The labyrinth breathed.
Not in the poetic way bards spoke of ancient ruins, but in the wet, labored rasp of something alive and dying. Air moved through the cracked stone throat of the dungeon in slow, heaving gusts, carrying the stench of moldering bone and old blood. Torchlight flickered across slime-slick walls, painting everything in sickly orange and deep shadow. Every footstep echoed twice—once from the stone beneath, once from the unseen ceiling far above.
Elias tasted iron before he saw it.
The goblin chieftain's axe had caught one of their vanguard across the shoulder, a glancing blow that still sprayed hot crimson across Elias's cheek. He didn't flinch. His mind was already three moves ahead: the archer on the left ledge would loose in half a heartbeat, the shaman behind the throne was channeling something foul, and the chieftain itself was overextended.
"Left flank, shield wall," he said, voice low, calm. The words carried anyway—soft, firm, impossible to ignore. "Archers, suppress the ledge. Vespera, bind the shaman."
They moved like extensions of his will. They always did.
He stepped forward, longsword humming faintly with runic light, and met the chieftain head-on. Steel rang. Sparks scattered. The creature was huge—twice his bulk, corded muscle under mottled green hide—but Elias was faster. Always faster. A feint high, a twist low, and the blade found the gap beneath the ribcage. Hot blood gushed over his gauntlet, thick and stinking.
The chieftain bellowed. Elias twisted the sword and ripped it free.
Silence fell, broken only by the wet thud of the body hitting stone.
Then came the cheers. His party—his family, or so he'd believed—crowded around him. Hands clapped his shoulders. Someone laughed in relief. Vespera slipped through the press and pressed herself against his side, her body warm and soft through the thin leather of her armor.
"You were brilliant," she murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear. Her voice was honey over broken glass—sweet, sharp, unforgettable. "Always so brilliant."
He allowed himself a small smile beneath the half-helm. Her scent—night-blooming jasmine and steel—filled his lungs. He turned to kiss her, tasting sweat and victory on her mouth.
He never saw the dagger.
Pain exploded between his ribs, white-hot and impossible. His breath caught. The world tilted. He looked down—slowly, stupidly—at the blade buried to the hilt in his side. The hand that held it belonged to Torren, the quiet ranger who'd owed Elias his life twice over.
Torren's face was blank. Apologetic, almost.
Another blade punched through his back. Then another. The sounds were wet, intimate. Someone grunted with effort. Elias staggered, sword clattering from numb fingers. Blood flooded his mouth, copper-bright.
He fell to his knees in the goblin chieftain's cooling blood. It soaked through his trousers, warm and sticky.
Vespera stepped into view.
Her crimson hair caught the torchlight like fresh spilled wine. Her eyes—once warm when they looked at him—were cold now, calculating. She crouched, fingers brushing his cheek with mocking tenderness.
"Poor Elias," she said softly. "Always so trusting."
He tried to speak. Only blood came.
She smiled. It was beautiful. It was cruel.
"You really thought I loved you?" A light laugh, like bells made of knives. "You were useful. Your plans, your reputation—everyone listened when you spoke. But I was always in your shadow. Always the pretty ornament on the great tactician's arm."
She straightened. Behind her, the party stood in a loose semicircle. None of them would meet his eyes.
"I needed them to follow me," she continued. "Not you. And now… well. Dead heroes don't give orders."
Elias's vision blurred. The pain was distant now, wrapped in cotton. But the hatred—that burned clear and bright.
Vespera turned away. She walked to Torren, hips swaying, and pressed her body against his. Her fingers threaded through the ranger's hair. She kissed him—slow, deliberate, making sure Elias could see every flick of tongue, every soft moan she fed into Torren's mouth.
Torren's hands found her waist. Then lower.
She broke the kiss only long enough to glance back at Elias. Her eyes glittered.
"Watch closely, love," she purred. "This is what real desire looks like."
Her armor came off in practiced motions—pauldrons, cuirass, the lace-trimmed top beneath. Her breasts spilled free, heavy and perfect, nipples already peaked in the chill air. Torchlight painted gold across her skin. She sank to her knees in the blood-soaked stone, dragging Torren down with her.
The sounds that followed were obscene.
Wet mouths. Gasps. The slick rhythm of bodies. Vespera's moans rose in pitch as Torren entered her, her back arching, thighs wrapping around his hips. Blood smeared across her pale skin—goblin blood, Elias's blood—making her look like some profane goddess of war and lust.
Elias watched it all through tunneling vision.
Every thrust felt like another knife in his gut.
Every cry from her lips was poison in his veins.
He memorized it. Every detail. The way her breasts bounced with each impact. The way her nails raked down Torren's back. The cruel, triumphant smile she aimed at Elias when she came—shuddering, clenching, spilling slick fluids onto the stone between her spread thighs.
When it was over, she stood. Didn't bother dressing fully. Just wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked down at him.
"Goodbye, Elias."
They left him there.
The torches guttered one by one. Darkness crept in.
But Elias did not die.
Hatred kept him breathing.
Hatred dragged him, inch by agonizing inch, across the blood-slick floor. Hatred forced air into lungs that burned with every breath. Hatred whispered her name like a prayer and a curse.
Vespera.
He would live.
He would find her.
And when he did, no blade would touch her throat.
His hands would.
The labyrinth swallowed his ragged breathing, but somewhere deep in the dark, something new was born.
A shadow with amber eyes.
And it was hungry.