Days had passed.
At first, Zortheus did not notice the silence.
He stood at the edge of the forest where he and Celeste usually met, listening to the wind brush through the leaves, watching the shadows stretch and shrink as the sun moved. He told himself she was simply being careful. She had warned him many times that meeting too often would draw attention. Humans noticed patterns. Humans whispered.
So he waited.
He waited the first day with patience.
The second day with quiet concern.
By the third, the forest felt emptier than before.
Zortheus had never been good at understanding time, but loneliness was something he understood well. Still, he endured it. He remembered her words, spoken with a soft smile.
"Just a few days," she had said, adjusting the basket of herbs on her arm. "You have to be patient."
He had frowned back then, arms crossed like a sulking child. "You say that every time."
Celeste had laughed, a gentle sound that always made his chest feel strange. "And every time, you survive."
He remembered how she teased him, how she would lean a little closer when she laughed, how she would look away right after, cheeks faintly red. Zortheus never understood why she did that, but it made him feel warm in a way he could not explain.
"You know have very loving family, especially my big brother who loves me a lot. He is a adventurer you know, he roams here and there and brings resources for the village and a gift for me" her smile shining bright.
Sometimes she spoke to him about the village. Sometimes she spoke about the sky beyond the forest. Sometimes she simply sat beside him, legs pulled close, humming softly while he watched over her in silence.
Those moments replayed again and again in his mind as the days dragged on.
By the end of the week, endurance turned into desperation.
Zortheus told himself he would only go close. Just to see. Just to make sure she was safe.
He did not know where Celeste lived. He had never asked. He did not know the names of the villagers. Humans had always been just shapes and sounds beyond her voice.
Still, he moved.
The forest resisted him as always, paths twisting, shadows shifting, but this time he forced his way through. His steps were heavy, his thoughts scattered.
Then he smelled something unfamiliar.
Smoke.
Iron.
Fear.
At the edge of the village, he saw it.
A body.
A human, hanging from a wooden frame, swaying gently in the wind. A crude sign was tied to the post beneath it, words carved deep and angry. Zortheus could not read them, but he did not need to.
He stood there, unmoving.
For a long moment, his mind went empty. His thoughts refused to connect. The world felt distant, like he was watching it from far away.
Then he noticed the hair.
The way it fell forward.
The way the rope had cut into the skin.
Something inside him broke.
Zortheus stepped closer, slowly, as if afraid the image would vanish if he moved too fast. His breath grew uneven. His hands trembled.
"No…" he whispered, though no one was there to hear it.
Memories crashed into him all at once. Her laughter. Her voice. The way she scolded him when he trained too hard. The way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't watching.
The confusion lasted only a heartbeat.
Then understanding arrived.
And with it, rage.
Zortheus entered the village.
Not as the demon who had once wandered the forest in quiet curiosity.
But as something shattered.
Homes burned as he passed them. Walls collapsed under his fists. Villagers ran, screamed, begged, sounds he barely registered. His vision narrowed. His heart pounded so violently it felt like it would tear itself apart.
Dark magic surged from his body, wild and uncontrolled. It cracked the ground, twisted the air, swallowed screams whole.
He did not plan. He did not think.
He killed.
One by one, then many at once.
Hands, claws, shadows, magic, everything became a weapon.
Fear filled the village, thick and choking.
Faces blurred together. Voices overlapped. Blood stained the earth.
All of it burned away beneath his fury.
And somewhere in that destruction, something ancient responded.
The land screamed.
Magic flooded the area, not shaped by intention, but by emotion, grief so deep it poisoned reality itself. The ground warped. Space folded. Walls rose where none had been before. Corridors formed from shadow and memory.
A dungeon was born.
But Zortheus did not notice.
When the village fell silent, when nothing moved except drifting ash, he stood at the center, breathing hard. His hands were soaked. His body shook.
Then he saw her.
Celeste's body lay where she had been taken down, lifeless and cold. Zortheus dropped to his knees beside her, gathering her into his arms as if she might wake if he held her tightly enough.
Tears streamed down his face, unstoppable, burning.
"I'm here," he whispered, voice breaking. "I came… I came back."
There was no answer.
He stayed there.
Minutes turned to hours. Hours to days.
He did not move.
The world around him continued to change. The dungeon grew, shaped by his sorrow and regret. Walls pulsed softly, as if breathing. Creatures formed from remnants of souls and emotions wandered its halls.
But Zortheus remained where he was.
For years, he held her remains, refusing to let go. He did not sleep. He did not eat. He did not notice the passing of time.
The dungeon became his prison.
And his punishment.
To the world beyond the forest, only rumors remained. Tales of an evil dungeon. Stories of a king without a crown, ruling monsters and shadows.
No one knew the truth.
No one knew her name.
Yet deep within the dungeon, in its very heart, a skeleton rested in his arms, silent proof of a love the world never allowed to live.
And that sorrow never faded.
It simply waited.