The Eyes in the Dark
The air turned thick, like soup made from rot and whispers. Every breath Eliana took clung to her throat, coating it with the taste of iron and old meat. Her boots sank slightly into the fleshy grime of the tunnel floor, each step squelching like she was walking over buried organs.
She didn't dare speak. The quiet here wasn't silence—it was waiting.
Her heartbeat was too loud. Her thoughts felt too sharp. Even her shadow seemed hesitant to follow.
Then came the sensation.
Not a sound. Not a sight. A knowing.
Eyes.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
They stared from the black above like ancient gods peeking through a keyhole, patient and cruel.
Eliana turned a slow corner and froze.
The ceiling pulsed.
Masses of pale, gelatinous flesh clung upside down, their bodies malformed and boneless, like aborted cocoons that had grown teeth. Each was riddled with glimmering red eyes, blinking out of rhythm, twitching in the gloom like insects too damaged to die.
Their limbs dangled—too many to count—bending at wrong angles, coiling slowly as if remembering how to move.
They breathed her in.
She felt it in her bones, the way their collective hunger scraped along her spine. She didn't move. Couldn't. Her blade itched in her hand, but instinct and dread were locked in a vicious standoff.
Then, one detached.
It came loose with a wet pop, flailing momentarily in the air before landing in front of her with a muffled splatter. A sick parody of birth. Its gelatinous form heaved, and a slit in its center tore open—sideways, unnatural—unfolding into rows of uneven, jagged teeth that clicked together with wet amusement.
It grinned.
Her blade shot up, reflex fast.
But then—
Claw. Shoulder. Grip like iron.
She spun, teeth bared, and met the dark eyes of Tharnok, his clawed hand tight on her shoulder.
"Don't," he rumbled. His voice was low. Not quiet—contained. Like a war beast on a leash. "They smell fear. They gorge on it."
The creature in front of her hissed, not with rage—but anticipation. Behind it, the ceiling writhed, the mass above beginning to shift and undulate in ripples of agitation. They were waiting. They wanted her to scream. To break.
Eliana didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
The moment stretched. Her body trembled—not from fear, but from the pressure of restraint.
Then the creature leaned forward, so close she could smell its breath—old blood and embalming wax—and its grin faded.
With a slick, squirming retreat, it skittered back on too many limbs, rising along the wall like a spider climbing back into a wound. The others above went still. Watching. Waiting for the next test.
Tharnok released her.
"You passed," he said, his voice now tinged with grim approval. "That was your first lesson."
Eliana exhaled, slow and shaky, tasting copper on her tongue.
"What are they?" she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Tharnok glanced back once, as if making sure they were no longer listening.
"Spite made flesh," he said. "Goblins who stared too long into the deep and forgot who they were. Now they wait. They test. And if you fail…" He looked at her, eyes hard. "You join them."
A cold sweat trickled down her spine. She didn't look back again.
She didn't want to see her reflection in any of those eyes.
The Hollow Ones
They came on the fourth day—shuffling like sins without names, regrets that had grown legs and learned how to crawl. Their movements were slow, almost reverent, as if each step required them to remember they still had bodies. Their skin hung like wet parchment, stretched tight over bones that jutted out like broken architecture. You could see the scaffolding of their failure in every angle of their limbs. Veins pulsed beneath translucent hide, twitching with corrupted life.
Their faces were the worst.
Mouths frozen open in silent screams—jaws unhinged and locked in place, as if they'd screamed so long they forgot how to stop. Their eyes were gone or sunken too deep to see, but they looked through her, past her, like they were staring at the truth she hadn't yet earned the right to understand.
They made no sound.
But Eliana felt them. The despair rolled off their bodies in waves, thick and suffocating, like drowning in the memory of something you almost survived.
The torchlight dimmed around them, as if they absorbed it, feeding on hope by proximity.
One of them broke from the cluster, stumbling forward. Its ribs showed through its chest like prison bars. Its hand rose—not to strike, not to grasp. Just to touch.
A slow, trembling reach.
Like a child asking for warmth it barely remembered.
Eliana froze.
It pressed its fingers to her forearm. They were ice-cold and paper-thin, fragile enough to tear just by breathing too hard.
The thing whimpered.
A soft, broken sound that should not have come from something so ruined.
"What… what are they?" Eliana asked. Her voice came out thin. Hollow.
Tharnok stood at her side, arms crossed like a priest watching a funeral he'd attended too many times.
"Those who reached too far," he said. "Goblins who tried to evolve beyond what their minds could hold. They consumed power—but lacked discipline. They forgot purpose. Forgot boundaries."
He turned his gaze toward the Hollow Ones.
"And so, they were forgotten back."
The creature pressed closer, cheek brushing her sleeve, mouth still locked open in that awful, empty scream. Its touch was gentle.
And something inside Eliana cracked.
