Chapter 102 - Dungeon - X
** Sixty hours after Dália awoke
"Ssssssss..."
The sound of crackling firewood echoed softly through the cavern, a minuscule relief against the dungeon's oppressive silence.
The path they had taken was now unrecognizable, crushed under tons of fallen rock. In its place, a sheltered cave opened like a stone womb, shielding them from the icy wind howling outside sharp as a blade tempered in the cruelest of winters.
And what a winter it was.
The dungeon's cold wasn't natural. It was a living entity, a predator slithering through the world's cracks, sucking away warmth until not a single spark of life remained.
Inside the cave, the air shimmered around the small campfire, its flames dancing like restless specters, casting flickering shadows against the uneven walls. Four figures huddled around this last bastion of warmth, their faces marked not just by battle wounds, but by the weight of unanswered questions.
Dorian, closest to the fire, was wrapped in bandages soaked in pungent salves, meticulously prepared by Dália's skilled hands. His torso, once torn apart, was now swathed in clean dressings, though traces of blood still seeped through the fabric's creases. His face, less pale than before, bore the shadow of pain, and his half-lidded eyes reflected the exhaustion of a man who had survived by a miracle.
Aeloria stood sentinel by the entrance, ever vigilant. While the others struggled against the elements, the cold was a disguised blessing for him. His affinity with ice made him the perfect watchman for these frozen nights.
And what nights they were.
The dungeon's darkness wasn't just an absence of light—it was a living entity, a predator crawling across the land, freezing even the air that dared to be breathed. During the day, the sickly pale red sun barely warmed the surface above freezing.