Just as the last thread of light vanished, I stepped deeper into the cave, and the world collapsed into absolute darkness. It wasn't the kind of darkness I was familiar with—not the calm veil of night, nor the pleasant shade beneath a tree. This darkness felt hungry. It pressed against my skin, crawled into my lungs, and settled there as if it meant to stay. Every breath echoed, shallow and unsure, reminding me that I was walking into a place where the living weren't meant to linger.
My boots scraped lightly against uneven stone as I advanced, guided only by touch and instinct. When my hands brushed against the wall, I flinched—it was colder than ice, almost moist, as if the cave itself were alive and breathing. Slowly, my eyes began to adjust, and shapes emerged from the void. There, carved into the walls, were engravings—hundreds of them—etched with meticulous care. I leaned in closer, tracing the sharp symbols with the tips of my fingers. The grooves were deep, old, and layered with centuries of dust.
I couldn't read them. The language was foreign—no alphabet or script I had ever encountered. The symbols curled and cut like blades, and though I couldn't decipher their meaning, I could feel it. These weren't casual markings; they were the documented history of something ancient. Maybe warnings, maybe records, maybe both.
What unsettled me most was how silent it all was. No dripping water, no distant creaks, no scuttling of creatures. The cave swallowed sound the same way it swallowed light. It felt like I was trespassing in a grave long forgotten by the world—and I had no idea what rested here or why it remained guarded.
Then I noticed it.
Among the countless indistinguishable walls, one stood apart. It was illuminated—not naturally, but by design. Two torches burned on either side, their flames tall and steady despite the absence of wind. Their warm glow clung to the stone, casting trembling shadows that wavered as if afraid.
I approached slowly.
This wall too was covered in foreign writing, but it was arranged purposefully, guiding the observer's attention toward the centerpiece. And there, dominating the stone with brutal clarity, was the image of a dragon's head.
It wasn't painted with ink. It wasn't carved into the stone. It had been drawn in blood. Thick, dark, iron-scented blood that had dried into the rock over gods knew how many years. The dragon's eyes were hollow and furious; its teeth bared in a silent shriek. The moment my gaze met its empty sockets, a shiver crept down my spine.
I didn't need to read the symbols to understand. This was the Blood Dragon Trial.
Below the dragon head were four smaller paintings, arranged in a precise order from left to right. Each one had a number carved beside it—one through four. At first glance, they seemed chaotic, but the more I studied them, the clearer the meaning became.
The first painting showed a warrior kneeling before the dragon, blood streaming from his chest. The second showed another warrior donning armor—massive and beastlike. The third depicted a different warrior locked in combat with someone falling, their identity ambiguous. The fourth… the fourth showed only the dragon, coiled around something I couldn't see clearly.
It took time, but the narrative arranged itself in my mind: four stages, four trials, and four pieces of Blood Dragon armor that could be earned. Each piece was guarded by a soldier—an executioner bred from blood and ritual—whose sole purpose was to kill the one attempting the trial.
Me.
A sick realization settled in my gut. The soldiers weren't identical. Even if two bore the same type of armor, the armor warped to fit its wearer. Some sets bristled with spikes, others gleamed like obsidian, and others yet were cracked and ancient but no less deadly. To complete the trial meant facing four unique monsters—and surviving.
As I studied the last painting, my breath steady but tight, a rumble shook the cave floor. At first, I thought it was just tremors—old stone adjusting to my presence. Then the ground split.
No warning, no time to react. The stone cracked open beneath my boots, and gravity wrenched me downward. My stomach lurched as I plummeted into a yawning abyss, the torchlit wall shrinking above me.
For a heartbeat, I was weightless—suspended in terror—before the void swallowed me whole. Wind howled past my ears, though I couldn't tell if it was real or just the sound of my own fear tearing itself free.
The last thing I saw was the dragon's bloody gaze disappearing into darkness.
And in that moment, falling through emptiness, one truth crystallized in my chest:
The Blood Dragon Trial had begun—and there was no turning back.