It was dark, the kind of darkness that seemed to cling to the skin and sink into the bones, a darkness that was not merely the absence of light but something colder, heavier, unsettling in its silence and depth. In that sea of black there stood a single source of illumination, a tombstone rising alone in the void, its pale light spreading out across the ground around it. The stone was tall and unmarked by time, its surface smooth and whole, its inscriptions etched in a language that none of those present could recognize.

It was not the sort of place one expected to find people gathered, and yet there they were, a group standing in uneasy stillness before the glowing stone, none daring to break the silence, none even willing to look at one another, as if speech itself would disturb something hidden in the air. All except one.

"What's taking him so long? Doesn't he have the slightest shred of common decency?" a sharp voice rang out, its owner stomping his foot in irritation. He was short, his features young and soft enough that some might have called him boyish, even cute, with his clean-shaven face and slightly overgrown brown hair. That impression, however, was broken almost immediately by the gleam of the blade he carried and the restless, almost unhinged look in his eyes.

This was Mathew Trace, heir of the Trace family, a modest viscount house tasked with managing diplomatic ties to the east. And as for whom he and the others were waiting on, the answer was clear, Jacob Skydrid, the man they had gone through no small effort to recruit, the man who was supposed to greatly increase their chances of surviving and succeeding in this expedition into the site.

Yet Jacob was not there, and worse, he was late by nearly an hour. Mathew was not merely irritated; he was seething. Even if the Skydrid family dwarfed his own in influence, even if Jacob's reputation excused much, Mathew was still nobility, and he could not accept being treated so dismissively.

He forced himself to breathe, to smooth the sharp edges of his temper, and turned his gaze upon the group assembled behind him. They were, in theory, among the finest knights and mages to be found at rank ten, and yet what did that mean?

Rank ten was a stepping-stone, the next rank reached often within five short years, and five years was not nearly enough time to gain true experience. Their nervousness bled out into the air around them; some shifted in place with trembling hands, others stood rigidly as though their bodies were locked in place, and not one of them gave Mathew confidence, except one.

Only one among them stood out, and Mathew's eyes lingered there. A mage, younger than most, with strikingly bright orange hair that set him apart instantly. His name was Joey, though Mathew rarely bothered to remember such details about subordinates.

What intrigued him more was not the name, nor the hair, but the boy's composure; in front of the site's ominous entrance, where the others struggled to hide their fear, Joey seemed untouched by it, his expression calm, his posture steady. Whether that steadiness was born of genuine strength or merely of ignorance, Mathew could not yet say.

"You lot, since Jacob is running late we might as well enter on our own," Mathew declared, his tone sharp enough to cut through the stillness. His words drew a visible reaction, most of the group stiffened, unease flashing in their eyes, and one among them even dared to speak up. "Sir Mathew, can't we wait a few more minutes?" the man asked, his voice trembling in spite of his effort to sound composed.

Mathew turned his head slowly, letting the silence stretch before he began to walk forward, each step deliberate, until he was standing directly in front of the one who had spoken. Without hesitation he raised his blade, the long curve of his katana gleaming faintly as he angled it until the edge rested against the man's throat. The weapon was forged from rare iron, its edge so refined that even the smallest movement promised death.

"Tell me," Mathew said quietly, his expression cold, "who is more important here, me or Jacob?"

The man swallowed audibly, his eyes locked on the blade inches from his skin, and after a moment he managed to stammer out, "Y–you are of course more important, sir… but it would be safer if we waited for Jacob."

There was no time for further words.

Swish.

Mathew's blade cut cleanly through his neck, the strike so swift that for an instant the man's expression remained frozen in place. No blood followed; the wound was sealed instantly as the katana burned with a deep red glow, its heat cauterizing flesh as easily as it split it. The body crumpled soundlessly, leaving the others staring in stunned silence.

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"No," Mathew said calmly, sheathing the blade in one smooth motion, "we enter the site now."

He turned his back on them and walked to the tombstone, his steps steady, his posture one of absolute confidence. Standing before the glowing stone, he exhaled slowly, clearing his mind of stray thoughts before placing his hand against the cold surface. The instant his palm touched the stone his vision was consumed by white, blinding and absolute.

Then, just as suddenly, the white was gone, along with the darkness and the tombstone. Mathew blinked, steadying himself as his surroundings resolved into something entirely different. One by one, the others began to appear around him, each of them dropping into the same space as if pulled from nowhere.

