Brann descended the stairs, each step echoing into the dark as though the walls themselves were listening. The further down he went, the colder it became. Not the kind of chill that crept beneath a cloak and made the teeth chatter, but a deeper cold, the kind that settled in bone and marrow, the kind that remembered death. The candle flickered in protest, its flame shrinking with each breath of icy air rising from below.

  At last, the stair ended.

  Before him stood a door of thick iron, its surface rusted in streaks like dried blood. In its center was a glyph, no language he knew, though something about it clawed at the edge of memory: A square, within it the figure eight turned sideways ( ∞ ) and above that, a half-circle rising like a setting sun. The rune looked ancient, but it had lost its power now so he reached out and ran his fingers across the cold metal.

  It did not resist.

  With a slow breath, he pushed the door open. It groaned against the silence, revealing a wide circular chamber that seemed far too large to exist beneath the tower. The candlelight spilled in uncertain tendrils, and what it revealed made him pause. In the center of the room stood a pedestal, waist-high, carved from some dark wood unlike anything he’d seen, crimson in hue, but deeper than any paint, it bled brown where shadow touched it and the grain curled like veins.

  Floating just above it, untouched, unswaying, was a cube of black stone.

  It was the same stone the tower was built from, yet not. This was purer, more refined its surface gleamed like polished glass, so smooth it caught the flicker of flame and bent it, as if the faces were made of liquid. A wrongness radiated from it, but it was beautiful too, dangerously beautiful.

  Brann held still, breathing through his nose.

  His eyes scanned the rest of the room, the walls were ringed with iron shackles, nine sets in all, spaced with measured intent, above each pair, another rune had been carved into the stone. These were simpler than the one on the door just two lines perpendicular.

  He could almost feel the emptiness they left behind. This was no cell it had been a ritual chamber. And those shackles… they had held more than prisoners.

  He also noticed something else. Scattered across the floor, half lost in dust and time, lay a few wooden bowls. Their presence struck him like a blade to the gut, he knew what they were: Feeding bowls.

  His stomach twisted. The hunger rose again, sharp now, edged with desperation. Foolish as it was, a thought crept in unbidden: Could there still be something left?

  Brann clenched his teeth. No. Not possible. Anything edible would have long since spoiled. And yet...he could not help it, hunger made fools of even wise men.

  He stepped into the room.

  The candle flared higher, and the full space came into view. On the walls behind the shackles, dark stains lingered, some shaped like smudged silhouettes human-shaped. Shadows… perhaps soot burned into stone? His stomach roiled, but he forced it down. Something terrible had happened here that much was clear. He turned his gaze to the floor.

  There, etched into the stone beneath the pedestal, was a larger symbol a triangle, sharp and perfect, it framed the base of the crimson stand exactly a rune of focus and channeling.

  He said nothing, only swallowed hard and set to his task.

  One bowl then another, he left his sword leaning against the nearest wall, too distracted to care, and fell to his knees, rummaging with trembling hands through each one, the candle flickering wildly as he moved. Empty, all of them.

  Until the last. A sound escaped him part relief, part madness.

  There it was a scrap of bread, hard as stone, tucked beneath the last bowl. Dry, dense, yet untouched by mold. No rot. No scent, it was preserved.

  The cold had done it. He could feel it now not just in the air, but rising from the black cube itself. This place was sealed. No time lived here.

  He took the bread with both hands and bit down, teeth straining against its toughness. Flavorless, but it didn’t matter it was something. It was food.

  He was still chewing, still working to soften it in his mouth, when he heard it.

  A sound, soft and subtle, but real nevertheless.

  It came from behind him like a whisper. Not a voice, but the sound of something shifting, something scraping against stone like claws.

  He froze, breath locked in his chest, the bread still in his mouth. Then he turned, candle held high. The iron door: It hadn’t shut behind him, not fully and now, something stood just beyond its frame, wrapped in the dark where the candlelight faltered and failed. Brann’s hand froze halfway to his mouth. The bread went dry in his throat. He tried to swallow, but it caught, lodged like a stone.

