Thaldor followed the elder warriors deeper into the dungeon, feeling the weight of each step as though it pressed directly on his chest. The air thickened, damp and suffocating, capturing every breath and thought in its stillness. Shadows seemed alive, clinging to the walls and stretching to enclose them.

  Here, every stone seemed ancient, imbued with the silence of those who had fallen before. The darkness seemed to carry secrets; in it, he could almost sense eyes watching, waiting. With each step, his mind raced, battling with both fear and the relentless cold.

  The elder warriors walked with confidence that bordered on indifference. Scarred and battle-worn, they barely acknowledged him. Their every movement spoke of calm precision and unshakable resolve.

  One of them, a man with silvered hair and a long, jagged scar across his cheek, paused and fixed Thaldor with a hard, assessing gaze.

  "Remember, boy," he murmured, his voice low yet heavy with authority. "The monsters grow stronger as we go. Expect the weaker ones first, but steel yourself for worse. There’s a boss waiting at the end, and it won’t be like anything you’ve faced in practice."

  The words struck him with a mix of fear and a grudging determination. Thaldor nodded, trying to keep his face calm, though his mind was tangled in doubt.

  Each glance at the warriors’ scarred armor and steady hands reminded him of his own inexperience. His grip tightened on his staff, his fingers trembling slightly despite his efforts to steady them.

  What did he, the untested “runt” of the Valor family, have to offer in a place like this?

  What if I’m the one who holds them back?

  The dark corridors narrowed as they pressed forward. Thaldor took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus as they rounded a sharp corner. The torchlight flickered against the damp stone, casting jagged, moving shadows that hinted at something lurking ahead.

  Suddenly, just beyond the edge of the light, twisted creatures appeared—hunched and silent, their eyes glinting with malice.

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  The warriors stepped forward, their swords drawn, moving with a unity that only came from years of facing death together. Their blades cut through the air, sharp and unyielding, meeting flesh with brutal precision.

  Thaldor felt his own pulse race, his heart thudding in time with each clash of metal against bone. He took a step forward, gripping his staff with determination, his mind reaching for a spell.

  “I can do this,” he whispered, feeling a flicker of warmth coil at the staff’s tip, a spark of fire ready to burst forth.

  But as he tried to summon the spell, the oppressive dampness in the air thickened, choking the flame into nothingness. He stared in disbelief as the warmth vanished, leaving only cold wood beneath his fingertips.

  Panic bubbled up, sharp and overwhelming, as the creatures surged forward, oblivious to his failed spell.

  “Stay back, Thaldor!” one of the warriors snapped, their tone edged with irritation.

  Humiliation hit him harder than he expected. His cheeks flushed, and he lowered his staff, the weight of his inadequacy crushing. He was supposed to prove himself here—but instead, he’d failed at the very first moment he was needed.

  Every scornful glance from his family, every whispered doubt he’d ever heard, echoed in his mind.

  The warriors made quick work of the creatures. In what seemed like seconds, the last fell, and an eerie silence settled over the corridor.

  Thaldor felt the gaze of the silver-haired warrior on him—a glance that cut deeper than any blade.

  Shame twisted inside him, sharp and unrelenting.

  Why can’t I get it right?

  He clenched his fists around the staff, his knuckles whitening, every nerve in his body burning with frustration.

  They moved on. Deeper into the dungeon.

  The silence grew heavier, pressing against Thaldor’s mind. Every few steps, he could feel the elder warriors glance back at him—expressions unreadable, tinged with something close to disdain.

  His every misstep felt like a mark of failure, every breath a reminder of how far he was from the warrior he was expected to become.

  As they pressed further, the air grew colder. The shadows deepened, almost tangible now. The floor beneath them was uneven, worn by centuries of forgotten battles and dark secrets. The walls bore deep gouges and faded symbols—evidence of ancient struggle and sacrifice.

  Ahead, another group of creatures waited—twisted forms half-hidden in the darkness.

  This time, Thaldor steadied himself.

  He lifted his staff, feeling the weight of every doubt and failure pressing against him. His hand trembled, but he forced himself to focus, letting the flicker of energy build.

  The silver-haired warrior glanced back, a flicker of surprise crossing his face at Thaldor’s stance.

  The creatures lunged, teeth gnashing in shadow.

  The warriors moved—blades striking with unrelenting force.

  Thaldor held his ground, voice steady as he began the incantation. This time, the fire sparked to life. Small, hesitant, but there.

  The warmth steadied him.

  He cast the spell.

  The flame flickered weakly, barely lighting the space before him. It wasn’t enough to harm, only enough to be noticed.

  The creatures ignored him completely.

  Once again, the warriors finished the fight without him.

  Thaldor stood on the edge of the battle, his staff heavy, his heart heavier.

  The silver-haired warrior approached, expression unreadable.

  “Keep trying,” he said, voice gruff but not unkind. “No one masters this on the first try.”

  Thaldor nodded.

  It wasn’t much. But it was something.

  He followed as the others moved on, their shadows stretching long in the flickering light.

  With each step, he clung to that ember of determination.

  He would prove himself.

  If not today—then one day.