A few days passed as the caravan trudged onward, the dark, unchanging tunnels seeming to stretch into infinity. Finally, they arrived at their next obstacle: the entrance to a tunnel that would lead them past Dulgal, a key route for their journey. However, as Zeveron had anticipated, it was sealed by a cave-in.

  The collapsed rocks and debris formed an imposing barrier, with no hint of light or passage beyond. Dust and rubble lay scattered around the site, evidence of the ancient collapse that had rendered this path impassable for years.

  Zeveron approached the blockage, hands on his hips as he surveyed the obstruction. “Well, it’s just as I figured,” he grumbled, stroking his thick beard. “Lucky for us, I came prepared. We’ve got enough black powder here to blast our way in—and back out again when we’re done.”

  The merchant gestured toward the barrels of explosive powder stored in one of the carriages. “We just need to set it up properly. Everyone, let’s get to work!”

  Kael, Zeveron, and the mercenaries sprang into action, unloading the heavy barrels and carefully rolling them toward the cave-in. The air was thick with tension, each step deliberate as they maneuvered the barrels into place.

  “Handle those carefully!” Zeveron barked, his voice sharp. “We’re not lighting a bonfire here. One wrong move and we’ll all be finding out what the afterlife looks like.”

  Kael carried two barrels with ease, his enhanced strength making the task seem effortless. He placed them precisely where Zeveron directed, while the mercenaries arranged smaller charges along weaker sections of the blockage.

  Gazelle hovered near the carriages, her hands fidgeting nervously. “Are you sure this is safe?” she asked, her voice tinged with worry.

  Zeveron waved a dismissive hand. “Safe enough if we’re careful. Besides, what’s life without a little risk? Trust me, lass—this isn’t my first time playing with black powder.”

  Once all the barrels were in position, Kael and the others retreated to a safe distance, moving the carriages far out of the blast radius. They set up a simple but effective detonator: a long fuse leading back to their position.

  Kael double-checked the placement of the charges before joining the group. “Everything’s ready,” he said, his tone calm.

  Zeveron nodded, pulling a small, well-worn flint striker from his pouch. “Right then,” he said with a grin, holding it up. “Let’s see if we can’t turn this pile of rubble into a doorway.”

  Everyone braced themselves as Zeveron struck the flint, igniting the fuse. The spark raced along the line, disappearing into the darkness as it neared the explosives.

  “Take cover!” Zeveron yelled, diving behind a sturdy outcropping of rock.

  The group huddled together, ears ringing as the blast shook the tunnel. The explosion was deafening, a thunderous roar that echoed endlessly through the vast network of tunnels. Dust and debris rained down, the ground trembling beneath their feet.

  When the noise finally subsided, Kael was the first to emerge from cover, his sharp eyes scanning the aftermath. Where there had once been an impassable wall of rock, there was now a jagged opening, the debris blown away to reveal a dark passage beyond.

  Zeveron clambered to his feet, brushing dust from his coat. “Hah! Perfect, if I do say so myself,” he declared, a note of pride in his voice.

  Kael approached the new opening cautiously, peering into the shadows. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and charred stone, but the way ahead was clear.

  “Good work,” Kael said simply, turning back to the group. “Let’s move. We’ve wasted enough time here already.”

  Zeveron nodded, motioning for the mercenaries to start reloading the carriages. “Aye, let’s not keep Dulgal waiting. Onward!”

  The caravan pressed onward through the oppressive darkness, their lanterns casting flickering light that barely held the shadows at bay. Zeveron kept his eyes fixed on the map, his brows furrowed in concentration. Every so often, he muttered under his breath, double-checking their position to ensure they kept as far from the cursed city as possible.

  Kael walked at the front, his stride steady and unshaken, but his heightened senses were on edge. Something about this path felt wrong, a gnawing unease that made his instincts scream for caution. He glanced back briefly, noting Zeveron's growing concern and Gazelle’s pale, wide-eyed expression.

  After some time, the tunnel ahead abruptly forked to the right. The sharp turn loomed in their path like a jagged wound in the stone. Zeveron came to an abrupt halt, his face contorting with confusion as he checked and rechecked the map.

  “This… this doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, holding the parchment up to the lantern light. “There’s no turn marked here—just a straight path. What in the blazes is this?”

  Kael peered down the shadowy right-hand tunnel, his face impassive. “Maybe you read the map wrong,” he suggested calmly.

  Zeveron bristled but swallowed his retort, glancing back at the map one last time. “I don’t read maps wrong,” he said, though his voice was less confident than usual. “Still… there’s no other explanation.” He let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “Fine. We’ll take this path, but we double back the moment something feels off.”

