The darkness was not a void. It was a living substance, thick, pressing against their eyelids and filling their lungs with its clammy humidity. But for the Awakened, it was only another veil to pierce.
The first to move was Zirel. He hadn't seen the creature reposition itself—he had felt it: a minuscule displacement of air, a disturbance in the stagnant flow of rot and mildew. His arm snapped forward like a spring, the dagger slicing through the black with a dry hiss. The blade struck something hard, then something softer. A wet crack, followed by a hiss of rage and pain that tore through the silence, told him he'd found his mark.
That was the signal.
The tunnel erupted into a chaos of steel and claws.
