“No,” I whisper, touching the glyph again. “Not like that.”
Dravven tilts his head. “Then how?”
I shake my head, unable to explain the impossible certainty coiling in my chest. “Someone’s fighting the Maze from the inside.”
“Another player?” he asks.
“Maybe.” I pause. “Or maybe something else.”
The Maze hums louder, like it’s listening. Watching.
I straighten. “We can’t stay here. It’ll reset again.”
Borzen nods once. “Then lead.”
Dravven flashes me a crooked smile. “After you, boss.”
I pocket my compad and square my shoulders. My heartbeat thunders against my ribs. The air feels charged—like a storm’s coming.
Maybe it already has.
Because somewhere out there, beyond these walls, something carved my name in a language I don’t speak.
And for the first time since I woke up in this nightmare, I don’t feel completely alone.
CHAPTER 10
GYON
Blood. Sweat. Fear. Her scent is etched into the seams of the Maze like a signature. It's faint—old—but real. Real enough it makes my pulse throb and my claws flex.
The air in this new corridor stinks of scorched metal and ozone. Something shifted. Something old, awakened. I follow the heat, the echo of the Maze’s warped breathing, until I step into a room that hums like a living heart.
I stop cold.
The chamber is wide, circular, lit by veins of blue light that pulse through the floor and ceiling like arteries. And all around the walls—etched deep, not holographed—are glyphs.
Reaper glyphs.
None should be here.
These markings... they’re sacred. Forbidden to all but the eldest of our kind. Battle records, prophecies, bloodlines traced in bone language. Not for prey. Not for display.
My lip curls. “What the fuck did you build, jalshagar?”
Because this—this isn’t an easter egg.
This is desecration.
I step forward, talons scraping stone. The carvings flicker faintly as I pass, reacting to my proximity. They know me.Recognize the heat signature of one born in the spires of Dar'khon. One who bled into the soil of a hundred conquered worlds.
At the center of the chamber, there’s a statue.
It shouldn’t be here. And yet it is.
A Reaper, nine feet tall, regal and snarling. One arm outstretched like he's offering a challenge—or asking for trust.
The eyes are hollow.
