I sprinted after her. One step across the threshold— The world shattered.

  Not a step. A fall through layers of cold, wrong space. My stomach lurched, vision fracturing like broken glass. The crash of waves cut off mid-surge. Silence dropped like a hammer.

  The air stank of ancient dust, old bones, ozone after a lightning strike. I landed hard on something that crunched—my boots slipped. I caught myself against roots? No, petrified wood twisted into a dome overhead. Pulsing fungal growths clung to them, casting sickly light. Green and purple. Wrong colors.

  I looked down. Shattered mirrors. Hundreds of them, thousands. Each shard reflected a distorted face—my face, Lena's face, faces I didn't recognize. The glass cut through the sole of my boot with every step.

  Soft weeping echoed from the walls. Not wind. Not water. The walls themselves were crying.

  Lena stood a few paces ahead, fists clenched. Heat shimmered around her knuckles. "It's... a heart." Her voice was quiet, awed. "We're inside its heart."

  Great. We crossed a threshold into a god's heartburn. This is fine. Everything is fine.

  A corridor sloped away into darkness. Deep. Hungry. From its depths—a dry, skittering rustle.

  Movement flickered in the mirror shards at my feet—not our reflections. Shadows. Maybe a dozen, maybe more, detaching from the corridor walls and scuttling up toward the dome on too many limbs. They hadn't seen us yet. My throat tightened.

  "Lena." I kept my voice low, steady. "Around us. It's a trap."

  I moved—three running steps and my back slammed against hers. Solid impact, reassuring weight. Spear up, shield braced. A small pocket of safety in this nightmare.

  "Where?!" She snapped, head swiveling.

  The shadows dropped. No warning, just sudden terrible motion. They were shaped like people—almost. Limbs too long, joints bending wrong. Blank oval faces with no eyes, no mouths. But they saw us. I felt it like a physical touch, cold and invasive. Their limbs clicked against the glass floor—not footsteps. The sound of breaking bones.

  What the hell were these things? My hands trembled on the spear shaft. I forced them still. Calm down. Breathe.

  One lunged. I drove my spear forward—the point punched through shadow-flesh, resistance like stabbing wet cloth. A soundless shriek vibrated in my skull. I spun, reversed my grip—the spear butt whipped around, CRACK, scattered the thing into mist. A fading sob hung in the air where it had been.

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  Heat surged beside me. "Ugly little grief-gnats!" Lena snarled. A flailing limb cut toward her face—she ducked under it, fist already igniting. Her knuckles smashed into the phantom's core. Fire erupted inside the shadow, silent and violent and beautiful. For a split second the flames around her hands dimmed, strain flickering across her face.

  Then they flared back brighter. Embers drifted down like snow. Her second strike connected—the phantom staggered back three steps, form flickering like a dying candle.

  Two down. One wounded.

  The remaining four converged. Two on me, two on Lena. A razored limb raked across her shoulder—cloth tore, blood welling in a thin angry line, dark against pale skin. She gritted her teeth.

  "Is that all you've got?!"

  Lena, stop taunting the nightmare creatures, please.

  The skittering from the corridor intensified, louder and closer. More were coming.

  "Lena, we've got company!" I jabbed my spear at a lunging phantom. It darted left—too fast. I pivoted, brought my shield up. THUD. The creature slammed into bronze, bounced off dazed.

  "I noticed!" She drove her fist through another shadow-face. It burst like a soap bubble. "Got any brilliant ideas?"

  "Yeah. Don't die—I'm still thinking!"

  "Wow. Tactical genius."

  I planted my feet. Minthe's drills surfaced through the panic. Swift strike. Center mass. Don't overextend. I thrust. The spear point pierced the wounded phantom's flickering core. It unraveled with a soft sigh, dissolving into nothing.

  Three down.

  I pivoted left, swung the butt end around. CRACK. Wood connected with shadow-skull. A visible split ran through its form.

  Lena saw the opening. A fierce grin split her face. "My turn!"

  Her fist punched clean through the stunned phantom's torso. It vaporized—incandescent embers scattering. She planted her rear foot, all coiled muscle and momentum. A devastating roundhouse kick connected with the last one.

  The Flame roared on impact. The sound—metal on an anvil, a blacksmith's forge at full heat. The creature flew back, slammed into the petrified roots, dissolved into black sludge.

  Silence. Just the weeping walls and our ragged breathing.

  My arms trembled. The spear shaft was slick with sweat. Lena's shoulders slumped, sweat beading at her temple.

  The skittering resumed. Louder. Closer. Press forward? Fall back?

  Lena wiped ichor from her cheek. "They're not stopping." She was panting. "We can't hold this chamber forever."

  "What are these things?" My voice came out tight. "I've never seen monsters like this."

  Her gaze shifted. The battle-fury drained, replaced by something softer. Sadder. "They're not beasts." She nudged the dissolving sludge with her boot. "They're pain given legs."

  Pain given legs. Of course. Why would a nightmare dungeon spawn anything normal?

  She looked toward the corridor. The skittering built—a tide of clicking limbs and blank faces. "This chamber's a deathtrap." Her chin jerked toward the sloping passage. "Two choices: fall back, tell Dia. Or take the fight to them. Find a choke point."

  "Show this weed-tower we're not just lost kids." A pause. Her ember eyes met mine.

  The skittering peaked. A dozen new phantoms spilled into the chamber, blank faces turning toward us in perfect, terrible unison. We were the only warmth there. The only life.

  Lena stood, her fists igniting—brilliant, defiant light in the dead air. "Well... shit." The word hung between us. "Guess we're doing this the hard way." She looked at me, ember eyes holding mine.

  "Stay close."

  "Wasn't planning on a solo adventure." I adjusted my grip on the spear. The wood was still slick with sweat and ichor.

  The horde advanced. Their clicking filled the chamber—a tide of shadow and malice and broken things. I planted my feet.

  Focus. Breathe.

  The first phantom lunged. I met it with steel.

  Here goes nothing.