After a minute of walking, Torin and Auri stopped.
The hallway had been narrowing gradually, the walls pressing closer, the ceiling lowering until Torin had to duck his head to avoid scraping his scalp on the stone.
The air had grown colder, thicker, and the wind—that mournful, moaning wind—had faded to a whisper, then to nothing at all.
Now, they stood before a gate.
It was massive—easily fifteen feet tall, made of dark, ancient wood banded with iron that had rusted to a deep, bloody red. The planks were warped with age, the iron fittings twisted and cracked, but the gate itself was still solid. Still standing. Still closed.
The hallway, however, did not end here. Torin could see it continuing past the gate, stretching into darkness on the other side. The gate was an obstacle, not a destination.
Torin looked at the gate. Then at the dark hallway beyond. Then at the gate again.
With a flick of his wrist, a white sphere of arcane light materialized above his palm—brighter than the Candlelight spell, more focused, the kind of light you used when you needed to see something far away. He waved his hand, and the sphere shot into the darkness, flying down the hallway at great speed, its light illuminating walls and floor and ceiling as it passed.
It flew for a long time. Further than Torin had expected.
Then it stopped.
It hovered in place, its cold white light revealing a dead end. A pile of massive boulders, some as large as carts, had collapsed from the ceiling, sealing the passage completely. No gap. No crawl space. Nothing but solid stone and the weight of a mountain above it.
Torin let out a low breath.
"Then there's only one way forward," Auri said.
She stepped past him, leaned her shoulder against the massive gate, and began to push. Her muscles strained, her jaw tightened, her boots scraped against the stone floor—but the gate moved. Slowly, grudgingly, with a groan of ancient wood and rusted iron, it began to part.
Torin nodded, his hand tightening over his axe. With a thought, he extinguished the Candlelight orb hovering over his head. The hallway plunged into darkness, lit only by the thin sliver of light emerging from the growing gap between the gate and the wall.
Rays of crimson light began to escape.
They were faint at first, barely visible against the darkness of the hallway. But as Auri pushed the gate wider, they grew stronger, brighter, until the stone floor was awash in a bloody glow that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.
The gate was ajar.
Torin relaxed somewhat. There was no immediate danger—no harvester waiting to pounce, no cultist with a firebolt aimed at his face. Just the crimson light, and the strange space beyond.
But he couldn't help but frown.
The sight before him was disorienting. To say the least.
It looked like a naturally formed cavern—stalactites hanging from the ceiling, stalagmites rising from the floor, the rough, uneven texture of stone shaped by water and time. But woven through the natural formations were arches. Intricately carved arches, their surfaces covered in runes and symbols that Torin didn't recognize.
And the arches were tilted.
All of them. Every single one. Leaning at strange, impossible angles, their bases planted on walls that shouldn't have supported them, their tops curving toward ceilings that didn't align with anything.
Some were upside down, their runes carved into stone that should have been facing the floor. Others were sideways, their arches forming half-circles that opened onto walls instead of passageways.
The entire cavern was illuminated by crimson light that had no visible source. It seemed to come from everywhere at once—from the walls, from the floor, from the air itself. It bathed everything in a bloody glow that made Torin's eyes ache if he looked at it too long.
Auri's face darkened. Her ears flattened against her head, and she blinked rapidly, her eyes watering.
"This is making my eyes sting," she said, her voice low and tight. She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, then let out a low hum, her ears twitching, swiveling, tracking something Torin couldn't hear.
"Do you hear that?" she asked.
Torin tilted his head, listening.
At first, there was nothing. Just the faint rustle of his own breath, and the soft whisper of Auri's movements.
Then—
Two sounds.
The first was constant, faint, like running water. A soft, liquid murmur that seemed to come from everywhere at once, echoing off the stone, bouncing between the tilted arches.
It reminded Torin of the hot springs in Eastmarch, the way the water bubbled up from the earth, never stopping, never slowing.
The second was rhythmic. A wet, meaty thump that repeated every second, steady as a heartbeat but heavier, deeper, like something massive and living was pulsing somewhere in the darkness ahead.
Torin looked at the passage, at the turn at the end of what he could see, and sighed.
"I don't know about you," he said, his voice low, "but if I were a wounded Daedra, I'd definitely come here."
Auri gave him a strange look, her amber eyes catching the crimson light.
"What makes you say that?" she asked.
Torin shrugged, the motion causing his armor to creak softly.
"Because it's the last place a human would go." He gestured at the tilted arches, at the runes carved into the stone, at the bloody light that seemed to seep from the walls themselves. "Our lot? We get eaten in places like this."
He paused, his jaw tightening. "This is the kind of place that exists at the beginning of nightmares. The kind you wake up from screaming, grateful that it wasn't real."
He looked at the passage ahead, at the darkness beyond the turn, at the unknown that waited.
Auri couldn't stifle a small grin—bitter, sharp, the expression of someone who'd seen too much to be surprised anymore.
"Are you saying," she asked slowly, "that we'll be eaten here?"
Torin shrugged again.
"Maybe." He hefted his axe, the blade catching the crimson light. "But it won't be by that damned harvester..." He paused. "What else might dwell here, though? I suppose we'll find out."
With that, he strode forward, walking through the tilted arches with Auri close behind.
The passage twisted to the side, curving around a massive stalagmite that rose from the floor like a frozen waterfall. The walls pressed closer, the ceiling lowered, and the sounds—the running water, the meaty thumping—grew louder with every step.
Finally, they reached a wide, cavernous area.
An underground chamber, so large that Torin couldn't see the far wall.