  Then...two points of red.

  Dim at first, then brighter like twin embers, burning low in a fire that had no flame. They were watching and waiting. Eyes…something was there.

  The darkness cloaked its shape, but Brann could feel it, the presence pressing into the room like a tide rising silent and patient.

  The sweat on his brow turned cold. His legs were folded beneath him, his sword a full six paces away, leaning against the far wall where he had left it like a fool. His shield was still strapped to his back, but that would mean little now.

  Any movement, any sound, could trigger the thing that watched from the stair.

  He was defenseless now a sitting target, a lamb in the wolf's den. Gods, how had he been so blind? So careless?

  Hunger, it had undone him broken his discipline and clouded his mind. All the instincts he had honed through blood and battle had been dulled by the simplest of mortal needs.

  Thoughts raced like wildfire through his skull, seeking a path, a plan… anything. There was no cover, no place to run and still the thing did not move. The eyes burned motionless, bright as coals in a dying hearth.

  Then just as his thoughts were racing something changed

  And a voice came:

  “Aren’t you going to finish your food?”

  It slithered from the stair like smoke, followed by a low, cold chuckle.

  “Don’t let me stop you, warrior.”

  Brann blinked.

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  Speech; It spoke.

  That, more than the glowing eyes, shook him. Words meant thought, intention, maybe even reason… or worse, mockery.

  He forced the bread from his mouth and placed it, slow and deliberate, back into the bowl beside him.

  “I didn’t mean to take anything that was yours.”

  The voice came again, dry and amused.

  “Oh, it’s not mine. I’ve no need for such things.”

  The red eyes lowered slightly, and then there was movement, the soft scuff of boots on the ground took the place of the claws scraping against the stone. Out of the shadow, a tall man stepped into the candlelight.

  Brann inhaled sharply.

  He was pale. Not merely fair-skinned, but white, as if no sun had ever touched his flesh. His hair, black and slicked back, caught none of the candle’s glow. He wore robes or what seemed like robes, fashioned from fabric that shimmered like oil and shadow, always shifting, never still. His eyes burned like dying coals, but without heat. They pierced straight through Brann, and in them was nothing. Not anger. Not curiosity. Just... absence.

  Brann stared, but could not focus. Every time he tried to take in the man’s full shape, his mind recoiled and he only saw parts, shoulder, jaw, a gleaming finger but never the whole as if his thoughts refused to comprehend.

  The stranger’s lips parted.

  “What is your name, warrior? And what are you looking for in this old relic of stone and sorrow?”

  Brann swallowed.

  “My name is Brann... though I don’t remember much more about myself, or how I got here. I’m looking for a way home.”

  The man studied him, a smile touched his mouth, too wide, far too wide.

  “Not many come here anymore,” he said. “This place, you see... it’s abandoned, forgotten. I’m the only one who remembers it. And fewer still ever get to leave.”

  Brann kept his voice steady but his heart was pounding, he needed answers and time.

  “There was a man upstairs. Long-dead, I think. But he seemed to have spent a long time here.”

  The man stepped closer, soundless despite his movement.

  “Indeed,” he murmured. “He came seeking answers. Power, perhaps. He thought he could study this place without drawing my gaze but in the end, his magic failed him. He died knowing he was wrong, and he made peace with it”

  Brann’s mind worked, pieces aligning.

  “He may not be as dead as you believe. He came to me in a dream, days ago. Spoke in riddles. Wore rings...rings I can’t find now. But one of them bore a mark I recognized.”

  The man stopped his smile vanished.

  “Did he now? That sly creature... He must’ve bound his soul to this place I’ll have to burn out the last of it. Let the jungle reclaim what it can.”

  He resumed walking getting closer.

  Brann shifted slightly, inching toward the center of the room toward the black cube. If it was anything like the stone from above, it might freeze on contact it might be his only hope. Damn it, why did he abandoned his sword.

  “I recognized the serpent,” Brann said, stalling. “That symbol. I’ve seen it before.”

  The man halted eyes narrowing his voice low:

  “How... interesting, so that’s where you’re from.”

