Chapter 94: Trust no One

The torch in Dunny’s fist jittered like a drunken firefly, painting the tunnel walls in frantic orange strokes that made every shadow look like it was about to lunge out and bite at us.

And there we all stood, a ragged semicircle of half-poisoned, half-murdered, half-hungover misfits staring at the newest cosmic joke the gods had decided to drop on our heads: a rockfall so complete it looked like the cavern had sneezed and wiped its nose with the entire passageway.

Brutus, bless his boulder-sized heart, let out a mutter that rumbled through the stone itself, “Fucking hell.”

The words hung in the air like a fart in a confessional, heavy, inevitable, and impossible to ignore. Dunny, cheeks still flushed from sprinting back like the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels, thrust the torch forward as if the light itself could shame the debris into moving.

His voice cracked with the kind of smug panic only a man who’s been proven right can muster. “See? I told you, didn’t I?”

His eyes flicked to Mia then, who hadn’t talked much since stabbing Victor into modern art. She hugged herself, knuckles white, lips pressed into a line that said she’d seen enough death for one lifetime and wasn’t keen on having seconds.

I tilted my head, squinting at the blockage, before planting my hands on my hips in the most dramatic pose I could manage without toppling over.

“Well, well, well,” I drawled, brushing a streak of dried cum from my collar with theatrical nonchalance. “looks like the universe decided Victor wasn’t enough of a finale and threw in an encore. I mean gods, talk about a rock and a hard place. How thoughtful. Really tying the whole ’fuck you, Loona’ theme together.”

Renly, lute slung across his back like a battle standard, snorted so hard he nearly choked on his own spit. “Could be worse, boss. Could be another betrayal. Or another orgy. Or both. Gods, I need a drink.”

Dregan scratched his beard, foam long since wiped away but the memory of it still clinging like a bad reputation. “Lad’s got a point. At least rocks don’t spike the ale. Usually.”

Brutus folded his arms, muscles bulging like angry bread dough, and glared at the collapse as if he could intimidate geology into submission. “So what now?”

Atticus, ever the calm eye in our perpetual storm of idiocy, stepped forward with the kind of serene confidence that made you want to punch him just to see if he’d blink.

He unrolled the map he’d lifted from Victor’s cooling corpse and spread it across a convenient boulder like a surgeon laying out his tools.

“Observe,” he said, tapping a spot with one blood-crusted finger, voice smooth as aged whiskey and twice as intoxicating. “We’re here. Just beyond the collapse lies an abandoned forge—old dwarven make, still structurally sound, hopefully. Across the forge floor is the service elevator we need to reach.”

He traced a line back the way we’d come, before pointing at some branching tunnel we’d ignored earlier. “This path loops us around. Unstable, yes. Narrow, possibly. But it spits us out above the forge. From there we can reach the elevator from across this walkway.”

Brutus raised one bushy eyebrow so high it nearly vanished into his hairline. “You sure?”

Atticus didn’t even flinch. “Positive. The structural integrity is… questionable. But the alternative is digging through thirty tons of granite with our fingernails and bruised egos. I, for one, prefer my manicure intact.”

I tilted my head, blinking up at him with the wide-eyed innocence of a kitten who’d just pissed in someone’s boot. “Wait, unstable how? Like ’occasional pebble’ unstable, or ’whole ceiling decides to hug us’ unstable?”

Atticus sighed the sigh of a man who’d explained gravity to a toddler one too many times. “The tunnel is prone to minor seismic hiccups. Nothing we can’t outrun if we move quickly. Think of it as… motivational sprinting.”

And just like that, with the kind of group shrug only a crew of near-death veterans can pull off, we turned tail and marched back down the way we’d come, boots scuffing stone, torchlight flickering like it was nervous too.

The branching tunnel loomed ahead, half-collapsed and narrow as a nun’s promise, the entrance a jagged maw that looked like it had been chewed by something with too many teeth and not enough manners.

Brutus went first, because of course he did—shoulders scraping both walls, grumbling the entire time about “fucking dwarven architects” and “who designs a hallway for anorexic snakes?”

