— How are you dealing with her loss, Jonathan...?
The most expensive therapy room in the country — and that was the first question the woman asked me. My voice came out sharp, loaded with resentment and a choked tone that almost made me gag. The bitter taste of alcohol burned my throat, tearing through every inch, while thick saliva dribbled from the corner of my lips. I didn't even try to wipe it away.
— Really? After I buried my wife, you come here to ask how I'm dealing with it? — I spat out, with a dry laugh that hurt more than it relieved.
— Jonathan, you came to me asking for help. That's what I'm trying to do. But I need you to tell me everything that happened. I need to understand how you felt.
— What do you mean, what happened?! — I exploded, my voice reverberating against the mahogany-lined walls. — There's nothing to tell! If you've read any damn one-dollar newspaper, you already know what happened!
The anger bubbled up beyond what I expected. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the door open. A man walked in. My first instinct was to wonder if I could beat the bastard to a pulp. But then a second one entered. And what I felt was a crushing weight on my chest. Desolation. It wasn't worth it.
— You came to me asking for help — she insisted, almost amused. — So tell me: how does a nobody bar singer manage to be such an idiot that he loses someone like her? Hahahaha...
What...?
— HEYYYY. Wake up, idiot! Something's happening.
Shit. Another nightmare.
My mind was a mess. I didn't know if it was the cursed influence of this place, the stress of being locked up here for days, or the weight of grief tearing me apart from the inside out. Gertrudes was shaking me hard — much harder than I liked. As soon as she let go of my shoulder, she went straight to see what was causing the commotion.
I shrank back, realizing how my clothes clung to my body, drenched in cold sweat. Every patch of skin burned and itched.
— Damn... I sweat like a pig — I muttered, scratching my arm. — How many more days are we gonna rot here?
Days. That's right. It was already the morning of the third day — and still no sign of that damned Molok.
On the first day, it was just odd. Molok wasn't weak, on the contrary: he was the strongest among us. I even heard the cheetah suggest maybe he'd made a run for it, escaped the dungeon. But it made no sense. This place was practically a straight line — during the day, you could see hundreds of meters ahead and behind. At night, it was trickier, but even so... why would he flee?
The nearest safe point was only past the place where Isbel swore she'd seen the enemy. So if Molok was alive, he'd be there, maybe too wounded to come back. Or something worse had happened.
On the second day, everything went completely to hell. The atmosphere, already tense, turned into a thick stew of chaos and suspicion. Some started talking about giving up, heading back to the city, and asking the capital for help.
The problem was, Varnak had poured a fortune into this expedition. They said it was a significant chunk of what he owned, counting the purchase of the scroll and the guild's services. And because of the contract, everyone was bound to his orders for at least ten days.
No one would dare break a contract with the guild, since the punishment was extremely severe, and because it was old and standardized among all the guilds, even a guild leader like Malaca wouldn't dare use her power to simply ignore it. Not without fearing the consequences.
As for me, I was just as screwed as the rest. Even if I wanted to, I could hardly leave now. Stuck here with these sons of bitches in a foul hole that seemed eager to swallow us up.
But today... today something finally happened.
I ignored the sweat clinging to my body, the dried salty streaks on the sides of my neck, and walked to the entrance of the hall where most of the group was gathered.
The stone entrance seemed narrower than ever, with several faces aligned in the same direction. My shoulders brushed against others, furrowed brows and tense eyes all pointed at the same spot.
— What's going on, Malaca? — I asked, stepping closer.
She turned her face to me, pale. Her expression was like someone who had just swallowed something rotten — disgust, surprise, fear. But she said nothing. Simply ignored me, turning back to stare outside.
I followed her gaze.
For a moment, I didn't see anything. But as I looked more closely, I could make out something — or someone — standing there. And then… my eyes adjusted. My heart gave a painful jolt.
There, standing in the middle of the path, almost camouflaged by the snow, was Molok. Motionless. Like some grotesque statue rooted to the ground.
— What the hell… is he doing just standing there?
