39th Floor Camp
The descent from the 40th floor had been quiet- too quiet for Daz's liking. Even with the crumbling tension in the group, the air wasn't thick with fear anymore. That should've been a good thing, a blessing, but to Daz, it felt like a noose.
He watched from the edge of the flickering campfire as Caelun sat in the glow, cross-legged, examining the magic stone of a monster slain not longa ago, before tossing it into the waiting maw of that monstrous hellhound. The demi-god's golden eyes reflected the firelight in a way that made Daz's stomach twist. Not in fear- he refused to call it fear- but in disgust.
He's a monster. Just a monster who happens to be strong.
Strong enough to tear apart a floor 41 golem alone.
Strong enough that the others were smiling now- smiling at him.
Daz clenched his teeth. His right arm, or what remained of it, throbbed under the tight bandages. That wound had cost him everything- his dominance, his command, his image, a lifetime of work as an adventurer and one of the strongest in Orario after the incident and now he had to sit next to the very creature who tore it all away.
It wasn't Caelun who had saved them from the Minotaur on the 40th. It had been him. Daz. half-shattered lance in hand, rallying the line, taking the agro so the others could run. He had protected them. Yet all the girls remembered was Caelun arriving just afterward, grabbing the wounded beast by the horns and tearing its skull in half with his bare hands like it was a melon.
That display- that pompous show- was all it took to make them look at him like he was something special. Even Carmine, Especially Carmine.
He glared across the campfire, watching her sit a little too close to the giant. Laughing. Asking him questions. Admiring. Admiring that thing.
Daz forced himself to laugh- dry and jagged. He raised a half-empty canteen of cheap dungeon booze and toasted the brute in slurred Common, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"To our savior. Thanks for sparing me, monster."
There was a beat of silence before Thena translated in Telskyra, looking uneasy, omitting that last remark unbeknownst to Daz, though Caelun figured the general spirit of the word given the barely hidden bite behind it. Carmine shot Daz a sharp glance, but said nothing. Caelun, picking up another magic stone and examining it 'like a troglodyte', barely blinked. He paused only for a moment- those gold-ringed eyes flicking toward Daz- before returning to his rumination without a word.
The party tried to return to small talk after that, but the air had chilled.
Daz laid back, feigning a grin as he stared up at the rough ceiling of the 39th floor's cavern. His gut was sour with impotence and shame. The laughter around the fire dimmed into echoes. Sleep pulled at his eyes like lead, but he resisted.
'If something like that makes it to Ishtar- makes it to the surface- then I might as well already be dead already dead.'
'She'll see him. And she'll cast me aside for that horrid chimeric WRETCH.'
'What use is a broken, one-armed captain when a bone-crushing juggernaut walks among us?'
His last thought before sleep swallowed him was bitter and afraid:
'I would've gladly died down there, if it meant he went with me.'
They reached the 29th floor by dusk, the pace almost reckless. Caelun and Carmine moved ahead, sharing easy laughter and swigs from a half‐empty cask of wine, while the rest of the party lagged behind, exhausted but grateful for the monster‐free passage.
Daz watched them through narrowed eyes. The entire day had been too quiet. Not a single pack had tested them since the 38th floor. No hellhounds, no drakes, no lesser demons- nothing. Only Arson's silent vigil and the faint tang of dungeon dust on the breeze. It was obvious: monsters detected the scent of a power far beyond what their floor should hold, and they'd steered clear of this group. Caelun's hound was both a blessing and a curse- an omen to every creature bold enough to follow his trail.
All day, Carmine had lingered at Caelun's side- leaning on his shoulder for balance, helping him retie his cloak, even sharing the extra wine meant for celebrating his victories. His victories, Daz reminded himself. His triumph against that barbarian pack eight floors ago. Yet here Carmine was, giggling as Caelun described the aroma of ancient distilleries "back home," as though the silver‐maned giant were the hero she'd always dreamed of, not he- the captain of Ishtar's most stalwart vanguard, if that even was what they were talking about, he was half convinced they were already conspiring against him in their dirty monkey language.
As the waning torchlight painted long shadows across the cavern walls, Caelun draped an oversized bear pelt around Carmine's shoulders, tucking her close. She murmured a soft thanks- too quiet for anyone but Daz to hear- and settled against Caelun's broad chest, already drifting toward sleep. Caelun's great arms folded around her protectively as he seated himself upright before the fire, Arson curled at his feet.
Watching that scene felt like a blade twisting in Daz's gut. The wine sloshed at his own belt, now half‐forgotten. This is the last straw, he thought, fury coiling in his chest. They talk of celebration. They talk of camaraderie. But none of it is mine. Carmine's loyalty, the others' gratitude- it all belonged to that monster. Forced to hear the musings of MY party through a 3rd person lens because this filthy cretin cannot understand basic common.
He crouched to tend to his own bandages, though his hands shook too badly to stop the tremors. He had been weakened once already down here; another slip, another betrayal, would doom the entire party. He would not allow that- he would not stand by while this silver‐backed juggernaut claimed every shred of glory.
Daz cast one last, hard glance at Carmine's peaceful face, then at Caelun's impassive profile. Under the flicker of dying embers, he made his choice.
Tomorrow, he vowed, I will kill him.
He rose to his feet, voice faint and hushed in Common so only the darkness could hear. "He dies at dawn."
Then, with silent resolve, Daz slipped away into the shadows—knife in hand, heart pounding with grim purpose.
The fire crackled behind him, but no warmth reached his bones.
Tomorrow, Caelun would fall.