  They pressed onward into the unmarked tunnel, the walls seeming to close in as the air grew heavier. The flicker of the lanterns cast long, unsettling shadows that danced like grasping hands on the walls.

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  Then, faintly at first, came the sounds.

  Whispers. Low, disjointed murmurs that seemed to echo from every direction, their words unintelligible but filled with an unmistakable malice. Moans followed, soft and distant, like the sound of someone—or something—in pain.

  Gazelle’s breath quickened, her hand gripping the reins of the nearest carriage so tightly her knuckles turned white. “What… what is that?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

  Zeveron paused, his head snapping toward the sound. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his usual bravado faltered. “Just the wind,” he said quickly, though his tone betrayed him. “These old tunnels make strange noises. Nothing to worry about.”

  Kael, however, remained unmoved, his expression as calm as ever. His sharp gaze scanned the darkness, and his hand hovered near the hilt of his short sword. “It’s not the wind,” he said simply, his voice devoid of fear but heavy with certainty.

  Gazelle’s eyes darted nervously between the walls. “Then what is it?” she pressed, her voice rising slightly.

  “Nothing you want to meet,” Kael replied flatly. “Keep moving.”

  The whispers grew louder as they continued, the disembodied voices weaving together in an eerie symphony. At times, it felt as if they were coming from just beyond the reach of the lantern light, other times from the very walls themselves. Gazelle jumped at every flicker and sound, her fear palpable.

  Zeveron clenched his jaw, his eyes flicking back to the map as though hoping it might somehow provide answers. “We shouldn’t be here,” he muttered under his breath. “We shouldn’t be anywhere near here.”

  Kael remained focused, his steps steady. His instincts were still screaming, but fear had no place within him. “Stay close,” he said, his tone commanding. “And be ready.”

  The group pressed on, the oppressive atmosphere growing thicker with every step, as if the very tunnel itself was alive and watching.

  The deeper they ventured, the more the darkness seemed alive, pressing against them like an unseen predator. Whispers slithered through the air, faint and fleeting, each voice tinged with malice. Some whispered nonsense; others hissed names—their names. The mercenaries flinched as they heard their own voices echoed back to them, distorted and alien.

  Shadows danced beyond the lantern light, forming fleeting shapes that seemed almost human. Figures lingered at the edges of perception, pale and unmoving, watching. But when someone whipped their head around to confront them, there was nothing—only empty space and the suffocating void.

  The air grew colder, thick with an unnatural chill that sank into their bones. One mercenary froze in his tracks, staring wide-eyed into the black. “Did you see that? Right there!” he hissed, pointing to an empty stretch of tunnel. “Someone… someone was there!”

  “No one’s there!” another snapped, though his voice shook as he gripped his weapon tighter.

  Zeveron walked in grim silence, his jaw clenched as he scanned the map repeatedly, as if hoping it would change. Gazelle’s wide, tear-filled eyes darted around, and she clung to her cloak as though it could shield her from the growing dread.

  “Why… why does it feel like we’re being watched?” she whispered to Kael, her voice trembling.

  “Because we are,” he said evenly, his tone flat and matter-of-fact.

  The mercenaries exchanged uneasy glances, their disciplined facade cracking under the oppressive atmosphere. The whispers grew louder, their edges sharp with something unholy. A mercenary screamed suddenly, clutching at his ears. “Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!”

  Then came the growl.

  A low, guttural rumble reverberated through the tunnel, shaking loose dust from the stone walls. It wasn’t the growl of any beast they knew—it was deeper, more resonant, carrying an unnatural weight that made their stomachs churn. The sound grew, rolling toward them like an invisible tidal wave.

  Suddenly, a violent gust of freezing wind howled through the passage, extinguishing every lantern in an instant. The world plunged into darkness so absolute it felt alive, crushing them in its grasp.

  The animals screamed, their frenzied neighs echoing off the stone walls as they bucked and tried to flee. Gazelle shrieked, her voice piercing the chaos. “SOMETHING GRABBED ME!” she cried, thrashing as if unseen hands were clawing at her arms.

  The mercenaries scrambled to relight their lanterns, fumbling with their flints, but the sparks died in the air as if smothered by the darkness itself. “It won’t catch!” one yelled, his voice rising in panic. “The oil won’t light!”

  “Neither will mine!” shouted another, his breathing ragged. “What’s happening? What is this?”

  The whispers surged into a cacophony, a thousand voices laughing, crying, and screaming all at once. The noise clawed at their minds, pulling their sanity apart thread by thread.

