As with most things, some days are better than others.

Some days are very, very good. The greatest, even. 

But some days… some days are bad. Terrible. The lowest of the low. 

Vitium doesn’t like to think about the bad days. He doesn’t like to face the reality—that not everything can be ignored behind a wall of blind faith and sugarcoating. He doesn’t like to remember—relive—the bad days. And he most certainly doesn’t like to face new ones. 

But this is a Very Bad Day, and it keeps getting worse, and he kind of feels like he’s falling apart.

He knows it will get better. He knows that tomorrow will be better, that it has to be.

It's just… it's hard sometimes. 

When Vairn starts to follow him in his aimless wandering through the Dungeon, Vitium stops. Requests—begs for, really—some space. Apologizes when he sees a flash of hurt cross his partner’s expression, but doesn't rescind his request. And, when Vairn inevitably concedes, Vitium leaves.

A pang of guilt sinks through him like an anchor through the sea. 

Because he leaves, just like his mother. Just like his sister. In a way, too, just like his father.

For the first time in far too long, his mind is still. There’s an uncomfortable silence in his head, and Vitium wants nothing more than to drown it out with incessant rambles about mundane topics until he forgets the emptiness he feels, but that would require energy that he just… doesn’t have. Hasn’t had in a while, when he thinks about it.

It scares him.

The discomfort has been building for a while, he supposes—it always does when he comes down from having too many Good Days. Vairn even noticed before Vitium did this time, rarely leaving his side and silently providing a physical barrier from the world when Vitium got overwhelmed without ever being asked.

Another pang shoots through Vitium, this one raw and ugly and driven by wicked blades of self-loathing. But he ignores it—has to—because he refuses to ever spiral down that dark path again. 

An uncharacteristic sneer pulls his lips back, almost against his will. But before he can begin to chastise himself for slipping back into old habits, the ground disappears beneath his hooves with a shrill shhhhink! 

For a moment, the feeling of weightlessness is almost euphoric. But then, much like life itself, he comes crashing down, legs buckling beneath his weight as he lands on a smooth surface below. Pain sets fire to his joints, but he shakily rises to his hooves in spite of it, wild eyes darting around to examine his surroundings. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clicks start off slow, with a full second interval between them, but they begin to pick up pace the longer he stands and listens. There's something eerily familiar about the pattern, and he strains to recall where he last heard these same clicks.

“Do you hear that, Vitium?”

“Hear what?”

“The ticking.”

“N– no, I don't think so.”

“Hold your breath. Listen carefully.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“I hear it!”

“Hush, Vitium. Do you know what that sound is?”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Um…”

“Do you see how smooth the ground is in front of us? Do not walk on it. If you do, the ground will cave in. The ticking is the spikes that lie in wait below. The faster the ticking, the closer they are to rising from the ground and impaling you.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“What happens if I fall?”

“You do anything it takes to get out before the ticking stops.”

Tickticktickticktickticktick—

Vitium frantically leaps from the pit, only just barely managing to catch all four hooves on the edge without slipping back down. He wobbles for a moment, body threatening to topple back down toward the massive spikes that have now been unsheathed, but he’s able to take a large step forward and away from the pit despite it. The pain in his legs is a dull throbbing now, almost completely washed away by the rush of adrenaline coursing through him.

And he laughs. A raucous, joyous laugh, one he hasn’t heard in weeks. It echoes down the tunnel, bouncing back to his ears and sounding almost foreign to him, like a long-lost friend whose name he’d forgotten after so many years. 

And he feels alive. In a way he hasn’t felt in a painfully long time. This is the thrill of the Dungeon, the call of the Courser. 

With his spirits restored and a distant ache in his step, he gallops back down the corridor, exhilarated to recount his newfound enthusiasm to Vairn.