Dungeon of Night

The first thing Caspian felt was the weight of the world pressing against him—gritty, cold, and suffocating. The next thing he realized was that his eyes were wide open, but the world was… wrong.

He blinked, his breath shallow. He could still hear the distant crash of waves, the rustle of trees, but when he looked around, there was no ocean. No beach. No warm sun against his skin.

He was on the floor of a dank, stone room.

The air smelled like mold and old blood.

His body felt wrong. Too heavy. Too stiff. Not like the one he'd known before, the one that had died. That's right. Caspian remembered dying. He remembered being trapped in a fire, his last breath choked by smoke and heat.

And yet, here he was.

He pushed himself up, his hands pressing against cold stone, the sharp edges of broken bricks digging into his palms. His fingers were too long, too rough, like someone had cobbled together a man from scraps. His chest was thick with muscle he didn't remember ever having, and his legs felt… unfamiliar.

No. This wasn't right.

A groan escaped his lips as he stood, unsteady, and stumbled toward the only exit—a heavy wooden door that creaked in protest as he approached. With a grunt, he swung it open.

Outside, the air was thick with an unnatural chill, the sky overhead dark and bruised with clouds. The land stretched before him, barren and empty, the remnants of some forgotten civilization half-swallowed by the earth. The ground was cracked, and smoke rose from the jagged remnants of what could have once been a village.

No signs of life. Just the wind howling in the distance.

Caspian's heart pounded harder in his chest. There was no logical explanation for what he was seeing, what he was feeling. His mind spun in circles, grasping at the fragments of his past life—his death—and then nothing. Nothing but the void.

A voice broke through the haze, rough, like gravel scraping against stone.

"You there. You awake?" The voice was low, thick with years of experience in a world where trust had long been lost.

Caspian turned, his hand instinctively reaching for the sword at his side. But the weapon wasn't there. He wasn't sure how he knew, but the gut instinct was as real as the ground underfoot.

Instead, his eyes fell upon a figure emerging from the shadows. A man, older, scarred, with a jagged black mark across his neck, like some permanent stain of a past too grim to erase. His eyes were cold, but not cruel—just weary.

"Lost, are we?" the man asked, his lips twitching into something between a sneer and a grimace.

Caspian didn't respond, still struggling to make sense of the situation. His head swam with confusion. His voice didn't feel like his own when he finally spoke. "Where am I?"

The man shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "In the Dungeonlands, kid. You're in a hellhole. Only place left worth anything in this world."

Caspian's mind worked over the words, but they made no sense. "Dungeonlands?" he echoed, his mouth dry. "What does that mean?"

The man's eyes narrowed slightly, sizing Caspian up. "You don't know what a dungeon is? The hell are you, then? Someone's lost soul, huh?"

Caspian looked down at his hands again. These were not the hands of a person who belonged here. He felt something stir beneath his chest, a sharp pang of anger or fear. He couldn't tell which, but it burned just the same.

The stranger let out a harsh laugh. "Well, that explains it. You're a damn fresh one. Ain't you special."

Before Caspian could ask anything more, the man pulled something from his cloak—a shard of metal that glimmered faintly in the dull light. He tossed it to Caspian, who caught it out of reflex.

The weight of the shard felt familiar—too familiar. It wasn't just a weapon; it was a key.

A key to something.

"There's a dungeon," the man continued, nodding toward the dark horizon where jagged spires of stone broke through the earth. "That's where you'll find your answer. The world don't wait for anyone. You'll find your gear there, if you can survive the trials."

Caspian looked at the shard. A dull, heavy feeling settled in his gut. It was cold, but it was pulsing with something… alive.

He could feel it, deep inside. The dungeon. It was calling to him.

And despite every instinct screaming at him to run, to leave, to find a way out—he knew he wouldn't.

"I don't… I don't understand," he muttered, his grip tightening around the shard.

The man's eyes flicked from the shard to Caspian's face. "It doesn't matter whether you understand, kid. This place doesn't care. All that matters is what you do next. You either fight, or you die. Simple as that."

And before Caspian could ask another question, the man turned and began to walk toward the distant horizon, the jagged silhouette of the dungeon looming darkly in the distance.

Without thinking, Caspian followed.