outcrop rising from the fungus carpet near the far wall, relatively clear of growth. “High ground. Less contact.”

  Mira nodded quickly. “Right. Less fungus. Fewer mites.”

  James glanced at the path between them and the outcrop. It was a patchwork of Mushglow Caps, Blue Drip Spores, and other, less identified specimens. Steam vents dotted the way, still exhaling in their slow rhythm.

  “Timing and light feet,” he said. “Vhara, you lead. I will follow your steps exactly.”

  Gerrard looked at his boots as if considering divorce. “I am not built for light feet.”

  “Then be built for accurate feet,” James said.

  They waited for a cycle of vents to exhale and pause. Then Vhara moved.

  She stepped onto the thickest caps, using them like stepping stones. The caps felt dense and rubbery underfoot, firm enough to take weight without tearing. Her weight displaced spores in brief clouds that hung in the damp air. The mites turned toward the disturbance, but by the time they reached the space, her foot was already gone.

  James followed at a quick pace. Behind him, Mira whispered under her breath, small gusts of air puffing from the tip of her staff to push spores away from her face.

  Gerrard whispered spells, numbers, and promises he had never meant to memorize, and did his best not to look down.

  Twice James’s boot slipped. Both times Vhara’s hand shot back, catching his elbow, steadying him without looking.

  The second time, a small puff of spores burst right next to his face. He held his breath and turned his head, feeling the tiny particles brush his skin.

  James pulled up a quick status check as he moved.

  [Status Check]

  Hallucinogenic Spore Exposure: Minor.

  Effects: Negligible at current dose.

  Advisory: Do not inhale more.

  “Good to know,” he muttered.

  “What?” Mira asked, tight voiced.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Everything is perfectly normal and not at all wavy.”

  The path narrowed near the steam vents. Here, the stone rose in narrow ridges, forcing them into single file.

  A vent hissed, then exhaled.

  Vhara stepped between two vents at the exact moment they released, timing her movement with the hiss. The vents were narrow slits in the stone, breathing sideways in low, sweeping bursts rather than straight up. The sudden heat washed across the stone, and the mites recoiled at once, legs scrambling as they scattered away from the heat.

  James followed a heartbeat later, copying her timing. Heat licked at his boots, close enough to sting, but the mites broke away just the same.

  Finally they reached the outcrop.

  Vhara pulled herself up with a small jump and turned, offering a hand. James passed the glowing jar up first, then climbed after her. Mira scrambled up with less grace but more determination. Gerrard arrived last, wheezing, and allowed James and Vhara to haul him onto the rock.

  They crouched there, four figures perched above a glowing sea.

  Below, the mites continued to move, but without fresh disturbance they began to settle, returning to the undersides of caps. The hollow’s light dimmed and brightened with their pulse.

  Gerrard lay flat on his back, chest heaving. “I am going to die,” he said. “Not from monsters. From cardio.”

  Mira sat cross legged, clutching her staff. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes wide. “Dungeon,” she whispered. “We are in an actual dungeon.”

  Vhara stood near the edge of the outcrop, watching the far side of the cavern. Her profile was sharp in the teal light.

  “Do they climb?” James asked, nodding toward the mites.

  “Not well,” Vhara said. “They grip warmth and movement. Stone does not answer back.”

  Leather gave seams and warmth. Stone gave neither.

  “Good,” Gerrard muttered. “At least something here has standards.”

  James sat, propping his elbows on his knees. The jar of mites glowed at his side, casting small shifting shadows across his hands.

  “First impressions,” he said. “Dungeon is humid, luminous, and full of things that itch.”

  “You are enjoying this,” Mira said.

  “Professionally fascinated,” he corrected. “I am also reasonably aware that we could die horribly at any moment. Both things can be true.”

  Vhara closed her eyes. “The power here is thin,” she said. “It gets heavier below.”

  James lifted his head. “Something bigger than mites?”

  “Yes.”

  The hollow listened with them.

  For a few heartbeats there was only the slow hiss of vents and the drip of blue droplets. Then the cavern tightened for an instant, a faint tremor passing through the space without cracking stone or breaking form.

  A low sound rolled through the chamber.

  It settled into the bones rather than the air, a deep, resonant note that buzzed in James’s teeth. The Mushglow Caps dimmed together for a breath, then brightened again, the entire cavern reacting as one.

  Mira’s fingers tightened around her staff. “That was not my imagination,” she whispered.

  Gerrard sat up slowly. “Tell me that was the wind.”

  “There is no wind,” Vhara said. “That was the dungeon. Or something in it.”

  James felt the sound settle into his bones like the bassline of a very slow song.

  He smiled.

  “That one,” he said softly, “is definitely edible.”

  Mira closed her eyes. “Of course that is your first thought.”

  Gerrard dropped his face into his hands. “We are going to get eaten.”

  Vhara looked toward the tunnel that led deeper into the glow, her expression unreadable.

  “Let us make sure,” she said, “that if something eats anyone, it will be us who eat first.”

  The dungeon pulsed around them, quiet for now, waiting.

  They climbed down from the rock and began to walk again, following the breath of the hollow toward whatever had growled.