The path narrowed ahead, forcing the group to fall into a single-file line. One by one, they stepped into the tight corridor, their shoulders brushing the soot-streaked stone as the ceiling dipped lower with each step. The walls wept heat, and the scent of scorched earth and old ash clung to the air like a warning.
Zay was eighth in line. With each step—twelve in total—they shuffled forward, the soles of their boots scraping across loose rocks that shifted beneath them. The stone crunched underfoot, muffled slightly by the heat-repelling runes stitched into their garments. Even with enchantments, sweat beaded on foreheads and backs as they moved. Breathing grew heavier—not from effort, but from the weight of the air, thick with the dry bite of ancient flame.
They ducked their heads as the stone ceiling dipped just enough to graze hair and hoods. The rock here was blackened, charred by exposure to the lingering heat of the tunnels beyond. No one spoke. The silence, paired with the echo of their footsteps, created a strange rhythm—twelve slow, precise steps, then stillness.
On the thirteenth step, Vyker came to a halt.
Before him stood a door forged entirely from Flamebrick. It looked almost alive, like coals pressed into form. Cracks veined across its surface, each one glowing from within, as though magma slumbered inside it.
Vyker placed a hand on the door, fingers resting against the warmth like one greeting an old adversary.
"This is the entrance to the Pyrefang Tunnels," he said, his voice steady, low, and sharp. "Once we go in, stay close. If you fall behind, you won't find your way back. No one's coming for you if you get lost. Got it?"
His eyes swept over each of them. There were no jokes. No second warnings.
Zay met his gaze and gave a silent nod, as did the others.
With a push, Vyker opened the door.
Heat slammed into them—a wall of it, like stepping into a furnace that had been waiting centuries to exhale. Even with the layered enchantments woven into their cloaks, the sheer intensity drew instinctive winces and hisses of discomfort.
They stepped through—one by one, again.
The stone walls glowed with vein-like trails of flame, weaving along the surface like molten vines. The floor beneath their feet burned a dull orange, too hot for bare skin, but just tolerable under rune-protected boots. The air rippled with the dance of firelight, casting shifting shadows that made the tunnels feel alive, as if watching them.
It was silent—no wind, no drip of water, only the distant crackle of fire echoing through stone veins. The tunnel yawned open ahead, wide enough now for them to walk shoulder to shoulder, but none dared break formation.
They pressed deeper into the Pyrefang Tunnels, the path winding like the throat of a dormant dragon. Every few feet, flames burst from small vents along the walls, illuminating ancient runes carved into the stone.
They walked another thirty steps in near silence. Footsteps echoed—muted by heat, amplified by anticipation. Beneath their boots, the floor cracked and hissed as if protesting every step.
And then, the tunnel opened.
The group stepped into a wide, circular chamber—the ceiling stretched high above, lost in darkness, though the heat still radiated downward like the breath of a slumbering dragon. Pillars of obsidian stood at each corner, twisted and cracked, as if they had once held something up but were now only reminders of collapse.
In the center of the chamber lay a scorched, blackened crest carved into the floor—an ancient sigil resembling a five-pronged claw, burned into the stone by some force long forgotten.
Five tunnels branched out from this room.
The first tunnel glowed faintly red, heat shimmering from within like a mirage. Sparks drifted lazily down the passageway, and the scent of sulfur was strongest here.
The second was jagged and narrow, its walls covered in obsidian scales that reflected firelight like shattered mirrors. A low wind whispered from within, sharp and cold despite the heat around them.
The third tunnel pulsed with a dim orange light, steady and rhythmic—like a heartbeat. The floor here was smoother, almost as if something had passed through it repeatedly over centuries.
The fourth tunnel was utterly silent and pitch black. Even the flames from the main chamber seemed to avoid it. The moment they looked into it, a cold sensation slithered down their spines, and the runes on their garments dimmed slightly.
The fifth was the widest, and bore the marks of battle. Scorch marks, claw gouges, and broken weapons were embedded in the walls. Something had fought to keep this path closed—or open.
Vyker came to a stop in front of the fourth tunnel—the one wrapped in unnatural silence and swallowed by shadow. The moment he halted, the rest of the group slowed behind him, the air thick with anticipation.
"This is the path we need to take," Vyker said, voice low but certain. His words didn't echo like they should have. The tunnel seemed to drink sound—devour it. "This leads to the Beast Room. To the beast known only as Pyre."