Pity. It bloomed, sharp and sudden, as dangerous as any blade.
She saw herself in it. The hunger. The pain. The desire to be more—and the cost of being too much.
Then she moved.
Her hand was swift, dagger drawn and driven into the creature's temple with surgical precision. No flinch. No hesitation.
The blade slid in like she was piercing wet cloth.
There was no scream. No struggle. Just stillness.
And then it collapsed—quietly, like a dying breath.
The others didn't react. They simply watched, heads tilting in silent approval. Or perhaps, envy.
Eliana stood there, trembling slightly. Not from guilt. Not entirely.
But from understanding.
Tharnok's voice came low, like the settling of dirt on a grave.
"Mercy is a weapon," he said. "Use it sparingly. Or it will be used against you."
Eliana pulled the blade free, wiped it clean on her sleeve. Her fingers were steady now.
She had learned the second lesson.
Evolution is not about rising.
It is about choosing who gets to fall.
The Silent Hunger
She no longer dreamed.
Dreams were for creatures who slept without fear. Who had softness left in their hearts. Eliana had scraped that softness out somewhere between the third nightmare and the fifth dead torch. Sleep became a thing of violence—taken in fragments, always with her back to stone and her dagger resting against the pulse in her thigh.
Even rest had rules now.
The dark didn't sleep. And the dark was always watching.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard them—the slow, wet dragging of Hollow Ones scraping their way across the cavern floors like broken dogs hunting memory. Their breathless moans echoed through the tunnels, too faint to be real, too persistent to ignore. Sometimes she heard laughter too—high, chittering, bone-thin—like the wheezing of teeth grinding against teeth. No words. Just the sounds things make when they've forgotten language but remember cruelty.
She didn't follow the paths anymore. The earth guided her. Or maybe it swallowed her—hard to say which was truer. The air down here changed. It thickened. Tasted like rusted iron and rotting roots, like something had been dying for centuries and couldn't finish the job. Her tongue numbed. Her gums bled.
Still, she moved forward.
Always forward.
And then she found the nest.
It was built from ribcages—not animal. Goblin. Orc. Something in between. Twisted bones lashed together with sinew, forming a pulsing cradle where a brood-mother writhed like a crucified worm. Her body had no shape—just folds of skin stretched wide and veins that throbbed with oily black. Her stomach split in four directions, opening and closing like a grotesque flower, spilling spawn into the sludge beneath her.
They were not infants. Not truly.
They emerged teeth-first, snarling, eyes already wide with hunger. They bit her as they came out—chewed her fingers to bone, ripped chunks from her thighs. The mother didn't scream. She couldn't. Her vocal cords had long since dissolved into the bile of function. Her mouth bubbled, gagged, vomited another twisted thing.
Each newborn dragged itself into the tunnels like rats—no ceremony, no nurture. Only hunger and darkness ahead.
Eliana stood and watched.
No one helped. No one mourned. There were no midwives in this cathedral of blood.
Tharnok spoke from beside her, voice quiet, almost reverent.
"Evolution is sacred. Pain is its prayer."
Eliana didn't respond. She didn't turn away.
The brood-mother's eyes rolled toward her—milky, blind. And in them, Eliana saw the end of mercy.
Not rage. Not even sorrow.
Just understanding.
This was how things were.
Mercy was not a kindness here.
It was blasphemy.
The spawn slithered past her boots, eyes gleaming, mouths twitching with laughter that hadn't learned words yet. One brushed her ankle. She didn't flinch.
She knelt before the brood-mother.
The woman—if she could still be called that—did not move. Her body had been hollowed out into utility. She existed to birth suffering.
Eliana whispered.
"I won't become you."
And the brood-mother shuddered once… as if in agreement.
Or envy.
Then Eliana stood.
And walked deeper.
She no longer dreamed.
But she was learning to hunger.
The Lesson of Flesh
On the eighth day, Eliana stopped counting time. The concept had withered inside her, like fruit left in rot. She no longer knew dawn from dusk, hunger from purpose. Her feet moved by instinct, her breath came shallow and slow, as if her body feared making too much noise in this place that punished sound.
And then she found the chamber.
It breathed.
The walls were slick, rounded, veined like lungs—organic, moist with the sweat of some ancient body buried beneath the earth. And at the center, surrounding her in a perfect circle, stood the mirrors.
Thirteen of them.
Each one tall and narrow, ringed with bone instead of metal, and none showed her reflection. Not her as she was.
But her as she could be.
She stepped forward, heart pounding not with fear, but with expectation. The first mirror twitched as she approached, the surface rippling like flesh.
Inside it, a version of Eliana stood with too many arms. Six in total, each ending in razored claws slick with black blood. Her skin was stretched tight over wiry muscle, her eyes hollowed pits of flickering green flame. She moved like a predator that had forgotten prey could fight back.
