Chapter I – The First Floor

The night stretched infinite, a vast shroud of darkness that seemed to breathe with malice. Stormwinds twisted through the ancient pines, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. No stars pierced the black heavens, no moon gave solace, only a suffocating gloom that swallowed all who dared enter. Through this desolation walked the forsaken knight, his eyes burning with a grief too fierce for silence.

She was not dead, though the world whispered of her loss. She lived, bound in shadow, stolen by a fate older and crueller than time. To him she was the marrow of bone, the blood within the vein, the very breath that sustained his soul. In her absence the world had turned to ash, and he with it. Yet despair was not strong enough to halt his step. With each breath drawn against the weight of sorrow, he pressed deeper into the labyrinth of night, chasing the memory of her touch as though it were salvation itself.

The path carried him into ruins where the stones wept black water, where silence lay upon the earth like a coffin-lid. No light guided him save for the faintest glow of his own resolve, yet still he advanced, for he knew the truth that burned at the core of his anguish. If he faltered, she would be lost to the abyss forever.

The first stairwell groaned beneath his weight, spiraling downward into a chamber lit by a dozen trembling candles. Their flames bent low, as if cringing from unseen breath. The knight’s boots scraped against stone worn smooth by countless feet, though he knew not whose. When at last he reached the chamber floor, he beheld them.

They were human in form, but hollow in spirit. Cloaked in tattered robes, faces pale as bone, their eyes glowed with the dull shimmer of extinguished souls. These were not corpses, nor quite the living — they were men and women who had forsaken the warmth of the sun, choosing instead to dine on whispers of the grave. Necromancers. Their voices, sharp and low, coiled through the air like serpents, reciting hymns in tongues that gnawed at the ear.

At the chamber’s center lay a circle of black salt, within it a heap of broken bones. With each chant, the bones shuddered, clawing feebly toward one another. The knight felt the sickness of it ripple through the air, pressing against his chest, seeking to unravel his resolve. He knew that should he falter, should he listen too long, despair would take him, and he would join their congregation of the damned.

One of them turned, its mouth twisting in a grin far too wide for its face. “Another pilgrim,” it whispered, voice wet with mockery. “Another fool seeking the lost.”

The knight’s hand found his blade. His voice was low, but it carried like iron through the chamber. “I seek only her. Stand aside, or be cut down.”

The necromancers laughed, a sound more like the rattle of dry bones than mirth. The circle of bones stirred, rising higher, taking form. The trial of the first floor had begun.

The circle of bones shuddered, rising into a grotesque shape — a skeletal giant, its frame stitched together with sinew of shadow, its skull crowned with the ashes of the dead. The necromancers hissed their hymns, their eyes burning with feverish delight, and the chamber filled with the stench of rot and old graves.

The knight drew his blade. The steel rang like thunder against the stones, a cry of defiance hurled into the abyss. With a roar he hurled himself forward, cleaving through the first of the robed figures before its chant could deepen. The blade split robe, flesh, and bone, but not before the necromancer’s clawed hand raked across his cheek, leaving a burning mark that stung with unnatural venom.

The others shrieked and fell upon him. Fingers like talons clutched at his throat and arms, teeth snapping like feral beasts. The knight drove his knee into one’s ribs, heard the crack, then tore his sword upward through its breast, spilling blood as black as pitch. Another seized his arm and bit down, tearing skin from flesh, yet he wrenched free, slamming the pommel of his blade into its temple until the skull caved.

Still the great bone-giant advanced, swinging limbs like battering rams. One strike caught the knight across the side, hurling him into the stone wall. Pain screamed through his ribs, the air torn from his chest. For a moment the world swam with darkness. But then he saw her face in memory, radiant even against despair, and his strength returned with fury.

He rose, spitting blood, and charged. His blade flashed in brutal arcs, severing hands, rending throats, silencing chants one by one. The necromancers fell shrieking beneath his steel, their blood painting the floor in wild strokes. When only the bone-giant remained, he leapt forward and drove his sword deep into the circle of salt that bound it, shattering the rite. The giant shuddered, collapsed into a storm of ash and bone, and the chamber fell silent.

Breathless, bleeding, the knight stood among the corpses. His chest heaved, his vision swam, but his resolve was iron. With trembling hands he wiped his blade clean, whispering her name once more.

“Nothing will keep me from you.”

The silence pressed close, broken only by the faint hiss of dying candles. The knight sank to one knee among the bodies of the fallen. His ribs ached with every breath, his hands trembled from blood both his own and not his own. With slow, deliberate motions, he drew forth a small flask of bitter-smelling salve, thick as tar. He pressed it into his wounds, gritting his teeth as fire lanced through him. It burned like venom, but he welcomed the pain, for pain meant life.

Once the bleeding was stanched, he unrolled a strip of linen, frayed from many battles, and bound his side. His armor bore fresh cracks, his blade new scars, yet his will endured. He lit a single candle from the dying flames of the necromancers’ circle and set it upon the stone floor. There, in the flicker of frail light, he bowed his head.

“Lo, I see my brothers and my sisters,” he whispered, voice raw as gravel. “Lo, I see my father and my mother, and the line of my people back to the beginning. They call to me, they bid me take my place among them… yet not before I have found her. Not before I have delivered her from this abyss.”

The chamber seemed to hold its breath. The shadows leaned close, but they did not answer. Only the faint warmth of the candle touched his cheek, and it was enough. He rose, weary yet unbroken, and turned toward the stair that plunged still deeper.

The first floor was behind him. The second awaited.