As the name left his mouth, a flicker of heat rolled through the room—not from the tunnel but from something deeper below.
"Pyre isn't just a creature," Vyker continued, stepping closer to the entrance. "It's a living flame. A will forged from hatred and bound to the tunnels during the first Scorchwake War. The scholars call it a Beast, but make no mistake—it remembers everything."
Zay stepped forward, narrowing his eyes at the yawning abyss before them. No flame dared light that path. Even the ambient heat, so fierce in the other tunnels, seemed to hesitate here—as though whatever was ahead burned not with fire, but with something colder, darker, older.
"Why does it look like death itself is waiting in there?" someone whispered from the back with a slight chuckle, trying to make an amusing situation.
Vyker didn't look away. "Because it is. Pyre kills not just with flame, but fear, hallucinations and distortion. Some say it has the power to burn the soul, and the body."
One of the younger Arbiters swallowed hard, adjusting the grip on her spear.
Zay, silent until now, took a single step forward, boots scraping softly against the cracked stone. His amethyst eyes had a faint glow, already alert to the shift in atmosphere.
"How far?" he asked.
Vyker inhaled slowly, then exhaled through his nose. "Two hundred steps, give or take. No turns. No branches. Just one straight descent to hell."
He drew his weapon—a hooked, twin-edged glaive etched with runes that shimmered like dying embers.
"Ready yourselves," he muttered. "Once we cross into the tunnel, it'll begin watching. It always does."
Zay said nothing, only unsheathed Evershade into his hand.
And then they entered—one by one.
The first five steps were uneventful, though the silence was a presence in itself, pressing on their ears like deep water.
By step twelve, the heat returned—but it wasn't natural. It crawled beneath their skin, whispering doubts into their minds.
By step thirty-five, the runes on their garments began to dim.
At step fifty, just as one of the Arbiters lifted hisfoot to take the next step, Vyker's arm shot out like a whip, halting everyone behind him. His hand was steady, eyes narrowed as he scanned the floor ahead. Without a word, he reached into a small inner pocket of his cloak and pulled out a folded strip of cloth.
He tossed it forward. The second it passed a thin, nearly invisible line, a grinding noise erupted.
CLANG.
Spiked slabs of blackened metal slammed in from both walls, shredding the cloth in an instant. The echo of it thundered through the tunnel like a beast roaring before retreating back into the walls.
Everyone stood still. The air turned cold again.
Vyker glanced over his shoulder. "Let's keep moving. We're getting closer."
No one said a word. They simply stepped forward, one after the other, stepping around the blood-streaked edges of the newly triggered trap.
By step one hundred, a soft, pulsating glow returned to the enchantments on their garments—subtle at first, but enough to light the edges of their silhouettes. It should've brought relief, but instead it just made the shadows ahead feel more unnatural, more sentient. The way the light moved wasn't natural—it avoided certain corners, danced too long in others.
Then came step one hundred thirty-seven.
A sudden cry tore him from the vision—not his own, but someone else's.
It was the woman from earlier—the one he'd helped on the bridge. She stumbled toward the edge of the narrow path, her eyes wide and unfocused, a hand outstretched toward a phantom figure only she could see.
She began to fall—half her body slipping over the edge.
Zay lunged.
His hand clamped around her wrist, squeezing hard—so hard she gasped. His grip was iron, unrelenting, and her eyes shot open in full clarity as she yelped in pain. The hallucination shattered like glass behind her gaze. She blinked, the tears still there, but her body trembling for another reason now.
Zay hauled her back to the path, breathing heavily.
"You good?" he asked, voice low and flat.
"I'm fine," she whispered with a faint smile, though her lips still trembled. "Name's Aris. You probably saved my life back there. Don't think I'll forget that."
Zay blinked, then gave a tight nod. "Zay," was all he said before falling back in line, not wanting to be left behind after Vyker's warnings. Aris followed close behind as they drew nearer to the Beast Room.
[Sequence Tasks]
Warning: There will be multiple tasks so your newly acquired Seal can increase its level to match the others. Failure to complete the first task will lock the Seal of the Demoness from further progression.
First Task: "Pain"
The heart will be in pain.
Proceed with complete understanding.
Zay scoffed, sarcasm lacing his thoughts. 'The hell does that mean? Please, be more vague than that.' He rolled his eyes as he shook his head slightly.