The dungeons of Theradrin’s castle were a twisted maze, a place where time and space bled into one another like ink in water. The torches that lined the endless stone corridors flickered erratically, their light offering little reprieve from the encroaching darkness. The very air seemed to hum, charged with unseen power.


    Siris and Dren moved swiftly, their boots echoing against the cold, damp stone. Above them, the entire fortress trembled. Dust rained from the ceiling as the walls shook under the force of the battle raging in the main hall. Even deep in the dungeons, they could feel the sheer magnitude of the clash—Maldrak, now a near equal to Nyroth, wielding the corrupting power of the scroll. The shockwaves sent tremors through the ancient walls, making the ground beneath them feel unsteady.


    "We need to move faster," Siris muttered, eyes scanning the endless corridors. "The longer we’re down here, the harder it will be to get out."


    Dren nodded but said nothing. His grip on his scythe tightened.


    They ran side by side, navigating the labyrinth, but as they turned a corner, the air suddenly grew thick, heavy, suffocating.


    Dren blinked.


    Something was wrong.


    Siris was still running beside him, his breath steady, focused—but something shifted.


    Dren’s heartbeat slowed, the sounds of the castle fading into a distant hum. His body tensed as a strange sensation crawled up his spine. He turned his head slightly—


    And his breath hitched.


    Siris was gone.


    Instead, a small boy ran beside him, grinning, his bright eyes filled with youthful joy.


    Dren’s entire body froze, his mind screaming at him that it wasn’t real, that this was an illusion—


    But his heart did not listen.


    His throat tightened, his vision blurred, and for the first time in decades, tears welled in his eyes.


    The boy kept running, his laughter echoing through the hall. Then, in the blink of an eye, he vanished.


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    Dren stopped moving altogether, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. The weight of something long buried pressed down on him, suffocating.


    A voice cut through the fog.


    "Dren!"


    Hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. Siris. His sharp, piercing gaze locked onto Dren’s own, grounding him.


    "Stay with me, damn it!" Siris snapped, his voice firm, steady. "What did you see?"


    Dren swallowed hard, pushing back the flood of emotions threatening to consume him. "A ghost," he muttered, shaking his head. "Nothing."


    Siris studied him for a long moment before sighing. "The dungeon is cursed. I can feel it, even if I can’t see it. Maldrak is a sorcerer—this must be his doing. The labyrinth, the illusions… they’re meant to break us."


    Dren exhaled sharply. "Then we better keep moving before it gets worse."


    They pushed forward, moving deeper into the maze, the echoes of the past lingering like shadows at their backs.


    Farther within the dungeon, Ilara and Varrian moved swiftly through the corridors, unaware of the chaos above them. They had escaped their prison with the help of the old man, but now they had another problem—finding a way out.


    "How long do you think we’ve been down here?" Varrian asked, his voice low.


    Ilara didn’t answer immediately. Her hands tightened into fists, her mind racing. "Hard to tell," she admitted. "The air feels... wrong."


    "You feel it too?" Varrian frowned. "Something’s twisting this place."


    They exchanged a look, knowing that whatever was happening in the castle was no ordinary battle.


    ""If Maldrak is fighting Nyroth," Ilara said, "then we don’t have much time. And I don’t even have my shield."


    Varrian nodded. "Then let’s move."


    As they continued through the dungeon, Ilara suddenly stopped. Her breath caught in her throat. The corridor ahead had changed—where there had once been endless stone walls, a wooden door now stood slightly ajar. A flickering glow emanated from within.


    "Varrian…" she whispered. "This place… it looks familiar."


    Varrian turned, following her gaze. "Familiar how?"


    Ilara stepped forward cautiously, pushing the door open. Her breath hitched.


    Inside, the room was exactly like the home she had once known in a small village outside Eldris. The worn wooden floor, the tiny bed in the corner, the single window that overlooked the valley—all of it was as she remembered.


    She moved inside, fingertips brushing the rough surface of the wooden table. "This was my home… before the war. Before everything."


    Varrian’s expression darkened, sensing the illusion at play. "Ilara, we need to keep moving. This isn’t real."


    Before she could respond, the walls shimmered and twisted. The soft candlelight flickered violently, and in an instant, the room around them was no longer warm and welcoming—


    It was burning.


    The village outside was engulfed in flames. Screams echoed through the air. The once-peaceful streets were lined with the bodies of the fallen. And in the center of it all, amidst the ash and ruin, a small child knelt, sobbing.


    Ilara’s breath caught. It was her. A younger version of herself, trapped in the nightmare of her past.


    Varrian stepped forward, ready to pull her back, but Ilara was frozen in place. Tears welled in her eyes as she watched her younger self tremble in fear.


    Then—


    A figure emerged from the fire. A tall presence, stepping through the smoke, his crimson eyes glowing in the inferno’s glow.


    He knelt before the young Ilara, offering his hand. His voice, though lost to the illusion, was gentle. A silent promise of safety.


    The child hesitated… then grasped his hand.


    The vision shattered. The flames were gone. The village was gone. Only the cold stone walls of the dungeon remained.


    Ilara dropped to her knees, gasping for air, her body trembling. The weight of the past had crashed into her all at once.


    Without hesitation, Varrian knelt beside her.


    He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask.


    He simply placed a hand on her shoulder, steady and firm—just as the man in the fire had done all those years ago.


    Ilara shut her eyes, letting a single tear fall before exhaling sharply. She wiped her face, steeling herself.


    "We keep moving," she whispered.


    Varrian nodded. "Right beside you, my lady."


    They stood together, pushing forward once more into the unknown.


    Together, they pressed on, unaware that they were not the only ones trapped in the labyrinth’s grasp.