I followed, squeezing through with all the grace of a cat in a corset, hips twisting, breath held, praying to every god who’d listen that my ass wouldn’t get wedged and turn me into a permanent tunnel ornament.

Note to self: if we survive, invent tunnel-safe lingerie. Something slimming. Maybe with built-in lubrication.

The passage beyond was a claustrophobe’s fever dream—ceiling low enough that Dregan had to duck occasionally, walls slick with condensation that smelled faintly of rust and regret. The air was thick and stale, like the inside of a coffin that had been left out in the rain.

Dregan started humming a jaunty tune, something about “three blind miners and a pickaxe,” and I couldn’t help but join in, voice echoing weirdly off the stone.

“Oh the foreman said to dig deeper still, but the roof came down and gave us a thrill—”

“Shut it, both of you,” Brutus growled.

Dregan chuckled, the sound laced a with tinge of reckless abandon. “Let the lads sing! Keeps the ghosts away. Or summons them. One or the other.”

We trudged on, the tunnel widening just enough to breathe without tasting each other’s armpits, the floor sloping gently upward in a way that made my calves burn and my ego whisper sweet lies about future gym memberships.

I nudged Brutus with my elbow, because personal space is a myth and I’m a tactile little gremlin. “Hey, big guy. You still got that radio on you? The one you nicked from the conductor?”

He grunted, which in Brutus-speak meant yes, obviously, do you think I’d leave something that valuable behind?

“Yeah. Why?”

I didn’t wait for permission—manners are for people who aren’t about to die in a cave-in—and dove into the folds of his cloak like a ferret on a mission, fingers brushing past knives, flasks, and something that felt suspiciously like a love letter written in crayon.

“Hey!” Brutus yelped, face going redder than Victor’s had after his date with a bottle of methanol. “Personal space, you little—”

“Relax, darling,” I cooed, finally fishing out the battered radio, all cracked bronze and exposed wires, “This is strictly business.”

I flicked it on, static crackling like a grumpy cat, and started twisting the dial with the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing bombs or choosing the perfect lipstick.

Brutus loomed over my shoulder, breath warm on my neck. “What in the nine hells are you doing?”

“Trying to find a signal, genius,” I said, tongue poking out in concentration. “One that reaches the upper layers. Maybe we can call for extraction, a bath, a bottle of something that doesn’t taste like battery acid. You know, luxuries.”

He scoffed, the sound wet and dismissive. “Won’t work. We’re too deep. The rock’ll block it.”

I sighed, long and theatrical. “Eh, worth a shot…”

Then—crackle. A faint, stuttering burst of feedback, like a voice trying to scream through cotton. My hands froze. The tunnel went silent except for the soft dripping of water somewhere far away. I twisted the dial again. Nothing.

Brutus shrugged. “Must’ve been the wind.”

I stared at him, deadpan. “We’re underground, dumbass. The only wind down here comes from Dregan after eating his beans.”

Dregan belched on cue, as if summoned. “What? Protein’s important.”

The crew erupted into laughter, the sound bouncing off the walls like it was trying to escape. And just like that the tension snapped like a cheap garter belt. Flasks appeared. Jokes flew. Someone started a betting pool on how long it took until the tunnel collapsed. I took three-to-one odds on “before Loona finds a working signal.”

Saints above, it was good to hear them laugh, even if it was gallows humor—better than the silence of the dead, or worse, the silence of Mia’s stares.

Dregan, ever the storyteller, cracked a sudden joke, “Remember that time Tomas tried to arm-wrestle a guard dog? Poor sod ended up with teeth marks where no man should.”

The crew paused, blinking at him like he’d spoken in tongues. “Who the fuck is Tomas?” Brutus asked, confusion knitting his brows.

Dregan scratched his beard, eyes distant, “You know, Tomas—the lanky one with the scar on his cheek, joined us after Malrick was beaten, always humming that annoying tune about lost loves and leaky boots.”