The ceiling arched high overhead, lost in shadow, and the crimson light was brighter here—so bright that it hurt to look at, that made Torin's eyes water and Auri's ears flatten in discomfort.
Neither of them cared about the light.
Both of them found their gazes drawn to the center of the chamber.
To the shrine.
It was massive—easily thirty feet tall, carved from black stone that seemed to drink in the crimson light. The statue of Molag Bal, the King of Rape, the Lord of Domination, stood with its arms outstretched, its face was twisted into an expression of cruel, eternal hunger.
Its eyes glowed red. Not with reflected light, but from within—two burning embers that seemed to follow Torin as he moved, that seemed to watch him with a cold, intelligent malice.
Its mouth was open.
And from that mouth came the sounds.
The mouth was filled with something red and meaty and pulsating—hearts, Torin realized, dozens of them, maybe hundreds, packed into the statue's maw like offerings to a god that demanded blood.
They pulsed in unison, contracting and expanding, squeezing together, and from between them—from between the jagged stone fangs that lined the statue's jaws—a red liquid flowed like a waterfall.
It poured into a basin below, a massive stone bowl carved with scenes of torment and domination, filled to the brim with that thick, crimson fluid. The liquid rippled with each pulse of the hearts, splashing over the sides, pooling on the stone floor.
And in the basin, slumbering contentedly, was the harvester.
Its serpentine body was coiled in the blood, its remaining arms folded across its chest, its ruined mouth hanging slightly open. The stump of its severed arm had stopped bleeding—sealed by something, maybe magic, maybe the blood itself.
Its scales gleamed in the crimson light, wet and slick, and its tail twitched occasionally, like a dreaming dog chasing rabbits.
It was bathing in the blood. Letting it soak into its wounds. Letting it heal.
Torin's grip tightened over the handle of his axe. The leather wrapping creaked under his fingers, old and worn but still holding firm.
He looked at the statue—at those glowing red eyes that seemed to watch him with cold amusement—at the pulsing hearts packed into its open maw, at the waterfall of crimson blood pouring into the basin below.
Then he turned to look at Auri.
He didn't say anything. Didn't need to. The look on his face was worth a thousand words—hard and focused and cold, the expression of a man who'd stopped thinking about anything except the kill.
Auri understood.
She moved quickly, silently, the way she always did when the hunt was on. Her hand went to her quiver, fingers finding an arrow by memory alone, and she knocked it into her bow with a smooth, practiced motion.
The arrowhead was dark steel, wickedly sharp, etched with runes that glowed faintly in the crimson light.
She turned back to Torin with a questioning look. Her amber eyes were bright, eager, asking the question her voice wouldn't: Now?
Again, Torin didn't speak.
He took a step back to stand behind her, positioning himself so that his axe had a clear line of sight to the slumbering creature. Then he let go.
The axe didn't fall.
It floated in the air where he'd released it, hovering at chest height, the haft steady and still. Lightning arcs began to dance around the axe head—white and gold, crackling and snapping, filling the chamber with the sharp smell of ozone.
The runes along the blade blazed to life, brighter than Torin had ever pushed them, drawing power from the magicka he was feeding into the weapon.
Auri understood his intention. She didn't question it, didn't hesitate, didn't ask for clarification. She just drew the arrow and took aim.
Her magicka flowed into the arrowhead—a different kind of power than Torin's, wilder, more instinctive, the magic of a huntress who'd learned to channel her will through her weapons.
The runes on the arrowhead glowed orange, then red, then white-hot.
She released.
The arrow flew.
Swift and true, cutting through the crimson light like a streak of fire, it crossed the chamber in the span of a heartbeat. The harvester didn't stir. Didn't sense the danger. Didn't even twitch.
The arrow struck home.
Right in the creature's right eye.
The harvester's body convulsed. Its tail lashed out, slapping against the side of the basin, sending waves of blood splashing over the edge. Its remaining arms flailed, claws scrabbling at the stone, and from its ruined mouth came a shriek of agony that echoed off the walls, that made Auri's teeth clench.
But its troubles had only just begun.
Just as the harvester's eye—the one not filled with arrow—caught sight of the massive axe flying straight toward its head, lagging only slightly behind the arrow now embedded in its skull, the arrowhead ignited.
Flame erupted from the wound, spreading across the creature's face, blackening its pale skin, cooking its blood in its veins. The harvester shrieked again, louder this time, its body thrashing, its tail whipping back and forth in frantic, uncontrolled spasms.
It raised its three arms to shield itself.
It was futile.
The axe hit like a thunderbolt. The blade, blazing with lightning, cut through the creature's arms as if they were made of wet paper—severed them cleanly at the elbow, sending them spinning into the air.
It didn't stop there. It kept going, through the harvester's raised guard, through its desperate defense, through the skull that had been so confident just moments ago.
The axe embedded itself in the shrine.
The blade sank deep into the black stone, and the harvester's head—what was left of it—split into two. The two halves fell apart, dangling from the neck by strips of torn flesh, and for a moment the creature's body remained upright, frozen in the basin, blood and brain matter and things that shouldn't exist pouring from the ruin of its face.
Then it fell.
It crumpled into the basin, limp and lifeless, its serpentine body coiling in on itself, its claws curling, its tail going still. The blood splashed around it, crimson waves lapping at the stone, and then—
The body began to disintegrate.
Eerie blue light particles rose from the harvester's flesh, drifting upward like embers from a dying fire. The skin flaked away. The scales crumbled. The bones turned to dust. Piece by piece, inch by inch, the creature dissolved, until there was nothing left of it but a faint shimmer in the air and the memory of its presence.
The shrine stood silent. The hearts still pulsed. The blood still flowed.
But the harvester was gone.
...
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