It was a library. Endless rows of bookshelves stretched out in every direction, their towering frames packed with volumes. Paintings hung neatly across the walls, their subjects strange and varied, while lights embedded in the walls and ceiling filled the room with a steady brilliance that left no corner in shadow.

Mathew wasted no time, his voice carrying firmly across the group. "Listen carefully. According to the information we've gathered this place is extremely dangerous. Not a single scout team has ever returned whole, so from here on we stay together, and we keep quiet." He glanced across their anxious faces, his expression brooking no argument, before turning to lead the way deeper into the unknown.

They managed to fall into order quickly enough, though Mathew knew that had little to do with discipline and far more to do with his authority, which none of them dared to question. He glanced back at them as they moved, counting nine in total where there should have been ten, though he considered the smaller number a blessing in disguise; from what they had learned during their preparations, a smaller party would be easier to move through the site, easier to conceal and harder to notice.

"Alright, let's move," he said at last, his voice sharp but steady, and with that he stepped forward, the others falling in behind him, Joey lingering at the very rear as if deliberately choosing the position. Mathew slipped a folded map from his pocket, a rough chart scrawled with only the most vital details. It was not comprehensive, but in truth it did not need to be; what little it contained mattered more than any number of extraneous notes.

'If we turn here,' Mathew thought, eyes flicking across the faded lines, 'the passage should be empty until we reach the eighth bookshelf. At that point, we'll need to quietly take down the sentries and move on before reinforcements arrive.'

This was the first step in a careful sequence, a plan developed over long nights of deliberation with his family's elders and based on multiple scouting runs. He had walked through it a dozen times in his mind, each stage prepared and accounted for.

Which was why he was utterly unprepared when, turning the corner, he came face to face with something.

His body reacted before his mind did, instinct making him jump back, the weight of his sword suddenly far too heavy in his grip. It resembled a man at first glance, yet the longer he looked the less human it seemed, and Mathew finally understood the vague descriptions the scouts had given, the half-coherent words that had sounded so foolish at the time. How could something look human but feel completely alien? How could a body hold familiar shapes while radiating wrongness?

And then he understood, this was what it meant. The thing before him was like an imitation, as if some being that had never seen a human closely had attempted to recreate one from memory, managing only a facsimile. The proportions were slightly off, the features just a shade too sharp or too soft, the eyes dull in a way no living man's eyes could be. Each mistake was minor, almost invisible in isolation, yet together they built into a visage that inspired only revulsion, a silent recognition that this creature was no person.

It was a monster.

His initial shock, then, was forgivable. Still, the moment the truth settled in, Mathew forced his fear down and found his voice, speaking with the urgency of command: "Quickly, surround it. We'll dispatch it fast and continue before more appear."

He turned sharply, and his face twisted in alarm, for rushing from the far side of the bookshelf was yet another of those creatures, its body moving with unnerving speed, far faster than his eyes wanted to follow, too fast for anyone nearby to react in time.

"Watch out!" Mathew managed to shout, but the warning fell short; the monster crashed into one of the members before she could even turn, its jagged teeth sinking into her throat and ripping her away with a single violent motion. His instincts flared, and Mathew barely threw himself aside, feeling the rush of air as the first monster leapt over him and landed squarely on another unfortunate soul, the sound of tearing and screaming filling the already chaotic room.

"Shit," Mathew muttered under his breath as he drew the katana from his side, the blade singing faintly as it left its sheath. He forced aura into his legs until the muscles burned, his body surging forward with sudden speed as he pushed off the ground, launching himself ahead in one swift motion.

With his hands steady he raised the sword high, aura crawling up and around the edge of the blade, and swung it downward in a wide arc meant to split the creature before him.

But just as the strike was about to land, a force seized him, pulling at his body with irresistible strength. His grip faltered, his momentum collapsed, and he found himself yanked back through the air, crashing down roughly at Joey's side.

His anger rose instantly, words ready to spill out in protest, until his eyes fixed on the space he had just occupied, where a third monster's strike carved through the air with lethal precision, missing him only because he had been dragged away.

Mathew breathed out slowly, a harsh, uneven breath, his gaze sweeping the chaos as more of the beasts tore through the group, their attacks merciless, the members flailing desperately in resistance. He clenched his jaw, the katana trembling faintly in his hand, before muttering under his breath with bitter certainty,

"Ah, we're fucked."

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