The tunnels stretched long ahead, silent but never still. Drips of unseen water echoed from the jagged ceiling. The walls pulsed faintly with veins of pale blue light, guiding their path through the gloom. Riven walked beside the Phantom, his wrist bandaged with the torn remains of his trousers, aching with every step. Their pace was cautious now—steady, deliberate.
They hadn't spoken in a while. The silence was familiar, but not quite comfortable.
The Phantom broke it. "You moved quietly this time," she murmured, nodding at the limp body of a Wraithspawn crumpled behind them. Its neck had been snapped clean, not a drop of blood spilled.
Riven wiped his hand on his pants. "You said noise attracts them. I listened."
"You're learning," she said, and that was the closest thing to praise he'd gotten from her.
He glanced back once more, still expecting the walls to crack open and disgorge a swarm of the creatures. Nothing came. The silence held.
They continued walking.
"How did you kill it without drawing the others?" he asked.
She didn't answer right away. When she did, her voice was almost instructional. "You aim for the pressure points along the spine. Or sever the nerves at the back of the skull. No noise. No scream. And most importantly, no blood. Blood has a scent. The Net reacts."
Riven nodded slowly. That explained a lot.
"Not everyone can do it," she added. "Takes precision."
"Wasn't clean," he muttered. "Nearly missed."
"But you didn't."
They walked on. Time passed in that slow, warped way it did underground. At some point, she tossed him a piece of dried meat. "Eat."
He caught it mid-air, sniffed it. "Still Wither Spawn?"
"Cooked longer this time," she replied.
Riven took a tentative bite. It was dry, stringy, and still tasted wrong, but his stomach accepted it without complaining
Later, after avoiding a collapsed tunnel and taking a side path barely wider than their shoulders, they found a moment to rest. Sitting with their backs to the wall, Riven pulled out his weapon and wiped it down.
She watched him. "That thing… that isn't yours, is it?"
Riven looked at the short blade. A scavenged weapon from their first encounter. "No. My real weapon is a spear."
"Why don't you use it?"
"Lost it… when I got taken." His fingers tightened around the hilt. "It was carved wood. Iron-tipped. Balanced for my reach."
The Phantom nodded slightly. "You fight like someone trained with a spear. You keep distance. You move with range."
"Old habits die hard."
There was a pause. Then she asked, "You miss it?"
Riven didn't answer right away. "It was the only thing that felt like mine."
A moment of silence passed before she stood. "We move again in ten minutes."
They were getting closer. The air was changing. The light veins were dimming.
The City of Silence wasn't far now.
But with each step, the shadows only grew deeper.