The shadows pressed in tighter and tighter on all sides, the gloomy air heavy with damp. Every hoof, echoing a haunting melody upon the cobbled stones, fell into darkness so thick the ground was obscured. Nothing, not even the dancing light of their torches, could pierce the obsidian veil.

The whites of Aislinn’s eyes shone in the firelight, her mouth set in grim determination despite her fear. Pity clasped around Castalla’s heart, and she pressed close to the young mare, hoping to reassure her. The assassin knew well the call of the dungeon and the necessity that had surface dwellers delve into the depths time and time again. Though she put on a brave front, it was clear to Castalla that Aislinn didn’t want to be here.

A sticky, heavy drop hit the back of Castalla’s ears, and she flicked them with irritation, glancing up. Nothing but the faceless, eyeless gaze of darkness peered back.

Without warning her hooves slipped, and Castalla found herself stumbling and then skidding, faster and faster. From the soft cry that pierced the darkness, it was clear that Aislinn too found herself careening down the sticky slope.

“Cast?!” came Karlach’s voice, worried and ever distant as Castalla and Aislinn continued their descent.

Wolf’s voice, too remote to decipher, followed them, but Castalla was focused ahead. Their torches had sizzled out in the sticky gloop that clung to them, dropped to the ground in favour of maintaining balance, and she could make out nothing in the inky black.

“It’s going to be ok,” she called softly to Aislinn, who was almost entirely silent as she skidded and fell into darkness.