He struggled until he got enough support from the ledge to lean on his elbows, but climbing any further would reveal him to the hall. He could make out the scholars’ voices. They were closer.

He remained still, trying to catch his breath and calm the panic. He was normally comfortable enough with heights, but this...

He literally occupied the only ledge in the entire space. Everything else was either nonexistent or had crumbled away into the hole over time. The ledge was not even wide enough to properly stand on, and the wall was lined with jagged outcroppings ready to shred anyone who fell. He placed his foot onto one such jut, using it for extra support.

Drop, the voice whispered with renewed vigour.

His skin crawled.

This place felt worse than Corruption’s laboratory. There was a hint of Corruption in it, or perhaps ‘it’ in Corruption, because the darkness below was so dense, so thick, that anything beyond two metres disappeared. And the air... It fluctuated up and down, like the ragged, diseased breath of someone on their deathbed.

Drop!

There was a desire to let the air rush around him, to not be hindered by form. To lean back and—

I fall, I’m dead! he mentally shouted at himself. There’s nothing below but death!

Or is there more? the voice—the depths—whispered enticingly.

His imagination started to work, conjuring tendrils reaching upward to pull him in. To consume him. And yet, a small part of him—a tiny voice—taunted him to let go. To take the dive. See what happens.

“Fuck this,” he muttered. He’d take his chances with the visible threats.

Redoubling his effort, Rook wedged his foot onto a higher jut, adjusted his arms, and pushed—

The stone gave way.

The ledge shot upward and vanished from his vision as he fell. Darkness swallowed him. His entire body seared with a sudden burning itch on par with his fear. His legs swung wildly and his arms flailed. His nails scraped against jagged stone, pressed into cracks and caught, swinging his body into the wall with a brutal impact. Firmly wedged, his fingers were too numb to feel the pain.

Darkness was everywhere.

Breathing shakily, he looked upward. He could see no light. The air was thick and freezing, clogging his lungs. His body continued to itch, to sting. He squirmed for footing. The need to move was overwhelming.

Too small, his instincts warned. His instincts? Yes. This time it was, even if he didn’t understand how he knew. Too contained. Death. Must climb.

Drop! the voice insisted.

Rook closed his eyes. The darkness behind his eyelids was better than this thick ether.

He freed a hand with difficulty. For a moment during his fall, it had felt as if his nails had actually ripped into the wall, but that made no sense. He felt around and forced his fingers into a higher crack. Small, but enough. He pulled himself upward. A foot found a tiny, stable ledge, knocking stone fragments into the abyss.

Wavering tendrils of cold air brushed against him, promising relief it he would but release his grip.

Gritting his teeth, Rook climbed faster. At one point, he stretched his leg across to lever himself upward.

The voices and urges quieted, replaced by a discomforting feeling that his determination was being observed with curiosity.

The climb felt endless, but little by little, the air grew lighter. His heartbeat slowed from a panicked skitter to a steadier thump.

Panting—gasping—from the effort of simply not letting go, he brought his foot up to his hand in a mantle move and pushed himself higher. His fingers barely reached the next hold, and his quaking muscles threatened to give out.

A hand clasped around his shaking wrist.

Rook cried out, fearing the darkness had taken form. His eyes flashed open, and he saw the whirling depths below, waiting for him; promising that his fate would eventually belong to them. But he could also see the stone walls, faintly lit by dim light.

Another hand joined the first, gripping lower down his arm. He caught the scent of smoke, ink, and paper.

“Lift on three,” the owner of the second hand said. “One, two…”

Rook was pulled up and over. His boots scrambled against the wall, helping them. The figures—the scholar looking people he’d seen earlier—backed away as he cleared the hole, releasing his arm. He shakily dropped onto all fours, staring at his rescuers’ feet planted on the beautiful, solid ground.

“Mercy of the moons!” cried the nearest. “It’s the dragon.”

Additional sharp breaths filled the hall.

“How’d he get in there?”

“Look at his bloodied fingers!”

“Contain him! Thruin will be furious!”

Before Rook could scramble to his feet, the cloaked figures crowded around him, dusty fingers reaching out. He dove between their legs, only for a goblin to catch a finger in the belt loop of his pants. They wrapped their arms around him from behind.

“Let me go,” Rook roared.

The arms tightened around his chest, preventing him from drawing in more air. His lungs burned.

His arms were too weak to be of use, so Rook stomped down on the goblin’s bare foot. Of all the goblins he’d seen, only Thruin wore footwear. The goblin nearly keeled over from the pain, but his grip remained firm.

Bite. Bite! BITE! his instincts roared.

Rook locked his jaws onto the goblin. The creature shrieked and struggled to break free, but Rook only clenched harder, fueld by a feral instinct.

Someone violently tore them apart. In utter contempt, Rook spat out the copper taste of blood filling his mouth.

Revelling in the buzz of his small victory, he noticed no one was eager to get near him now.

“What’s going on?” Thruin’s voice echoed from down the hall.

Rook’s elation sank like an anchor.

He struck his knee out at the nearest scholar blocking his route, catching them in the groin. He got five steps away before Thruin’s fingers gripped his hair.

A searing, icy pain erupted at the nape of his neck, like dry ice pressed against skin. White flashes crossed his vision, and he crumpled to his knees. Thruin held him in place, preventing him from falling further, while the unbearable cold persisted.

“Running free, are you?” Thruin watched tears stream down Rook’s cheeks, savouring every second. “Move and I’ll decorate you all over.”

He removed what he’d held against Rook’s neck and waved a blade of stone in front of Rook’s face. It looked marbled and emanated an arctic air. “Understand, dragon whelp?”

Only a mangled grunt made it through Rook’s clogged throat, sounding closer to a whimper. Thruin released him, and he fell onto his hands.

“Disgraceful.” Thruin turned to the scholars. “Letting a serpentine child overwhelm you! Where were you taking him?”

The goblin clutched his bleeding arm, not daring to complain in Thruin’s presence.

“Nowhere! We pulled him out of a hole.”

“A hole?”

“Or rather, something of the likes.”

One of the scholars nodded towards the inlet, and Thruin’s eyes narrowed. He peered inside it for several seconds.

“What is it, exactly?”

“Not sure,” a different scholar answered. “We didn’t even know it was there until we heard the serpentine clambering inside.”

Thruin kicked Rook onto his back. “How did you get in there?”

The floor pressed against the lingering burn where the knife had touched. Rook pushed through a grimace and gave Thruin a sneer.

He was rewarded with a kick to the head.