Shattered mask

Riven limped forward.

Every step sent sparks of pain up his leg. The wound throbbed with each movement, warm and wet. The blood had started to dry in some places, but not enough to stop the ache. The broken mask over his face flickered faintly, its once-smooth lines now etched with cracks and blood.

Beside him, the Phantom walked in silence.

They had reached the entrance of the City of Silence.

Massive, broken archways rose around them like the ribs of a dead god, etched with runes long since eroded by time and darkness. The air shifted here—cold, still, and heavy with presence. It felt like they had walked into a dream too old to wake from.

But it wasn't the silence that made Riven pause.

It was what he had seen just moments before.

The six Dreadspawn that had pursued them across the bridge—they had stopped.

Stopped, and then turned.

All six had reached the edge of the threshold… and then backed away.

No sound. No cries.

They just turned.

Like something inside the city was worse than they were.

Riven swallowed, staring into the dark beyond the arch. "Did you see that?"

The Phantom nodded once.

"They ran," he muttered. "Why?"

"They fear what lies within," she replied, quiet. "Even monsters know death."

That answer didn't make him feel better.

They walked forward.

Stone cracked beneath their feet, every step sending echoes through the towering ruins. The city loomed like a corpse cathedral, its towers cracked, its windows hollow eyes watching them pass.

Riven grimaced, dragging his injured leg forward. Then, after a long moment, he asked, "That sound…"

The Phantom turned her head slightly.

"That Dreadspawn," he continued. "The way it… laughed. Or whatever the hell that was. What was that?"

"I don't know," she said.

"That's comforting."

"It was a mutant," she continued, ignoring his tone. "Twisted beyond its original form. Some of the Dreadspawn evolve—or decay. Their behavior becomes… unpredictable. The deeper we go, the stranger they become."

"Yeah, well," Riven grunted, "one of those arms would make a good spear. You saw how long that bastard's limbs were? Bone like that doesn't snap easy."

She didn't reply, but her silence wasn't disapproval. He could feel it.

Acceptance.

They moved further in.

And then—just beyond a half-collapsed dome—they found them.

Tattered tents. Burnt-out campfires. Scattered gear. The remains of a forward scouting post, barely standing.

And eight figures stood within it.

Worn. Wounded. But alive.

Firstborn.

One of them turned as the pair approached, his hand going to his blade before freezing mid-draw.

"Phantom?" the Warden said, startled. "You're still alive?"

The surprise gave way to a rare flicker of relief. "Glad to see you, Nira."

Riven blinked.

That name.

The Phantom—Nira—stiffened slightly, but didn't argue. Didn't correct him.

So that was it.

Nira.

Riven filed the name away in his mind.

The survivors stepped forward, surrounding them in a loose circle. The tension was thick—but there was something beneath it now. Shared weight. Shared loss.

Of the twenty-two that had entered the tunnels... only six first born remained.

And now, they were standing in the mouth of a city the monsters themselves had fled from.

The City of Silence whispered around them.

And whatever lay ahead had yet to speak.