What We Fear

The passage sloped downward until it felt less like walking through stone and more like moving through something that breathed. The walls were slick, warm to touch, and pulsed faintly beneath Oliver’s hand. Every few steps, a slow tremor rolled through the ground. He did not like that.

Mali walked ahead without hesitation, her stride confident despite the uneven ground. The faint glow from the walls made her entire being shimmer. Oliver followed, trying not to stare too long at the way the tendrils seemed to reach toward her as she passed.

“How deep are we?” he asked quietly.

“Far enough that Gloom’s shadow doesn’t reach us,” she said.

Mali’s voice was calm, but he thought he heard something else beneath it, something faint and excited. They reached a fork where the tunnel widened into a chamber. Strange carvings spiraled across the walls, half mural, half wound. Each depicted scenes in flowing lines of black and green beings of light and rot locked in eternal struggle, the shapes abstract yet unmistakably alive.

Oliver slowed, drawn to one of the images. A faceless figure towered over two kneeling shapes, one radiant, the other dark and veined with shadow.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Stories,” Mali said softly. “Old ones.”

He looked closer. “That thing in the middle, Is that the Faceless God I keep hearing about?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not. The old priests painted those in the throes of their own insanity.”

They continued through the next corridor. The smell changed. It was less earth and more iron. The light dimmed, and the air thickened until every breath felt like drinking from a cup left too long in the rain. Ahead, a faint dripping echoed in rhythm with that deep heartbeat.

Then Oliver saw movement.

Shapes lined the walls of the next chamber. There were pods, half-submerged in the pulsing flesh that grew from floor to ceiling. Inside them figures sat still.

He stumbled forward. “Wait—Mali, that’s—”

“I see them,” she said.

Oliver pressed closer to the nearest pod, heart pounding. Behind the translucent membrane he saw a pale face framed by dark hair. Lilith. Her eyes were closed, her body limp, suspended in some thick fluid that shimmered with veins of green.

Another pod nearby held Fernwyn, her skin faintly glowing beneath the surface, her vines coiled tight against her arms like chains.

“Mali,” Oliver said, his voice raw. “Help me get them out.”

She knelt beside him, her expression unreadable. “If you tear the membranes, they’ll bleed out before they wake. The pods are feeding them air through the root veins. We’ll have to cut carefully.”

“Can you do it?”

“Yes. Hold the seam open when I start.”

He did as he was told, bracing his hands against the slick surface while she drew her dagger. The blade shimmered faintly green as she slid it along the seam with a surgeon’s precision. The membrane split with a wet sound, releasing a gush of fluid that splattered across the floor. Lilith fell forward into Oliver’s arms, gasping for breath.

“Easy,” he said. “You’re safe.”

Her eyes fluttered open, confusion giving way to fury. “You took your time, Trophy,” she rasped.

“Good to see you too,” he laughed giving her a hug, ignoring the slime on her rather tattered clothes.

They freed the others next. Fernwyn collapsed, coughing weakly, the tips of her fingers already sprouting small roots that dug into the floor for stability. Once they had all gathered enough strength to stand, Lilith’s gaze went straight to Mali.

“Who is that?” Lilith asked suspiciously. “Did you already replace me?”

Mali remained silent while Oliver tried not to laugh. “She helped save me in the river. Got me here and everything.

Lilith’s eyes narrowed. “I see…”

Fernwyn’s soft voice broke the tension. “Did you take care of the chronal shard?”

“I did. It shattered though and we had to stabilize the flow…at least that’s what Mali told me.”

Lilith and Fernwyn both turned to the woman again who hadn’t spoken yet.

“We cannot stay. We must move to the last chamber,” the mysterious woman said.

“Why?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

Oh, that was not comforting. The path sloped sharply, the air growing warmer until every breath burned faintly in his chest. The walls pulsed faster, veins bright with energy.

The murals reappeared along the walls, larger now, almost lifelike. Oliver glanced at one and froze. The same two kneeling figures returned, but this time one stood over the other, a blade raised high. Around them, the faceless figure loomed again, neither stopping nor approving.

He tore his eyes away, uneasy.

Mali slowed as the tunnel widened into another vast chamber. The ceiling arched high above, vanishing into darkness. The center was dominated by a massive figure seated on a throne of bone and vine, its body draped in tattered green cloth.

At first Oliver thought it was a statue. Then it breathed.

The figure lifted its head, and green light flared in its hollow eyes. A thorned crown rested upon its skull, pulsing with faint energy that matched the rhythm of the pit.

Mali stopped.

“You.” The creature said.

“Plague King,” she responded. No fear in her voice.

Oliver’s throat went dry. The figure’s lips parted, and a ragged voice, cracked with age and agony, escaped.

“Free me.”

The words echoed through the chamber, soft but unmistakable.

Oliver stepped back. “We need to go. Now! It’s alive.”

The Plague King turned toward him slowly, the movement stiff, unnatural. The crown’s thorns pulsed brighter. “Alive,” he rasped. “But not my own. She binds me.”

“Who?” Oliver asked, though part of him already knew.

The voice came again, trembling now, as if each word cost something vital. “Melovala.”

The name hung in the air like smoke. The walls around them quivered as though the labyrinth itself heard it. Lilith and Fernwyn’s faces got paler than he thought possible.

Oliver glanced at them, searching for a clue, but Mali was already moving toward the throne, her hand outstretched.

“Mali! wait! ” Oliver called.

She ignored him still walking forward.

“Stop her, Trophy!” Lilith was finally able to get out.

“End it. Please.” The Plague King groaned.

The pulse in the chamber quickened, and the veins on the walls began to glow a feverish green. Oliver stepped back instinctively, the hair on his arms rising as the air grew hot and electric.

Mali lowered her hand slowly. “Not yet,” she said softly. “Not until I know what she’s done to you.”

The Plague King’s jaw twitched, the faintest sound escaping. It almost sounded like a laugh or a sob, Oliver couldn’t tell. “Then hurry. The crown burns.”

And before Oliver could ask another question, the walls trembled again, cracks splitting across the floor as though the labyrinth itself was waking from a long sleep.