Atticus tilted his head, “Scar? Humming? I think you’re mixing him up with that ghost story you told last night—we’ve got no Tomas, unless he’s the invisible one who’s been stealing my drawls.”

Dregan waved it off with a meaty hand, the torchlight catching the sweat on his knuckles and turning it to gold, “Bah, must be my age, let’s move on before I start naming the rocks and writing love poems to the stalactites.”

And we did. Or rather, we tried. The laughter that followed was thin, brittle, the kind of chuckle you force out when your gut’s already twisting itself into sailor’s knots and you’re praying the joke lands before the dread does.

Renly plucked a jaunty little riff on his lute, something about a lighthouse keeper and a mermaid who turned out to be a tax collector, but the notes wobbled, off-key, like even the strings themselves were nervous.

Brutus grunted his approval anyway, slapping the bard on the back hard enough to make the lute squeal. Dregan launched into a story about a dwarf who mistook a cave bear for his ex-wife and tried to propose, voice booming, beard bristling, every gesture grander than the last.

For one glorious, drunken heartbeat, we were back to normal, just a pack of idiots stumbling through the dark, trading lies, liquor, and the kind of camaraderie that only blooms when death’s been breathing down your neck for three days straight.

It was the sort of bond forged in blood and bad decision, where every shared flask feels like a sacrament and every laugh is a middle finger to the reaper.

A shorter man named Garrick trailed behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath licking the back of my neck like a drunken lover who’d forgotten personal space.

His face was a map of freckles and soot, nose crooked from some long-ago brawl, eyes the color of storm clouds right before the rain. He held this odd sort of grin that split his face like a cracked melon each time I opened my mouth.

Gods, the man laughed at my jokes like I was the second coming of comedy itself, even the filthy ones about priests and goats that made Dregan choke on his ale.

I chimed in with a filthy limerick about a bishop, a chamber pot, and a novice who mistook holy water for something far less sacred.

I spun, arms wide, waiting for the applause. Dregan wheezed, Renly snorted mid-strum, even Mia cracked a faintest ghost of a smirk. But Garrick’s hiccuping laugh never came.

I turned to elbow him for missing the best part, and there was nothing. No Garrick. No breath. Just the empty tunnel yawning behind us like a mouth that had swallowed him whole and was already licking its lips.

I froze.

The others kept walking, boots scuffing, voices still rising and falling in that easy rhythm of men who think the worst is behind them.

“Hey,” I called, voice cracking slightly, “where the hell’s Garrick?” Renly glanced back, still strumming. “Probably taking a leak. Man’s got a bladder the size of a wineskin.”

But his fingers faltered on the strings, and the tune died mid-note. Dregan’s story trailed off into a cough. Brutus’s hand drifted to the shotgun slung across his back, slow, deliberate, the way a man checks his fly after noticing everyone staring.

We stopped. Torches raised. Eyes darting.

Another absence hit me like a slap. Jethro, some bald bastard with a serpent tattoo that curled around his bicep like a living creature, had been walking beside Freya, muttering something about the quality of her tits.

Two gone. Two. In the space of a heartbeat and a bad joke. “What the fuck?” I whispered from under my breath.

Brutus’s voice cut through the sudden hush like a cleaver. “Headcount. Now.”

No one moved for a heartbeat. The only sound was the low pop and hiss of the torch’s fire, smoke curling upward like the breath of something that knew we were about to start praying.

Brutus unslung his shotgun, the weapon practically an extra limb at this point—an ugly, loyal extension of his will. His eyes swept across us one by one, sharp and calculating, counting mouths, shapes, the rhythm of breath. He wasn’t just looking for bodies. He was hunting for something wrong.

“Names,” he barked. Just that—short and clipped, an order carved in iron.

The command rippled through the group like a whip crack. One by one, our crew straightened instinctively, the reflex of men who’d lived too long under Brutus’s voice to question it. The air had gone dry and sharp, like flint scraping steel.

“Renly,” came first, quick and steady, his lute clutched tight against his chest like it might deflect bullets. “Dregan,” followed, his voice a gravelly rumble, still dusted with foam from his near-death experience. “Freya,” she said, sharper than the rest, defiance coating her name like lacquer. “Mia,” came next—quiet, trembling, but clear nonetheless.

