The dungeon floor was spongy and wet. Each step Myth took sank her hooves into the sodden ground, the damp squelch reverberating through the thick silence. It sent a chill up her spine, like a whisper of something watching. Her ears flicked back instinctively, searching for the faintest sound of pursuit, but the world around her was suffocating in its quiet. The Moor of Sleep stretched endlessly in every direction. Unlike the hard, claustrophobic corridors of earlier levels, there were no walls to hem them in, just a curtain of murky fog, curling like tendrils of mist-cloaked specters. The air was dense and heavy, soaking into her coat, weighing her down.

Beside her, Everard, a gaunt courser the color of damp moss, strode ahead with a pace that defied his years. His stride was swift and unrelenting, his hooves striking the ground with sharp resolve. Everard had walked more dungeons than Myth could imagine, yet the toll they had taken showed plainly. His mane hung ragged, his posture weathered but proud. “Pick up the pace,” he snapped without turning his head. His gravelly voice sounded like stone grinding against stone, cutting through the quiet like a chisel.Myth exhaled sharply through her nostrils, irritation bubbling just beneath her nerves. “We’re not being chased,” she muttered. “Why are you always in such a rush?” Everard’s ears twitched, his voice a low growl.
“You think there’s time, because you haven’t seen how little of it you really have.”

Before she could press him further, Everard resumed his march. Myth hesitated for a beat, staring into the fog that swallowed the path ahead. There was no clear trail, no reassuring landmark, just this infinite grayness, broken only by the vague shimmer of her companion’s form. She walked briskly to keep up, but something about the ground tugged at her attention. Her hooves felt slick, as though she were treading on something unnatural. The faint squish and slide sent prickles along her legs, her stomach twisting with inexplicable unease.

Myth glanced down.
Her heart stuttered.
Her hooves were wet. Not just wet, red.

“Everard?” Her voice came out thin, brittle. “What is this? Why are my hooves…” She swallowed. “Why are they red?”
“Don’t look at it.” Everard didn’t stop.
“Is this blood?” she pressed, panic edging into her voice. The old courser sighed as though he’d heard this question a hundred times before. “If you have to ask, it’s better you don’t know.”
“Better I—?” Myth’s words died in her throat. “Everard. Tell me what we’re walking in.” He slowed just enough to glance over his shoulder, his pale eyes dark and unreadable beneath his tangled mane. “Legend says the ground here is made from those who fell. It’s their blood. Their bones. Their misery.” Myth stiffened, ears pinned back.
“You’re joking.”
“Does it look like I’m joking?” Everard replied flatly. He stepped forward, the ground making a sickening sound beneath his hooves.
“What do you mean, those who fell?” Myth asked, though part of her didn’t want the answer. Everard halted again. This time, he turned fully to face her, his expression more grave than she’d ever seen it. “Fallen coursers,” he said. “The ones who came here thinking they could conquer the dungeon. Every dungeon takes its toll, but here… the Moor of Sleep takes everything. It pulls them under. Inch by inch, until they’re gone. Their blood rises to greet the next who wander this place, like a warning.”

Myth’s breath caught in her throat. Her hooves felt suddenly heavier, as if the ground were tightening its hold. She dared another glance downward. The red sheen on her legs seemed to glisten brighter now, almost accusing.
“That can’t be real,” she whispered. “It’s just a story.”
“Stories start somewhere, don’t they?” Everard said quietly. His ears swiveled sharply then, his gaze darting to the mist behind her. A sound reached them. Wet. Muffled. Like something dragging through the earth beneath their feet. Myth froze. “Did you hear that?”
“Keep walking,” Everard ordered. His voice, though soft, held the force of a command.
“What is that?” she asked, her voice high and urgent as panic crept in.
Everard didn’t look at her. “The dead take advantage of wanderers who pause.”

The words sank into her like ice. Myth forced herself to move, her legs trembling. Each step felt slower than the last, the red-soaked ground sticking to her hooves like glue. Behind them, the sound grew louder, shuffling, dragging, like something waking up. “Why do you keep coming back here?” Myth blurted. Her voice wavered as the noise churned in the mist. Everard didn’t stop moving. “Because some of us have nowhere else to go.” The answer struck her harder than it should have. She stared at him, this old, haggard courser who carried the weight of countless tragedies on his back, and realized, for the first time, how hollow his persistence felt. He moved forward not because he wanted to conquer the dungeon, but because he had to.

“Everard...” she whispered, her voice small and soft. The old courser’s ears flicked toward her, the sympathy in her tone invoking a quiet anger, but he said nothing. The sound behind them began to fade, swallowed by the fog, until only silence remained. Everard picked up the pace again, his hooves striking the ground with purpose. Myth followed, close at his flank, her pulse thundering in her ears.

For the first time, she understood his urgency.
In the Moor of Sleep, you did not linger.
You did not stop.
Because something beneath the surface was waiting.