Dungeon of Night

The wind howled in the distance, a constant, unsettling noise that seemed to echo through the bones of the land. The ground beneath Caspian's boots was uneven, littered with broken rocks and sparse patches of brittle grass. As he walked, the shard in his hand grew heavier, the pulse of energy beneath it becoming more pronounced, as though it was alive and aware of his every movement.

The man who had spoken to him—who had given him the shard—was already out of sight. Caspian had tried to call out to him, but the words died on his tongue. There was something wrong about that man. Something cold.

Caspian quickened his pace. His mind was a fog of confusion and fear, but it was beginning to clear, piece by piece. He needed to survive. If this dungeon was the only answer, then it was the only way forward. He had no choice.

Ahead of him, the ground sloped downward into a darkened valley. Jagged stone walls rose on either side, narrowing until they converged into an opening just wide enough for a man to pass through. The entrance to the dungeon.

It was enormous, the stone archway towering overhead, etched with symbols that twisted and warped in the low light. The air around it seemed to shimmer with an unnatural energy. The hairs on the back of Caspian's neck stood up. His instincts screamed at him to stop, to turn around and run.

But he couldn't.

With a deep breath, Caspian stepped forward, his pulse quickening as he crossed the threshold.

The darkness inside was suffocating. It felt like something pressing against him, something ancient and hungry. The only light came from the faint glow of his shard, now pulsing with a dull, eerie radiance that seemed to guide him deeper into the maze-like interior.

He took a few more steps, his boots echoing against the stone floor. The silence here was worse than the howling wind outside. It was oppressive, like the dungeon itself was holding its breath, waiting.

A soft rustling broke the stillness. Caspian froze, every muscle in his body tense, his senses on high alert. Something was moving in the dark.

A figure emerged from the shadows—humanoid, but hunched and twisted. Its skin was stretched tight over bones, pale and mottled with black veins. The thing's eyes gleamed with a faint, unnatural light, and its mouth hung open in a grotesque grin.

Caspian's hand went to the shard instinctively, but he didn't know how to use it as a weapon. It felt like nothing more than a sharp piece of metal, an object he had no control over. He had no sword, no armor—just his wits and the growing sense of dread that gnawed at his insides.

The creature hissed, its tongue flicking like a serpent's, as it crept closer.

"Stranger," it rasped in a voice that grated against Caspian's nerves. "Hungry."

The air around them thickened. The dungeon was alive, and it was hungry.

Caspian's heart pounded in his chest. Without thinking, he took a step back, but the creature lunged at him with terrifying speed. Its claws raked the air, leaving a trail of sickly mist in their wake.

Instinct kicked in. Caspian twisted to the side, just narrowly avoiding the creature's claws. His breath came in ragged gasps as his feet scrambled against the uneven ground. The creature hissed again, its eyes glowing brighter, more frantic.

He raised the shard in defense, though it felt like nothing more than a useless scrap in his hand. But the creature didn't seem to care about the shard—it was focused on him, its mouth opening wider, as if ready to devour him whole.

Survive, Caspian thought, the word a mantra that filled his mind. He couldn't die here. Not now. He was meant to—what? To what end? The thoughts spiraled, but there was no time. He was in the dungeon.

He ducked low, narrowly dodging another slash, and in that moment, his body moved without thinking. The shard was in his hand, and he drove it into the creature's side with all the strength he could muster.

There was a sickening squelch as the shard sank deep into the creature's flesh, and it let out an inhuman screech, staggering back. The pulse from the shard surged violently through his hand, sending a shock of energy through his arm. The creature staggered, clutching at its wound, but it didn't fall.

Yet.

Caspian didn't wait. He pulled the shard free, his mind racing. The thing was still moving, still coming at him with bloodied claws and rage in its eyes.

It was faster than he was, but not for long.

Caspian's grip tightened on the shard, his senses sharpening. He didn't know what he was doing, didn't know how to fight, but something inside him understood—he could feel the pulse of the dungeon, feel the flow of energy like an extension of his own blood.

He raised the shard one last time, driving it down into the creature's skull.

The thing shrieked one final time before collapsing, its body going limp as the glow faded from its eyes.

Caspian staggered back, his breath ragged. His body ached from the fight, but he was alive. Barely. He looked down at the shard, now slick with the creature's blackened blood.

The dungeon was alive.

And it was watching him.