The Moors of Sleep stretched before Varin like the open mouth of a long-forgotten beast, its breath thick with the rot of decay and the cloying, sour scent of stagnant water. A cold wind tugged at her mane, sharp and relentless, biting through the gaps in her lightweight armor. It was a wind that carried whispers—whispers of a kingdom that had fallen long before her time. The ruins around her were not just relics; they were scars on the land, reminders of a history buried beneath centuries of dust and myth.

Nidhogg, perched on her shoulder, tightened his claws into her armor, the tips pressing into her skin with a nervous intensity. His tourmaline-green scales shimmered in the faint, milky light filtering through the ever-present mist, but his ruby-red eyes were wide and alert, darting from shadow to shadow as if the very stones beneath them might shift and strike. He was wary, always wary in places like this, though Varin could feel the slight tremor in his small body—an acknowledgment of the same pull she felt. The dungeon was close. It called to them, to every Courser, like an unspoken promise or a curse.

The air here was heavy, charged with the weight of history, the unseen specter of something ancient. Varin could feel it—like the prickle of electricity just beneath her skin. Every gust of wind carried with it the remnants of a long-lost war, battles fought by beings whose bones now lay hidden beneath the earth. The landscape was dotted with the broken remains of that age: jagged weapons half-buried in the soil, crumbling fortresses worn down by time, and strange, twisted shapes just visible through the fog.

But it was more than the ruins that unnerved her. It was the way the earth seemed to breathe. Each step felt like a disturbance, like she was walking on the back of something living, something waiting to wake.

“Still think adventuring was a good idea?” Varin’s voice broke the silence, though it came out softer than she intended. She turned her head just enough to catch Logue’s reaction, her honey-brown eyes narrowing in a playful but guarded glance.

Logue, ever the optimist, gave her a faint smile despite the unsettling atmosphere. His hooves sank slightly into the damp ground as he walked beside her, his expression full of that same boyish wonder that made him so infuriatingly charming. He had the look of someone who marveled at the world rather than feared it, even in the face of a place like this.

“It’s not the family trade, but yeah, I’m right where I’m meant to be,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual lightness. The Moors had a way of dulling even the brightest spirits. “What about you?”

Varin shrugged, the weight of her coiled mane brushing her neck. “I think I’m exactly where I need to be. Especially with someone like you to guide me.”

His chuckle was brief, but it was there. Varin could tell he was trying to keep things light, trying to stave off the oppressive feel of the place. But her attention wasn’t on him anymore. Something in the distance had shifted. The mist parted just enough to reveal a figure—no, two—moving slowly across the desolate expanse.

Her heart skipped, muscles tensing as her hooves stilled against the damp earth. Nidhogg hissed low, his claws digging in deeper as his wings fluttered in agitation. Varin’s eyes locked on the shapes ahead, her pulse quickening. The pull of the dungeon thrummed louder in her chest, a persistent beat that matched the distant clicking of hooves.

A Courser. At first glance, it could have been one of them—another adventurer wandering too far from the path. But no. This was different.

The Courser that emerged from the mist was barely recognizable as a living thing. Its body shimmered faintly, like it existed only partially in the present, half-formed in the soft light. Jagged pieces of rusted armor clung to its skeletal frame, what was left of its form so thin, so brittle, it looked as though it could shatter with a single touch. Its hooves scraped against the ground, leaving shallow furrows in the earth, its movement sluggish and aimless.

But what truly chilled Varin’s blood wasn’t the Courser.

It was the rider.

A human—spectral and slumped, its form twisted and broken, bones visible through translucent flesh. Its empty eyes stared forward, blind to the present, lost in a time long gone. The image sent a shock through Varin, a feeling like ice water running down her spine. Humans. The stories had always painted them as distant figures of legend—warriors, builders, beings who had shaped the world and vanished into myth. She knew of them the way one knows of long-dead kings, their reigns fading into history books.

But to see one? Here? Now?

Logue’s voice came, hushed and reverent. “That’s a… a human, isn’t it? Riding a Courser.”

Varin’s mouth had gone dry, her thoughts racing. “It seems like it.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, the disbelief clawing at her. “But why? Why were they riding us? What could we have meant to them?”

Logue shook his head, his brow furrowing in thought. “I don’t know. I always thought humans built the world, but this...” He trailed off, watching the spectral pair continue their ghostly march. “Riding? That’s not… that’s not something we do.”

Varin’s mind whirled with questions. What kind of bond did they have? She had heard the myths, the romanticized stories of knights and Coursers, of great battles fought side by side. But the sight before her wasn’t noble or grand. It was broken. A puppet and its master, wandering aimlessly through the ruins of their war. The idea of a rider on her back, controlling her, directing her every move—it sickened her. Coursers were free, independent. To be ridden was to be claimed, owned.

Nidhogg tensed, his tiny body shivering against her as the specter moved closer, his ruby-red eyes glowing with unease. She could feel his instinct to flee, his primal fear of the unknown. And for a moment, Varin shared that fear. There was something deeply unnatural about this place, about what they were witnessing.

“I don’t like this,” she muttered, the tension coiling tighter in her chest. “Let’s keep moving. I don’t want to know what happens if they see us.”

Logue nodded, but his gaze lingered on the spectral rider, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and dread. “Do you think… that’s what happens to us? If we don’t make it out?”

Varin’s heart tightened. The thought had never occurred to her, but now that it had, it wouldn’t leave. The idea of wandering these ruins forever, bound to some ancient, forgotten war, trapped in the remains of a past she didn’t even understand... The fear gnawed at her, but she forced it down.

“No,” she said firmly, though her voice lacked its usual confidence. “That’s not going to happen. We have a future ahead of us, not behind.”

But as they moved deeper into the Moors, the chill of that spectral rider clung to her. The sight of it lingered in her mind like a shadow, a reminder of the forgotten bonds that once tied her kind to something darker, something more ancient than she could fathom.