Ishar controlled his breathing, his steps swift yet measured. Every movement was deliberate, his senses stretched to their limit. The faint, eerie clicking above never ceased, the sound crawling down his spine like unseen fingers. He didn't dare look up again—he already knew what waited there.

  A wrong step. A single miscalculation. That was all it would take for the Umbrarach to descend on him.

  His heartbeat pounded in his ears, but he forced it to slow. He focused on the sensations beyond his body—the faint shifts in air currents, the subtle weight of gazes unseen. His Incubus instincts, a trait he had no choice but to rely on, whispered silent warnings. Turn here. Move faster. Step lightly.

  Without them, he would have walked straight into their waiting fangs.

  The path ahead twisted in uncertain angles, narrow tunnels leading into deeper shadow. The cavern stretched on endlessly, each step dragging time into unbearable stretches. Once, his foot grazed a loose stone, sending it tumbling down into the darkness. He froze—his breath caught in his throat.

  The clicking above stopped.

  A slow, synchronized shift. The scraping of limbs repositioning. The silence that followed was worse than the noise.

  Ishar pressed himself into the rock, body rigid. He didn't move. He didn't blink. His lungs burned with the effort of holding back even the faintest sound. Then, after an eternity, the clicking resumed.

  They hadn't noticed him.

  He exhaled slowly and pressed forward. His muscles ached from the tension, but he refused to falter. The path sloped downward, then veered sharply to the right. He had no idea where it would lead, but he couldn't turn back.

  Minutes stretched. Or maybe it was hours. He didn't know anymore.

  But then, finally—the air shifted.

  The stifling dampness of the cavern gave way to something lighter, fresh. The faintest wisp of cool air brushed against his skin. His pace quickened, careful but determined. The tunnel narrowed one last time before widening into a new path.

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  He stepped out.

  The sounds of the spiders faded behind him.

  Ishar didn't move at first—he only stood there, taking in the open space, the sheer fact that he had made it.

  A thought settled in his mind, cold and absolute.

  Without his Incubus senses, he never would have noticed them. He would have walked into a death trap, oblivious.

  The realization sent a shudder through him. How much of his survival depended on what he had become?

  For now, it didn't matter. He was still breathing. That was enough.

  He squared his shoulders, shaking off the tension that clung to his limbs, and turned toward the next path.

  Two paths stretched before him, each leading into the unknown.

  To the left, the tunnel sloped gently upward. The air was fresher, carrying the faintest promise of escape. Even without seeing the exit, he could feel it—like a whisper at the edge of his senses, an unspoken pull toward the dungeon's outer regions.

  To the right, the path twisted downward into suffocating darkness. The air there was thick, heavy with an unnatural pressure that pressed against his skin. Something lurked deeper in that abyss—something ancient, waiting.

  Ishar didn't hesitate.

  His body ached, his mind screamed for rest, but survival was the only thing that mattered. He turned left, quickening his pace.

  He wasn't naive. This wouldn't be simple. The adventurers were hunting him. They wouldn't leave anything to chance.

  He had to move—before they closed in.

  ***

  The adventurers stood at the mouth of the downward slope, their gazes fixed on the fresh blood trail smeared across the rough stone. The crimson streak glistened under the dim dungeon light, a silent marker of their prey's desperate flight.

  "He's wounded," the spearwoman muttered, running a gloved hand over the blood. It was still fresh, warm to the touch. "He can't have gone far."

  The archer frowned as he dragged a cloth over his bowstring, wiping away the streaks of blood splattered across its surface. His expression was calm, almost indifferent, as if the carnage surrounding him was nothing more than an afterthought.

  The cave was a massacre.

  Goblins lay in heaps, their bodies strewn across the uneven stone floor, some slashed open, others impaled, their deaths swift and merciless. Blood pooled in the cracks, the air thick with the stench of slaughter. Some had tried to flee—charred corpses near the cave's edge spoke of the mage's handiwork. Others had been taken down mid-charge, spears and arrows piercing their small, frail bodies with ruthless precision.

  The spearwoman kicked aside a twitching goblin, flicking the blood from her weapon with a practiced motion. "Pathetic," she muttered. "They didn't even slow us down."

  The archer finished cleaning his bow, his gaze shifting to the downward slope ahead. His eyes narrowed at the fresh streaks of blood on the stone. "He's wounded," he noted, adjusting his grip. "And he's not covering his tracks well."

  Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he asked, "Do you think Jake will get to him before we do?"

  The spearwoman scoffed, planting the butt of her weapon into the ground. "If he does, it won't be because of skill. Just dumb luck."