Then light began to seep in. Not from any source she could identify, but a sickly phosphorescent glow that seemed to come from the stone itself. Pale green-white, just enough to see by, just enough to wish she couldn't.
Bodies.
The first one made her stumble. A Drak warrior, scales still gleaming despite death, slumped against the cave wall. No wounds, no blood, no signs of violence. He lookedlike he'd simply sat down and decided not to get up again. His eyes were open, staring at nothing, and his expression was... peaceful. Resigned.
The second body lay a few feet further. Another warrior, this one younger, curled on his side with his hands tucked under his head. Sleeping, except for the stillness that meant he'd never wake.
More bodies as she went deeper. All Drak, all warriors, all dead without a mark on them. Some sat against walls, some lay flat, some were curled in protective balls. But every single one looked like they'd simply... given up.
The cave tunnel widened into a larger chamber, and Briar stopped at its entrance, her breath catching. Dozens of bodies here, scattered across the floor in various positions of surrender. Warriors who'd made it this far and no further, all wearing the same expression of defeat.
The phosphorescent light grew brighter, and she saw something else. Writing on the walls. Messages carved into stone by desperate claws.
It knows what you are
You cannot fight yourself
The truth is worse than dying
I am nothing I am nothing I am nothing—this one repeated until it became scratches, then nothing.
The warmth in her chest pulsed, agitated, warning. But warning against what? There was nothing here but death and surrender.
She picked her way between bodies, trying not to look at their faces, trying not to see the tear tracks dried on scaled cheeks. Whatever had killed them, they'd been crying when it happened.
The chamber narrowed into another tunnel. She followed it because there was nowhere else to go, the luminous light growing brighter with each step. Her shadow appeared on the wall beside her, and she tried not to notice how it didn't quite match her movements, how it seemed to have too many angles.
Then she heard it.
"Worthless."
Her mother's voice, clear as if she stood beside her. Briar spun, but the tunnel was empty.
"Always were worthless. It’s your fault we fought, your fault he’s dead."
"That's not—" Briar's voice cracked. "You're not here."
"Might as well have killed him yourself." Her mother's voice came from ahead now, from the darkness beyond the phosphorescent glow.
"Stop."
"Twenty-five years of burden." The voice was behind her again. "Twenty-five years of watching you fail. Too weak to work hard enough. Too stupid to see what was right in front of you. Too selfish to just disappear and stop dragging everyone down."
Briar pressed her hands over her ears, but the voice came from inside her head now.
"You think Ilovedyou?" Laughter, cold and bitter. "I could barely stand to look at you. You had his face, but none of his strength. His eyes, but none of his courage. A pale imitation I had to feed and clothe and pretend to care about."
"You did care," Briar whispered, but doubt began to creep in. Had she? Or had her mother just been trapped by obligation, forced to raise children she'd never wanted after the man she'd loved died?
Briar stumbled but pressed her hand against the wall to keep from falling. Ahead of her the tunnel opened into another chamber, this one perfectly circular. The unnatural light was brilliant here, showing every detail in stark relief. In the center of the room stood a figure.
Herself.
But wrong. This Briar's eyes were flat, dead. Her skin had a grayish cast, and dark veins traced patterns under the surface. The marks at her throat weren't copper but black, spreading like infection up her jaw, down into her bare chest. The warmth that pulsed in the real Briar's chest was visible in this version—a sickly, muted glow that looked like rot, like disease.
"Look at yourself," the other Briar said, and her voice was perfectly normal, which made it worse. "Look at what you're becoming."
"No,” she shook her head as though that might be able to dislodge the image. “Y-you're not real."
