Threadfall Gully hadn’t looked that far on the map. Standing at its lip, Elias realised the map had lied.

  The land had split open into a crooked, weeping wound. Fungal growths had attempted to stitch the chasm back together and given up halfway. Thick cords of mycelium sagged across the gap at impossible angles. Below, a dense mist roiled like a living dog, chasing its tail under a heavy blanket.

  The air here was worse than the Sporevault: warmer and heavier; breathing felt like sucking on damp dish cloth. The smell had shifted from mouldy parchment to sour rot and rust stewing in standing water.

  Elias adjusted his pack as sweat soaked through his harness. His boot slipped on slime-slick rock, catching at the last second.

  Cindersnarl stood beside him, ears set back, the embers in his fur were dim, struggling against the damp and mottled ambient light.

  "You’re feeling it too," Elias murmured, patting his head.

  Cindersnarl huffed and sneezed, puffing fine spores from his muzzle.

  The lead scout stepped up. Her armour slick with condensation; a thin thread of fungus was already trying to colonise her shoulder strap.

  "Keep to the grown bridges," she warned. "The stone crumbles. And don’t look down for long. The mind doesn't like the depth here."

  "Noted," Elias’s voice sounded muffled in his own ears.

  As they began the decent, they followed the narrow path cut directly into the wall of the ravine. It was studded with fungal caps the size of carts, some dripped a fluid which brought memories of old vinegar and mouldy fruit to Elias' minds eye.

  [ZONE: THREADFALL GULLY] [HAZARD: UNSTABLE FOOTING]

  Elias blinked the text away. "How far does this run?"

  "Longer than it should do," a rear scout wheezed. "The land tried to close, but failed. Hence the name."

  "Comforting."

  The stone path ended. The first bridge began, a tangle of fused roots stretching over the void. It looked wet, slippery, and like the only way forward.

  The lead scout stepped onto it ginerly. The knotted mass sagged but held. Elias followed, the bridge flexing enough to make his knees ache. Cindersnarl padded behind, claws testing for purchase.

  Halfway across, the sword tapped his spine, a physical knock, like a finger flicking the scabbard.

  [HOSTILES DETECTED: SUBSTRATE]

  "Eyes open," Elias whispered. "Something's twitching."

  "Threadfall is always twitching," the scout said without turning.

  "More than....."

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The bridge jerked. Sharp. Violent. Like something tugged it from below.

  "Hollowborn," the scout hissed, dropping into a crouch. "They burrow."

  A wet thump hit the underside of the bridge. A hand—swollen, split, packed with grey mycelium—punched through the fibres. Then a head surfaced, snapping roots as it emerged.

  The Hollowborn Thrall shrieked—a sound like metal dragging on stone. Its jaw was unhinged, eyes replaced by pulsing jelly.

  Elias drew Dawnfall. The grip stuck to his sweaty palm for a heartbeat, then tore free. He stabbed down, driving the point into the Thrall’s shoulder. Dark sap welled up. The thing went limp.

  For two seconds.

  Then another burst through behind them. And another.

  "Move!" the scout snapped.

  Elias scrambled over the dead Thrall. Cindersnarl squeezed against his side. The bridge bucked as more things hit the underside.

  "Forward," Elias yelled. "Cut a path!"

  They hacked their way across. There was no elegance here. Elias chopped at reaching arms, stepping over jerking remains. No howls were released as the Thralls died; they just stopped dead.

  They reached the far anchor, legs burning. The path widened for a short stretch.

  Then came the howl.

  It bounced off the gully walls—sharp, directional.

  "Briarwolves," the scout swore.

  "Of course."

  Shapes dropped from the upper ledges.

  A Weeping Briarwolf landed ten feet away, shaking spores from a coat that looked built from a multitude of creatures. Too many legs, ribs showing under knotted skin, eyes replaced by green light.

  It sniffed, locking onto the sword.

  "Yeah," Elias muttered. "I figured."

  The creature lunged. Elias brought the sword up, the blade skidding off bone. The impact nearly sent him over the edge.

  Cindersnarl hit the wolf from the side. A tangle of fur, thorns, and dying embers. Cindersnarl’s jaws locked around the creature’s throat.

  Spores burst from the wound—a thick green cloud.

  "Back!" Elias shouted.

  Too late. The cloud washed over Cindersnarl. He staggered, coughing in a harsh, choking rhythm. His embers sputtered and died.

  [COMPANION STATUS: CRITICAL] [TOXIN: FUNGAL PARASITOSIS]

  Another wolf approached. The scout dropped it with arrows, but Elias wasn't watching; he was on one knee beside Cindersnarl.

  He grabbed the Warg’s snout. The gums were grey. The heat was gone, replaced by a feverish chill.

  Septic shock. Rapid onset.

  "I can't treat him here," Elias realised, panic tightening his chest. "He needs the Keep. He needs stasis."

  [OPTIONS: DISMISS / STASIS RETURN]

  Elias's mouth was dry. He pressed his hand to the Warg's flank.

  "Go home," he croaked. "Sleep it off."

  The sigil in his palm flared. A net of light enveloped the Warg, and with a final, whimpering huff, Cindersnarl dissolved into sparks.

  The ledge felt instantly emptier – just air and damp fungus where his friend used to be.

  "Flame-beasts don't often get second chances," the scout said softly.

  "The Keep had better hold him close," Elias muttered, standing up. His knee clicked. "Or I'm tearing it down brick by brick."

  They moved on.

  The path narrowed. Mist swirled below, hiding shapes that moved just out of sight. A cold wisp crept across Elias's neck.

  He turned. A Thornshade Wraith hung half over the stone wall – a stretched, shadowy outline with a gaunt, hollow face. It didn't look at him, but he felt the chill.

  "If they fix on you, they follow," the scout whispered, "bound to broken rites."

  They passed a dozen of them. The sword twitched in its sheath every time, as if physically compelled to seek them out.

  Eventually, the path levelled out onto a wider ledge, and Elias stopped, leaning against the wall, calves burning.

  "Rest," the scout said. "Briefly."

  Elias cautiously sat on a nearby damp rock. He drank lukewarm water that tasted of boiled leather. Here, the ravine wall was carved with worn patterns of knotwork, eroded by age and never-ending drip, drip, drip. As he glanced over, one of the circles pulsed.

  [LOCAL MEMORY RESONANCE: HIGH]

  "Of course," he sighed.

  He picked at dried blood on his glove. The scouts murmured amongst themselves – routes lost, roots silent.

  "We must keep moving," the leader said.

  They ducked under a tilting slab. On the other side, a small hollow coalesced from the mist, sheltered by hanging fungus.

  Something moved inside.

  Elias held up a hand.

  A creature the size of a fox peered cautiously out. Its fur was made of bark and moss, with pale-petalled flowers growing along its spine. It blinked slowly, eyes wide, glowing softly.

  "Friend of yours?" Elias asked.

  "Not ours," the scout said. "A child of the Hollow. They follow grief, mending bridges and hearts as they can."

  "Great. Well, it's in the right place."

  [ENTITY DETECTED: FENNROOT]

  The creature tilted its head and watched Elias closely. It didn't appear frightened; it didn't run; it simply tapped a tiny root-finger against the stone, mimicking the sound of his armour.

  "Later," he told the creature.

  He turned back to the path. The ravine climbed ahead, walls closing in. Somewhere beyond lay the Withered Weald.

  His legs ached with fatigue. His fingers still itched where the Warg usually nudged him. He hitched his pack higher on his shoulders and continued walking.