  He tilted his head.

  “Those rings return to the human world when their bearer dies. If you truly seek them... you should follow them. But you won’t do much seeking if you’re dead.”

  He took another step.

  “So tell me, Brann. What do you offer for your life?”

  Brann licked his lips. Cold sweat rolled down his spine.

  “I have no memories. But fragments are returning. Someone sent me here for a reason. I don’t know who. But if you let me live, I’ll find out. I’ll uncover who sent me and why and bring that truth back to you. So no more come knocking on your door. Isn’t that what you want?”

  A pause.

  Then...laughter, cold and unkind.

  “I like you, Brann. You’re audacious, swordless, lost, kneeling in my domain, and still bartering your future.”

  He leaned forward.

  “But I’ll give you a chance, a small one.”

  The room seemed to lean in with him.

  “If you can reach the stairs... without letting me touch you... I’ll let you go.”

  There it was a sliver of light, a fool’s chance but a chance nonetheless.

  Brann’s hand edged closer to the cube. It hovered just above the pedestal, humming softly now that he was near. The cold stung his fingertips.

  “I accept,” he said. And in his mind, unbidden, the words he told his lover returned: “Then I would rather be there to face it.”

  He would face this thing or die trying.

  Brann moved.

  In a single breath, he reached behind his shoulder, ripping the shield from its harness. With the same motion, he lunged for the black stone.

  The tall man reacted instantly.

  No warning. No sound. One moment, he stood still as death, the next a blur. His right arm elongated, twisted, sharpened, bone tore through flesh like it had always meant to be a blade. A white arc, silent and swift, whistled through the air toward Brann’s neck. Ah so that was how the man upstairs had lost his head.

  But Brann was ready.

  The shield came up just in time. The stone came free in his other hand, and even as frost reached up his arm and pain exploded like fire in his nerves, he twisted, bending low his weight dropping into a strike of desperation, aimed not for the chest, not for the head, but for the knee.

  The bone blade struck the shield shattering it.

  Not cracked. Not splintered, shattered.

  A thunderclap of force sent iron and wood flying like shrapnel. The impact crushed Brann’s left arm beneath it, bones snapping, nerves shrieking, pain flooding his vision with white but the shield had done its work.

  The blade missed his neck by inches, the black stone did not.

  It struck the tall man’s knee with a sound like thunder muffled in ice. The black cube shattered on impact...frozen shards exploding outward, cutting deep into Brann’s palm. Cold fire lanced up his arm, his hand went instantly numb, skin turning pale, then blue. But the creature also staggered.

  His leg...frozen...Split.

  A spiderweb of frost climbed the pale flesh, locking the knee mid-step. A hiss escaped the man’s mouth, not of pain, but surprise. His weight shifted, the joint refusing to move.

  Brann didn’t wait.

  He rolled with the momentum, shoulder hitting the stone floor. His vision blurred with agony, but he didn’t stop. He rose behind the creature, staggering once, than bolting toward the stair like a starving hound scenting freedom.

  Behind him, the man turned his head, no, rotated it, far past the point any neck should bend, bones clicking like dry twigs.

  But Brann didn’t see it.

  He ran.

  Each step was agony his crushed arm hung limp at his side. His hand, his sword hand, was a block of ice and blood but he ran.

  And the man...

  Did not follow.

  He could have. He could have dissolved into shadow, into smoke, into hunger, and snapped Brann’s spine like a twig. But he didn’t. Something had changed the moment Brann touched the stone.

  The cube had resonated.

  It should have lost its charge, should have melted into useless crystal but in Brann’s grasp, it had held its form, held its purpose. The energy had not fled but instead it had focused.

  The tall man stood there, silent, watching, with curious eyes.

  This was no longer a game this was a question even a possibility.

  And so he did nothing just stood and let the boy go.

  Brann hurled himself through the doorway, half-leaping, half-falling into the stairwell beyond his shoulder cracked against stone his feet stumbled. He had reached the stairs he had escaped.

  “Let’s see what you become, Brann.”