Emily never intended to grow close to Lucas. But the nature of survival—fragile, bound in paradoxes—has a way of twisting human relationships into something raw, unspoken. In the middle of a rift, in a world where time bled through cracks and the air itself could kill, Lucas became, as it were, an involuntary companion. He was quiet. In a world of noise and pretensions, his silence was a refuge—his magic, a subdued flicker, more necessity than gift, curling from his palms like fire that had learned not to burn too brightly.

  Perhaps it was the calm of his gaze that drew her in. Perhaps it was the way they both fought—barely for victory, mostly for life. Whatever it was, it made him call her "Little Sis," and not in a way that grated or belittled. It was a kind of quiet protectiveness, an acceptance that they were both here, shoulder to shoulder, in a war neither of them had chosen, yet neither of them could leave.

  The first part of the dungeon was, oddly enough, a little too easy.

  A few goblins, nothing more than the usual shrieking pests. A skeletal brute with an axe large enough to be absurd. Nothing their pitiful party couldn’t handle. They laughed, took a photo after the boss fell—an obsidian-skinned ape, its body disintegrating like melting basalt—and Emily even allowed a smile to pass her lips.

  Then came the crystal globe.

  The boss, a grotesque thing pulsing with a strange, liquid smoke, let out a cry—something that sounded more like a dying animal than a monster. Its chest cracked open like blackened glass, and from it, it pulled a sphere, blue-veined and glowing faintly in the dim dungeon light. A sound like static filled the room.

  "Don’t let it activate!" The captain’s voice rang out, sharp, like he had lived too long at the edge of command and arrogance.

  He swung his weapon—ruthlessly, with a flourish that barely masked his fear—and shattered the orb, the sound of breaking glass a cruel echo in the damp air. The boss crumpled to dust, but in the instant that followed, the ground trembled, and the walls groaned.

  And then, the air split.

  A rift unfurled, its edges slick and oily, like the surface of water under a blackened moon. It did not feel like the rifts they knew. The usual hum of Earth-bound portals was absent. This one invited something darker, older. Something more alive.

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  "Don’t go in," whispered one of the hunters, though the captain had already stepped through, arrogance making him the first to be swallowed.

  They followed.

  Emily and Lucas crossed together.

  ---

  They didn’t return to Earth.

  They stepped into something else entirely.

  The castle was cold, too cold. The air tasted faintly metallic, thin—strangely immaculate, as if the whole place was holding its breath, waiting. The stone of the walls was smooth, polished, almost too perfect, glowing faintly with gold filigree that seemed to mock them with its unnatural finery. Carpeted floors muffled their movements, as if the place was designed to drown out the sounds of reality. Chandeliers hung too low, their light brittle, too eager. A sharp, sour smell of wax and rust lingered in Emily’s throat, and she wondered, not for the first time, if this place even had a name.

  No one spoke.

  They moved through the halls in a silence so thick it could suffocate them. Arched windows bled fog instead of light. Paintings lined the walls, eyes void of expression, as if they, too, watched without seeing. And at the end of the hallway, just beyond the reach of reason—

  A maid was cleaning the floor.

  No. Not a maid.

  A doll.

  It stood, motionless, its body too perfect—too porcelain to be anything human. The lines of its dress were impeccable, stitched with a care that screamed of a craftsmanship too precise, too sterile to be real. It held a feather duster in one hand, its mouth moving in a song that never existed, a lullaby hummed from lips that did not part.

  It did not see them at first.

  But then, it did.

  With a noise like bone snapping, its head jerked to face them. Its eyes—glass eyes—glinted in the dim light.

  > “INTRUDER(S) DETECTED,” it whispered. Not with sound. With meaning.

  And then it screamed.

  The sound pierced the air, cutting through Emily’s skull like a thousand needles, each one a shard of cold. She dropped to her knees, hands clutching at her temples, as if trying to hold her mind together while the world itself splintered. The chandeliers shuddered, their glass creaking, trembling, as if the very place feared the sound. The scream, high-pitched and relentless, clawed through the walls.

  And then, the doll moved.

  Faster than thought. Faster than anything human could.

  The first hunter was thrown into the wall, his body hitting the stone with a sickening crack. Another was torn apart, the arm ripped from his body with a viciousness that made even the seasoned killers recoil. Blood spattered across the pristine carpet, too bright, too real for this world. Lucas screamed, flames erupting from his palms, but the fire—small, weak, desperate—barely touched the thing. Emily threw up her shield, reinforcing it with all she had left, but it was like standing before a wall of knives. It wasn’t enough.

  In the end, it took four of them to bring the thing down. Not with skill. Not with grace. But with desperation. One pinned it, another shattered its porcelain legs, Lucas burned through its brittle core. It kept screaming until the very last moment, until its head shattered like a fragile cup dropped from too high, spilling black smoke instead of brains.

  The silence that followed was absolute.

  And then, broken only by ragged breaths and wet sounds—the sounds of someone too broken to cry—

  > “Is it dead?” Emily asked, voice raw and empty.

  Then—

  Footsteps.

  Soft, too soft.

  Dozens.

  More dolls. More perfect creatures.

  Each dressed in immaculate servant attire.

  Each humming that same, off-key lullaby.