Kalem sat with his back against one of the fractured pillars inside the ruined temple, breathing through clenched teeth. The stillness of the place had begun to fray at the edges. What once felt like sanctuary was now suffocating. The faint, flickering glow from the crystalline well no longer comforted—it cast long, uncertain shadows that moved when he didn't.
He hadn't left.
Not yet.
The pull of the Abyss beyond the structure gnawed at his resolve like a dull blade. Out there, everything was madness and hunger. In here, at least, he could think.
At least… he thought he could.
"Stop," Kalem muttered aloud, pressing two fingers against his temple.
"Why? Afraid?" came the reply.
Not through the air. Not through any mouth. It came from the place in his skull where silence should have lived. The voice was becoming clearer. Less like static. More like a person.
Or worse—like himself.
Kalem opened his eyes and looked across the temple's interior. Nothing had changed. The glyphs still glowed faintly along the walls, the crystal well still pulsed with that cold light. But the air had grown heavier.
"This is getting out of hand," he thought, or tried to. But the moment the thought took form, the voice replied.
"You say that often now."
He gritted his teeth. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. The moss he'd been living on—it barely counted as sustenance. It tasted like rot and ash. Whatever nutrients it provided, they were borrowed time.
His hands trembled slightly. Fever hadn't returned, but hunger was making its move.
The voice shifted tone—curious now. "Onyx."
Kalem froze. He hadn't spoken the name in hours. Maybe days.
"You can have him."
It wasn't a threat. It was an offer.
Kalem's hands curled into fists. "Shut up."
There was a long, low silence.
Then: "You held onto his horn, didn't you?"
His hand twitched toward the satchel strapped near his hip—inside, wrapped in cloth, was a broken piece of Onyx's horn. He hadn't dared to leave it behind. He hadn't dared to look at it since he'd fallen.
"You talk a lot for something that doesn't exist," Kalem growled.
"Oh," the voice said, coy. "But I do. You brought me here. With every step. Every scream. Every regret."
Kalem pushed himself to his feet, unsteady but upright. The crystal light shimmered in protest, reacting faintly to his mood.
"You're not real."
"I'm real enough."
He stumbled toward the well, breathing shallow. The air was too still. Even the soothing aura of the ruin was wearing thin. Whatever grace the place had once offered, it was eroding. Just like everything else.
Kalem leaned over the edge of the basin and stared into the crystal below. His reflection was fractured. Burnt. Not from the fall—no, from what came after. His face was sunken, dark rings under his eyes, beard growing wild. A shadow of the soldier who once rode proud alongside a thunder-hooved companion.
The reflection blinked—not when he did.
He reeled back.
"You're slipping," the voice said, gentler now. "But that's alright. You weren't made for the Abyss. Not really."
"Then what was I made for?" Kalem asked aloud, stepping away from the well.
"Not this. But you came anyway."
Kalem paced slowly, grabbing one of his weapons from the crate—a blade infused with obsidian runes. The moment it touched his hand, the voice receded slightly. Like it hated the metal.
He turned the blade slowly in his palm, watching how the light reflected off the runes.
"You're not taking me," Kalem muttered.
"You already gave yourself. When you fell. When he died."
The rage that flared in Kalem's chest was sharp enough to make him stagger. "Don't say his name again."
The temple answered with a faint rumble from above. Stone dust fell from the ceiling in lazy spirals.
The voice didn't respond. Not immediately. Then: "Fine. But the Abyss remembers him."
That sent a chill through Kalem's spine, one colder than the grave. "What does that mean?"
Silence.
Kalem turned his head sharply, half-expecting to see someone—something—lurking just beyond the temple's broken doorway. But there was nothing. Only mist. Only dark.
"I'm leaving this place," Kalem said.
"You'll starve."
"Maybe."
"You'll go mad."
"Already working on it."
"You'll find him down here," the voice said, soft now. Almost sincere. "One way or another."
Kalem didn't answer. He returned to the crate and repacked what gear he could. Several of his weapons had been damaged from the last few encounters—warped from overuse or half-digested by that parasite plant. But enough remained functional.
He reached into the satchel and, despite himself, pulled out the horn shard. Just for a moment.
It was still warm. Or maybe that was just him.
He wrapped it again, carefully.
The light in the crystal well dimmed a fraction, as if mourning.
Kalem turned toward the door.
"I'll mark this place," he said to the empty chamber. "If the voice is right, I'll probably need it again."
No reply.
He stepped out of the ruined structure and into the whispering dark.
Behind him, the ruin remained—crumbling and ancient, half-blessed, half-cursed. A brief respite in a world that offered none.
Ahead, the Abyss breathed.
And somewhere in its endless winding heart… something waited.