The flight

The Chase Beneath the Earth

The air was thick with damp rot.

Gareth ran, his lungs burning, his bare feet slapping against the uneven stone. The tunnel twisted endlessly, its walls slick with moisture, pulsing as if alive. The only light came from the dim, glowing moss that clung to the ceiling in patches, painting the passage in a sickly green glow.

He had no idea how long he had been running—minutes? hours? days? Time was meaningless in the dark. All he knew was that he had to keep moving.

Somewhere behind him, he could hear them.

The Underworldly.

Their voices slithered through the tunnels, echoing where there should have been no echo. Soft laughter. A murmur like rustling leaves. They were playing with him.

But there was only one voice he feared.

"Run, little rabbit."

The whisper was everywhere and nowhere.

Gareth swallowed back his panic, forcing his legs to move faster. There had to be a way out. The tunnels couldn’t go on forever—there had to be an opening, a crack of light, an end to this nightmare.

A turn. A branch in the path.

He didn’t stop to think—just chose at random and threw himself forward.

The tunnel sloped upward. His heart surged. Upward meant something. Maybe he was close, maybe—

"Ah, now that was the wrong turn."

The voice was right behind him.

Cold fingers brushed his shoulder, and Gareth screamed, twisting away. He bolted blindly down the tunnel, nearly tripping as the stone became rougher beneath his feet.

There!

Ahead, the passage opened up into a cavern, and beyond it—a glimmer.

A thin crack of light.

Hope.

He stumbled toward it, lungs screaming, legs weak. The stone here was jagged, sharp—it tore at his feet, sliced into his hands as he scrambled toward the light.

"Oh, little rabbit, you really thought—"

He threw himself at the opening.

His fingers met nothing.

The light was not real.

It vanished the moment he touched it, leaving only the cold, hungry dark.

Gareth collapsed, gasping, his body shaking uncontrollably.

And then he was there.

Sir Drevanth.

Leaning against the wall of the cavern as if he had been there all along, watching.

A knight’s form—long, elegant, twisted in ways that made no sense. Armor that was too fine, too polished, a smile that did not belong.

"You almost made it."

Drevanth stepped forward, slow, deliberate.

"But you see—"

His voice was smooth, mocking, almost fond.

"Without hope..."

His hand caught Gareth’s wrist in a grip like iron.

Gareth fought, clawed, kicked—but it did not matter.

Drevanth dragged him back, deeper into the dark.

"There cannot be despair."

And Gareth screamed, knowing this time he would never run again.