Brutus nodded once at each, eyes scanning, listening, measuring. His grip on the shotgun stayed loose but deliberate, like he could raise and fire it between one blink and the next.

“Atticus.” Calm, crisp, academic even now.”Loona,” I sighed, waving a limp hand like a pageant queen forced to attend her own execution. “Still alive, barely charming.”

That earned me the faintest flicker of a smirk—gone as soon as it appeared. One by one our men were assessed until Brutus’s eyes landed to the last man in our crew, his expression hardening back into stone.

The final voice hesitated. It was a tiny pause—barely a heartbeat—but in this silence, it screamed.

“S… Silas,” he said at last, the stammer so forced it might’ve been scripted. “Yeah—Silas. Been with you since the start.”

The words tripped over each other like drunks in an alley, and that was all it took. The entire mood shifted, the air turning brittle.

Brutus’s gaze sharpened, narrowing in on the man. “Since the start,” he repeated slowly, tasting the words.

Silas nodded too quickly, too eager. “Yeah, boss. Remember that time I pulled you outta that trap back before you hit your head? You said you owed me a drink for it.”

The way he said it—too polished, too precise—made my stomach twist. That wasn’t memory; that was a script.

Brutus didn’t blink. He just said, “Huh,” and then, faster than a snake’s shadow, whipped the shotgun up to Silas’s chest.

“Who the fuck are you really?” Brutus growled. His voice was low, almost calm, and somehow that was worse. Brutus shouting was scary, sure, but Brutus acting calm was almost like asking for a death with. “Start talking before I paint the walls with what’s left of your imagination.”

A murmur rippled through the group. Someone—Renly, I think—stammered, “Come on, boss, that’s Silas! He’s good people—been with us forever.”

Brutus didn’t even look at him. “Quiet,” he barked, the single word a thunderclap. “Or you’re next. Something’s off here.”

Silas raised his hands slowly, a smile spreading across his face like oil slicking over water. “Big man, I get it—you’re jumpy. Hell, I’d be too. But you’re remembering wrong. You got hit in the head back then, remember? Maybe you—”

“Stop talking,” Brutus snapped, but then something shifted in his voice. Brutus’s finger tightened on the trigger. “What happened to Victor?” he asked.

Silas blinked once, then twice. “Probably just taking a piss,” he said with a shrug, too casual, too knowing. “He’ll catch up.”

And Saints, my blood went cold. Because Victor was dead. Dead as dirt, dead as dreams, dead and gone, carved open by Mia’s rage—and this thing didn’t know.

Brutus’s tone dropped to a growl. “I’m gonna ask one last time. Who the fuck are you?”

Silas just smiled wider. His teeth caught the torchlight, sharp and wrong, gleaming too bright, too clean for a man who hadn’t seen a toothbrush since birth. His lips peeled back further until that grin became something feral, something that didn’t belong on any human face.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said. The words came out doubled, like two voices speaking through one throat.

Brutus didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger.

The blast thundered through the cavern, a single violent note that shattered the stillness. The recoil kicked up dust and echoes, and the walls around Silas painted itself in what should’ve been blood, but it wasn’t.

The spray that hit the stone wasn’t red—it was black. Thick. Viscous. It oozed down the wall like ink bleeding from a wounded page, shining under the torchlight like oil dragged up from the abyss. For half a heartbeat, the body didn’t move. It just stood there, completely unmoved.

And then it folded.

Folded backward, bonelessly, like paper soaking in water, bones snapping wetly as the torso collapsed in on itself. Arms and legs bent the wrong way, the joints crackling and twisting until it resembled something insectile.

“Oh, fuck me sideways,” I hissed under my breath.

The thing twitched once, twice—and then it moved. Crawling on what used to be hands, it scuttled into the dark, leaving behind streaks of black sludge and a sound I’ll never forget: a wet, chittering giggle that echoed off the stone like laughter from the end of the world.

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