  Kael’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. “ENOUGH!”

  He raised a hand, his fingers curling into a precise gesture. “Jarla,” he intoned, his voice steady and resolute. Sparks leapt from his palm, igniting into a searing flame that cast a circle of light. The whispers recoiled at the sudden blaze, retreating to the edges of the tunnel.

  Kael held the torch high, his face set in a grim mask. He turned to the mercenaries, their terrified eyes locked on him. “This place is cursed,” he said coldly. “Normal fire won’t burn here. Only magic will hold against whatever this is.”

  He moved swiftly, using his torch to relight the others’ lanterns and torches. Each new flame seemed to push back the oppressive darkness a fraction further, but it still lingered at the edges, watching, waiting.

  The mercenaries clutched their weapons, their hands shaking. “What was that?” one whispered hoarsely.

  Kael’s eyes scanned the darkened tunnel, his voice low and unyielding. “Nothing that’s still alive.”

  Kael’s enhanced hearing picked up a soft, trembling sound—a whimper. Turning, he saw Gazelle sitting on the ground, her hand clutching her arm. Her face was pale, her breath uneven. As he approached, she lifted her arm slightly, revealing deep, ragged scratches carved into her flesh. Blood trickled down her sleeve, dripping onto the cold stone floor.

  “Something grabbed me,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. Tears welled in her wide golden eyes. “It... it came out of nowhere. I swear—I felt its claws.”

  Zeveron rushed to her side, his face grim but focused. Pulling a bandage from his pack, he began tending to her wound with unsteady hands, muttering Dwarven curses under his breath.

  “Keep still, lass. You’ll be alright. Just a scratch,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. He worked quickly, but his gaze kept darting to the shadows, as though expecting whatever had hurt her to return.

  Kael was about to speak when something froze him in place. A voice—no, a feeling—seeped into his mind like cold tendrils of fog. It wasn’t audible to anyone else, but he heard it, clear as day.

  “Come closer…” it whispered, low and insidious, like a distant breath brushing against his ear.

  His gaze snapped to the darkness beyond the torchlight. There, in the impenetrable black, a faint, sickly green light pulsed like a heartbeat. It beckoned him, calling out, pulling at something deep within him.

  “Kael?” Zeveron called, noticing his sudden stillness.

  “Wait here,” Kael said flatly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

  “Wait? What do you mean, wait?” Zeveron asked, his voice rising in alarm. “Where are you going?”

  “Stay here,” Kael repeated, his eyes fixed on the light. Without waiting for a response, he began walking into the abyss, the warm glow of his torch carving a fragile path through the oppressive black.

  “Kael!” Gazelle cried, her voice trembling. “Don’t! Come back!”

  The mercenaries shouted after him, but their voices faded behind him like distant echoes. The whispers returned, faint and mocking, their tone rising and falling like the tide. Kael ignored them, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword as his boots echoed against the stone.

  The tunnel twisted and turned, narrowing at points, the walls slick with an unidentifiable black residue. The green light grew brighter, more insistent, and the whispers turned to murmurs, louder and overlapping, filling the air with disjointed words and guttural sounds.

  Finally, Kael rounded a corner, and the claustrophobic tunnel opened up into a vast, cavernous expanse. He stopped dead in his tracks, his sharp features illuminated by the sickly green haze that blanketed the ground. The air was thick and damp, the stench of decay hanging heavy.

  Before him lay a sight that made even him mutter under his breath.

  “Fuck.”

  Stretching out for miles in every direction was the ruined city of Dulgal, its blackened spires reaching toward the cavern's impossibly high ceiling like skeletal fingers. Jagged structures leaned at unnatural angles, their once-proud facades corroded and crumbling. Bridges spanned the chasm between towering buildings, their surfaces cracked and barely holding together.

  The green haze pulsed faintly, rolling over the shattered streets like a living thing. Faint figures seemed to move within it—humanoid shadows shambling aimlessly, their forms indistinct but undeniably wrong.

  In the eerie silence, Kael could hear faint, mournful wails drifting from the city, accompanied by the sound of dripping water that echoed like falling bones. He stared at the towering gates before him, their surface etched with runes that glowed faintly, pulsating with an ancient and malevolent energy.

  At the center of it all, a massive cathedral loomed, its jagged spires piercing upward into the cavern's heights. Green light emanated from its shattered stained-glass windows, illuminating the haze in ghostly patterns.

  Kael’s instincts screamed at him to turn back, to run, but he ignored them. This was Dulgal, the cursed city, its monstrous reputation not just legend but grim, horrifying reality.