Eliana turned. The second mirror welcomed her.
This version had no face—only smooth skin stretched across the contours of a skull. Yet it screamed. A silent howl. Its body jerked as if in constant pain, veins pulsing violently beneath translucent skin. Each breath was a convulsion. Each twitch a curse.
The third was worse.
This Eliana grinned. That was all. Just stood there, smiling. And the smile never ended. The teeth kept going—rows upon rows, far past the limits of anatomy, spiraling down her throat like a maw carved into a void. Her eyes wept blood. Her hands clutched at something invisible, shaking with joy.
She moved from mirror to mirror.
One dragged its own skin behind it like a discarded cape.One had hollow bones exposed through torn muscle, wings made of finger bones that beat even without wind.One bled from every pore, and the blood writhed as if alive.One held a version of her weeping, begging—before being torn in half by her own reflection.
They were not illusions. They pulsed with energy. They watched her. Some even leaned forward against the mirror's barrier, breathing her in, fogging the surface with unseen mouths.
Behind her, Tharnok said nothing. His silence was full of weight.
She finally turned to him.
"What are they?"
"Truths," he said. "Unfiltered. Unforgiving. Each one is a possible end. A branch of your path that splits based on one decision. One moment of weakness. Or strength."
She stared at the version of herself whose chest had burst open into a cage, where something else peered out from inside.
"What decides which I become?" she asked, voice steady but not hollow.
Tharnok's smile came slow—tight, dangerous.
"What you're willing to survive."
The answer dropped into her like a blade.
She didn't flinch. Didn't look away.
Instead, she stepped forward. Into the ring. Into the center. The mirrors groaned, their surfaces rippling, twitching, aching. One cracked. Another bled.
But none shattered.
They accepted her.
She was no longer prey standing before futures.
She was becoming one.
The Gate of Teeth
The final trial wasn't a fight. There were no blades, no beasts, no screams. Just a door.
If it could be called that.
A towering construct of fused jawbones, some still twitching, some cracked and ancient, stacked into an arch that pulsed with the rhythm of something alive. Fangs jutted at uneven angles, clicking softly like wind chimes made of hunger. The seams between bones were sealed by strips of sinew that bled when the torchlight touched them. Flesh crawled over the structure, thick with veins, and at its center—
An eye.
It opened like a wound.
Yellowed sclera, a vertical pupil like a beast's, dilated and wet. It didn't blink. It watched. Not with curiosity. With indifference. As if Eliana were no more significant than dust stirred by passing wind.
And yet it saw her.
Not her face. Not her flesh.
It looked through those things.
Deeper.
To where something still human might have once lived.
The air changed. It thickened, grew syrupy with the heat of something old and sentient pressing in. The bones of the gate vibrated, a low hum echoing in her spine. It didn't speak—not with words. But she understood.
To pass was not to prove strength. That was the domain of the lesser trials.
To pass was to yield.
Not the body—that had already been peeled, broken, reforged through trial and ash.
No. This gate asked for her will.
The last remnant of choice.
The final refuge of self.
She stood still, hands at her sides, and felt the weight of the question bloom inside her like rot: Who would she be, without herself?
For a long time—minutes, hours, centuries—she didn't move.
Then, in one sharp motion, she pressed her palm to the eye.
It did not blink.
It screamed.
But not aloud.
It screamed inside her skull, through her marrow. Pain seared down her spine like molten nails. Her bones burned from the inside. The world melted—no, collapsed. Reality shuddered, then unraveled.
She saw her mother's face, once warm, now gone.Her name, whispered by a dying friend. Forgotten.The first time she held a blade. The first time she killed.The warmth of a fire. The taste of bread.Her uncle's eyes. Her hatred.
Gone.
Swallowed.
She screamed—or thought she did. Her mouth moved. Her body spasmed. Her heart stopped.
Then—
Stillness.
When she opened her eyes, she was lying on stone. Cold. Wet. The scent of copper hung thick in the air. Her fingers twitched. She felt like a vase shattered and pieced back together wrong. Familiar. But not herself.
Tharnok knelt beside her, expression unreadable.
"You passed," he said.
Her voice barely scraped from her throat. "What did it take from me?"
Tharnok smiled. But the smile never reached his eyes.
"Only what you were."
She rose, slow and unsteady, like something newly born. Her limbs moved, but there was a lag—like her soul was relearning where to live. She touched her chest. The beat was there. The breath. But it felt like someone else's life now.
The Gate of Teeth closed behind her with a wet, grinding snap.
Eliana did not look back.
She couldn't.
Because whatever waited behind her was a version of herself she could no longer reach.
Her body was intact. Her blade still sharp. Her path still forward.
But her soul—
It no longer fit.
It was too big. Or too broken.
Or both.
And that was the final lesson.
Ascension always demands a cost.
And evolution never gives change for what you pay.