The air was thick—damp, like the dungeon was sweating. Moss clung to the walls, and the flickering torches barely lit more than a few feet ahead. Wren’s boots made no sound on the stone floor, but his heart pounded with every step.

  They were on Floor 3 now, and it wasn’t like the ones above. Here, the monsters didn’t scream when they died. They laughed.

  “Wren,” said Kael, the taller boy who’d joined Wren and Silas on the first day. “Something’s watching us.”

  “I know,” Wren replied quietly, gripping his daggers tighter. “Don’t let your guard down.”

  They moved slowly, inching forward through the foggy corridor. Silas had a deep cut across his arm from the last fight—some twisted creature with six legs and no face. Wren had helped bandage it, but the way Silas winced with every movement made it clear: they weren’t invincible.

  “Hey… do you guys hear that?” Silas whispered.

  There was a skittering sound, like claws scraping across stone. Then silence.

  Then—

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  A screech.

  It dropped from the ceiling—huge, spindly, with limbs that bent the wrong way. Its body pulsed like it was breathing through its skin. Wren reacted fast, sliding beneath its first strike and slashing upward. His blade dug deep—but not enough.

  Kael roared and swung his sword, but the creature dodged unnaturally, like its bones were made of smoke. It lashed out, cutting across Kael’s chest.

  Silas froze.

  “Silas!” Wren shouted. “Move!”

  But Silas couldn’t. The fear had locked his legs in place.

  The monster turned. Its head—or what looked like a head—opened wide like a blooming flower of teeth, lunging at Silas.

  Wren threw his dagger.

  It hit true, right between the thing’s eyes—or eye sockets. It screamed and writhed, and Kael didn’t hesitate—he finished it with a heavy swing, slicing through bone and sinew.

  The creature collapsed.

  But Wren wasn’t looking at it. He was staring at Silas—who was still frozen.

  Wren walked over, placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

  Silas was shaking. “I—I couldn’t move… I was going to die…”

  “You didn’t,” Wren said softly. “But next time? You fight.”

  Silas nodded slowly, tears in his eyes.

  Kael sat down, breathing heavy, blood soaking his shirt. “We’re not ready for this.”

  Wren didn’t respond right away. He looked down at his hands—blood on his fingers, his blade coated in gore. His heart was still racing.

  He had killed again.

  And yet… he didn’t feel relief. Just a strange kind of weight settling into his chest.

  Later, as they set up camp in a sheltered room they’d cleared, Wren sat alone, sharpening his daggers. He didn’t speak much. He just listened—to the crackle of the fire, the distant howls echoing through the dungeon, and the sound of his thoughts.

  Was this what it meant to be an adventurer?

  Not glory.

  Not treasure.

  Just surviving.

  And protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves.

  That night, Wren didn’t sleep. He stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, blades resting on his lap.

  In the silence, a promise formed in his heart.

  “If I have to carry this weight to keep others alive… then so be it.”

  He didn’t know it yet, but this was the first time someone would whisper the name:

  Echo Walker.