In the murky distance, drowned, a soft fluttering starts.

It is the scratch of paper. The shuffling of dried leaves. Shk, shk, shff. Scrip upon scrip, swirling down an edgeless corridor, faster, nearer, louder, until the sleeping courser is jolted from their subconscious, and the sound resolves itself into so many wings.

Phrygian Cap’s eyes gleam wide, white, and startled. Moths hurricane around the pallid beast. In the darkness of the dungeon, it is the brightest thing there: clean coat lit up like a beacon in the glow of phosphorescent mushrooms.

No wonder the moths were drawn to it.

It wonders, though—how did it get there?

Its conscience speaks in Lowengrin’s voice. Kind, watchful Lowengrin. Lowengrin—who found it in the deep in the first place. Always looking out for it. Keeping it accounted for.

Sleepwalking, remember?

Not the first time. Never the last. This courser has woken up in the dungeons more times than it can count, drawn there inexplicably, unconsciously. Like a moth to the light—except not at all, because the Buried Kingdom is dark and heavy. It sucks and slurps and festers.

The insects are still swirling, knocking into Phrygian Cap’s ears and nose; dusting its stringy mane with powdered wings. Kissing it with small feet covered in microscopic barbs. The courser does not mind. A twitch of its flank sends them back to flight as it begins its slow, sulking creep back to the surface.