My voice came out as a hoarse whisper, nearly drowned by the sound of blood pounding in my ears. Something was deeply wrong. Even the usual sounds around me — the wind whistling through the cavern, the constant drip of water somewhere annoyingly close — seemed to have stopped to watch this.
As I watched closely, everyone seemed to hold their breath. That's when we saw Marcoriel start walking toward the cavern. His steps were strangely calm, almost hypnotic, and not even the snow, which reached up to his knees and crunched under his weight, seemed to slow him down. When he stopped just four meters from us, a sepulchral silence fell.
— I've checked the area and the perimeter — he said, his voice echoing dry and hollow. — We're safe. Let's continue the journey.
Only then did I realize how tense Varnak and Vrigs were; both let out nervous laughs, like prisoners just freed from the gallows.
— Finally. Holy shit, you crazy Molok — said Varnak, almost laughing with relief. — For a minute there I thought we'd lost you. Come on, pack up! Time is precious.
The deadly tension from seconds before shattered with a grotesque snap, and the group began to move, as if the very air had started flowing again. Cheerful voices, relaxed shoulders, even the putrid smell of the shelter seemed less unbearable. But then…
— Wait.
Malaca's voice cut through the mood like a rusty blade. She didn't move, didn't smile, didn't take a deep breath — she just stood there, cold and rigid.
— What do you mean "wait"? — Varnak growled, his face scrunching up with irritation. — If you think you're going to delay my expedition with your paranoias, miss, you'd better stop now.
But before he could go on, Malaca ignored him completely. Her eyes were fixed on Marcoriel. There was something broken in those eyes — a silent fear, a cruel calculation.
— Marcoriel… where is your sword?
The question sounded simple, almost casual, but my stomach flipped. How had I not noticed? His sword was enormous, an adorned monstrosity, practically a trophy he carried even while sleeping, strapped to his back as if it were part of him. And now… it was gone.
Marcoriel looked at Malaca for a moment that lasted far too long. Then he said, without any emotion:
— I lost it.
For a second, no one breathed. Varnak's smile died on his lips, melting into a pallid horror.
— No… no… FUCK, NO! — he screamed, his voice cracking into something almost hysterical. — YOU'RE A FUCKING MOLOK! A MOLOK!
All of Varnak's façade of reason shattered. He stumbled backward, his whole body trembling. I had no idea what that meant, but looking around, I saw terror spreading like a plague across the group's faces.
— Close… close the fucking door.
Varnak finally regained part of his voice, but not his sanity. It sounded more like a primal instinct than a rational command.
The door groaned loudly as Malaca and I began to pull it shut. The sound seemed to scream through the cavern, echoing as if mocking us. Slowly, each scrape of stone against stone sent my heart racing. The atmosphere, once merely tense, was now steeped in pure dread.
— We need to get out of here as fast as possible — Vrigs whispered to Varnak, but the traitorous volume of his voice made sure everyone heard. — This expedition… has failed.
That single word, "failed," dropped on us like a tombstone. I was still holding the door next to Malaca, our hands almost touching, icy. I noticed she wasn't trembling. Not on the outside. But her eyes showed cracks, like ice about to shatter.
— What's going on, Miss Malaca? — I asked, my voice coming out thinner than I intended.
She took a deep breath but didn't take her eyes off Marcoriel, who in the distance seemed to be waging a silent battle with himself. His shoulder would jerk and tremble in short, almost imperceptible spasms before sinking back into place. As if something inside him was trying to get out.
— When Varnak told me to explain everything to you, I thought he was just exaggerating. — Her voice was low, but carried a dark melancholy. — But I think it's time you understood… why everyone is so afraid of the White Knight.
She went on, and each word seemed to drain the light around us.
— The fourth floor is a frozen plain, where a castle of pure ice rises. A translucent, hungry monolith. The objective to move past it is simple: invade the castle and reach the main hall on the ground floor. Easy…
As she spoke, I saw Marcoriel give a sudden jerk, his neck twisting at a grotesque angle for a fraction of a second before straightening, as if nothing had happened. My mouth went dry.
