Night had fallen, but sleep never came.
Nate lay on the creaking wooden floor of their cramped home, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling above. The oil lamp flickered weakly beside him, casting trembling shadows that danced like ghostly whispers across the peeling walls. The faint scent of burnt oil hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of sweat, damp wood, and something far crueler—sickness.
Beside him, on a frayed mattress too thin to offer comfort, his mother lay still. Too still. Her skin had lost its color, lips pale, cheeks hollow. Sweat beaded on her brow, and each shallow breath that escaped her chapped lips sounded like a coin spinning on its final edge—always threatening to fall silent.
He looked at Elara, curled beside their mother, tiny fingers clutching the blanket.
She was too young to understand the dread that filled the room, but even in dreams, she felt it—like a thundercloud pressed into her chest.
She'd never remember this night.
But he would.
Every breath. Every silence. Every heartbeat counting down to the end.
Their home was falling apart. So were they.
Nate turned his head. His father sat slouched in the worn wooden chair, elbows on his knees, fingers tightly interlaced, as if prayer alone could conjure a miracle. His eyes were hollow—more shadow than gaze—staring at the floor like it might offer an escape.
But there were no miracles.
No knights in shining armor.
No divine blessings whispered into their ears.
Only silence—and the healer's words, ringing louder with every passing hour:
"She won't last a week without an advanced potion."
One week.
Seven days to change fate.
Seven days to stop death from reaching out and taking her away.
But the potion cost more than they had ever owned. Even if they sold the shop, the tools, the furniture—everything—it still wouldn't be enough. And even if they had the coin, no one would give them credit. Not anymore.
Nate bit down on his lip until he tasted blood. His eyes drifted back to his father. The man had spent the entire day chasing ghosts—begging former clients, trying to sell the last remnants of their inventory, offering land that didn't even legally belong to them yet.
But the truth had already sunk in like rot beneath floorboards: no one bets on the dying. They turn away. Pretend not to see. Move on.
There would be no help.
No mercy.
His fists clenched so tight his nails carved red crescents into his palms.
Something had to be done.
His father's breath rattled in his throat, dry and brittle. "Maybe… I can find a way," he said, voice barely more than a whisper. Empty words. A dream without a bridge to reality.
Nate didn't respond immediately. His eyes stayed locked on his mother. Every breath she took was a battle. Every second that passed, a moment closer to the end.
And Elara… She would grow up never knowing the warmth of their mother's touch. No lullabies. No soft hands to dry her tears.
He looked at his father—the man who used to carry him on his shoulders, who once laughed loud enough to fill their home. Now he was a shell, unraveling thread by thread.
Nate swallowed the lump rising in his throat.
"We both know you won't," he said. Quiet. Certain.
His father flinched. Not from anger. From truth.
Nate had considered stealing. The merchant district was always full of wealthy nobles, their pockets heavy with coin and arrogance. A quick hand, a silent step. It might work once. Maybe twice. But not enough. Never enough.
And the city didn't go easy on thieves. If you were caught, you didn't just lose your hands.
You disappeared.
He thought about labor. Breaking stones, hauling crates, cleaning sewage lines. Honest work. But that would take weeks. And they didn't have weeks.
She didn't have weeks.
Then, like a whisper through the flickering flame of the lamp, a thought entered his mind.
The Dungeon.
Everyone knew the stories.
Nate had heard the stories a hundred times.
The City Dungeon was open to anyone.A place of monsters, magic, and madness. A trial of the gods, some called it. Others said it was a curse. But all agreed on one thing:
The Dungeon did not care who you were.
It took the brave. It took the foolish.
But if you survived… you could earn enough gold to buy a lifetime. Artifacts. Essence stones. Rare materials. Even a single drop could change everything.
He'd never been trained. Never held a real weapon. But none of that mattered anymore.
Nate sat up, joints aching from the cold floor. His eyes swept across the room—his dying mother, his sleeping sister, his crumbling father.
And still, no one came.
Then he would go to the one place that welcomed desperation.
"I'm going to the Dungeon."
His father blinked. "What?"
"I said, I'm going to the Dungeon." Louder this time. Firmer. More real.
The chair screeched as his father stood, panic flaring in his eyes. "You will do no such thing! Are you insane?"
Nate stood too. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "Do you have a better idea?"
Silence.
His father opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed whatever lie he had been about to tell.
"There has to be another way," he whispered, almost pleading.
"There's not."
"You'll die in there…"
"Then I'll die trying."
His father clenched his fists. He looked away, his jaw trembling.
"This isn't fair..." he whispered.
Nate almost laughed. Fair? Nothing had ever been fair.
But his father was right about one thing.
He wasn't ready. Not yet.
Because he knew.
The world didn't wait for the weak. It stepped over them. Buried them. Forgot them.
Nate stared at the flickering lamp. The flame was smaller now. Flickering. Fragile.
But it was still burning.
So was he.
"Tomorrow," Nate said, more to himself than anyone else. "I'll find a way in. I'll prepare what I can."
His father said nothing.
Elara whimpered again in her sleep, her small voice a cruel echo in the silent house.
Nate lay back down. The floor felt colder. The night darker. But something had shifted within him.
This wasn't courage.
This was necessity.
Tomorrow, he would step into the Dungeon.
He refuse to let his family fade into nothing.
Not because he was strong.
But because he had nothing left to lose.
And everything to fight for.