— However — Malaca continued — the fourth floor doesn't stop you from climbing higher. Unlike the other levels, there are no magical seals there. Right on the first floor of the castle… you find the Black Knight. A horrible entity. It has the power, at certain moments, to dominate someone's mind in your party. It's easy to tell who's been taken… they attack their friends with irrational fury, foaming, screaming things you can't understand. But even if you win… the door to the second floor behind it remains closed.
— So… what's the connection with the White Knight? — I asked, my voice almost breaking, eyes fixed on Marcoriel's convulsive movements.
— Well… for a long time, adventurers faced the Black Knight just for the spoils — Malaca raised her axe, which looked almost too heavy for her — weapons like this, impossibly hard. But… one of my strongest teams once had a surprise. They entered the castle, went beyond the hall. And what they found there… wasn't the Black Knight.
She paused. Her throat moved in a swallow so loud it sounded like a creak. Her gaze lost focus, as if reliving the horror.
— They found the White Knight.
— If it was so different from what they expected… why didn't they just give up, try to understand what was happening? — my voice came out in a desperate whisper, as if I feared any sound might call something from inside.
Malaca took a deep breath. Her eyes trembled almost imperceptibly, as if replaying every grotesque detail of the account.
— Because when the White Knight appeared… the door that had always been locked was wide open. Gaping, as if waiting for them. I understand what they felt. The greed to find out what lay beyond… the treasure, the glory, the unknown — she shook her head slowly — it's intoxicating. Fatally intoxicating.
— And what happened then?
Before she could answer, Marcoriel's voice cut through us. It came from outside, where the cold seemed to grow enormous. But… something was wrong.
— Hey, you there! Come out! Everything's fine out here.
It was his voice, yes. The tone, the articulation… but it was strangely hollow, heavy, as if spoken through a cavern full of bones. The sound resonated in my chest, making my stomach churn. Malaca didn't even look at him. Her eyes stayed locked on mine.
— The only survivor of the massacre… — she said, in a fragile whisper, but as clear as a blade at the throat — said that at some point, he realized his companions had gone mad. But not like with the Black Knight, it wasn't blind rage or aimless fury. They fought with coldness, precision… like traitors who, after years, finally decided to plunge the knife into their own brothers' backs.
She breathed out, the air escaping in trembling white clouds.
— Since then, there have been other encounters with the White Knight. We've never found any countermeasures. It's not the first time a floor of the dungeon is impossible to understand or face. So… we simply ignore it. We skip the first floor of the castle and move on. It's safer not to provoke what sleeps there.
At that moment, someone from the group came over to help us push the heavy stone door. The sharp screech of the portal echoed even more fiercely through the cavern like a scream. As I pushed, I felt cold sweat trickle down my back.
And that was when it happened.
Marcoriel's eyes outside rolled completely back. First showing only the whites, then a dark color — not black, but something deeper, like the void that exists beyond the stars. A guttural sound escaped his mouth. It wasn't a human scream. It was a hungry, ancient howl that made my insides twist.
Behind him, through the snow that was now falling heavier, something began to take shape. A huge, distorted silhouette, emerging as if born from the storm itself. When it finally came into full view, I saw just how colossal it was: a being with the body of a centaur, forged from white plates that looked like ceramic or even compressed bone. In its hand, a long spear almost touched Marcoriel's back, like an executioner poised for the final blow.
The worst part was the helmet. Completely sealed, without slits for eyes or a mouth… and yet, I could feel the smile there. A smile far too wide, satisfied, curious. Like a hunter savoring the dance of the prey before the kill.
Beside me, Malaca held her breath. I felt it when absolute terror froze her for a second.
— We're trapped — I whispered, without even realizing I was speaking aloud.
The White Knight didn't move. But its helmet slowly tilted to the side, in a gesture almost playful, almost… polite. As if to say, "Run if you like. You'll entertain me."
And then the door closed completely, sealing us once again in the damp, cold cavern, our hearts beating so loud it felt like everyone could hear.