He Who Watches Time Burn

The corridor stretched ahead in crumbling stone and faded light.

Boulders and broken slabs of marble lay scattered across the ground, some partially buried in dust. Cracks ran along the cement and stone walls, deep and uneven. Thin streams of glowing water trickled from the fractures, rippling faintly as they moved across the surface.

Torch brackets were fixed at uneven intervals, most rusted over. A few still burned, casting weak, flickering light that barely reached the edges of the corridor. Shadows danced with each flame, shifting across moss-covered walls.

Statues lined both sides of the passage, worn down by time. Some had only legs remaining, rooted to cracked bases. Others were no more than broken torsos and rubble. All detail had long faded—faces, armor, purpose—lost to time.

Moisture clung to the air. The scent of mold, rust, and old stone filled every breath.

"This is creepy, it even makes the Willards' house feel warm," Michael thought, eyes flicking left and right as they moved through the corridor.

"Let's pick up the pace," Alice said over her shoulder, "it won't be long before this place is crawling with goblins, and if our luck's bad—"

She paused, made a face like she'd just bitten something rotten. "I just jinxed us, didn't I?"

Michael stared at her, mouth slightly agape, way to raise a death flag, god damn.

They didn't speak after that.

Their footsteps quickened, echoing through the passage as more statues passed by. The layout barely changed—ruins and stone, repeating like a looping dream.

Alice led them through a tight series of turns before suddenly signaling him to stop.

At the edge of another corridor, she leaned to peek around the corner. When she pulled back, her face had changed—no grin, no flippant smirk, just tension.

Uncertainty, maybe even fear.

Michael's voice came low, barely audible, "What is it? Are we in danger?"

She exhaled, steadying her breath, "Not exactly, there's one shaman in the hall and more goblins than I could count."

Michael raised an eyebrow, "And? You've probably handled worse."

Alice shot him a look that could peel paint, "There's also a Goblin Chieftain."

She let that hang.

"I can take him one-on-one," she said, voice tight, "but not with a shaman supporting him and a pack of mobs tearing at me, that's suicide."

Her jaw clenched, damn it, a Chieftain hasn't shown up here in five years, and it had to be today—while I'm running solo.

Michael was silent for a moment, then said, calm and certain, "Then we don't let it become a group fight."

Alice gave him a dry glance, "What, you got a secret army hiding in your back pocket?"

"I'll draw the mobs, keep them off you while you take out the shaman."

She blinked, nearly laughed, "You? Draw them?"

"You said it yourself, you can handle the Chieftain one-on-one, I just need to buy you the window."

She scoffed, "You're not built for that, one hit and you're out, this isn't some alley brawl."

"I'll manage."

There was no bravado in his tone, no ego, just certainty.

She clicked her tongue in frustration—not at him, but at the situation.

"Fine," she muttered, "new plan, I take out the shaman, you hold the mobs."

She reached into her dimensional ring and pulled out a longbow—sleek, silver, and faintly humming. Wind spiraled around her fingers, responding to her focus as she strung it.

Michael said nothing, just watched her prepare.

"In five seconds," she said, eyes narrowing toward the hall, "after that, you're on your own."

"Don't worry about me."

She glanced sideways at him, eyes unreadable, "You better not die, I just started to like you."

His grip on the dagger tightened, no reply.

He stepped forward into the light.

The arrow tore through the air like a tornado slamming into the earth—fast, violent, precise.

For a heartbeat, time felt slow. There was no warning, no build-up—just a sudden blur of motion cutting through the silence.

The goblins didn't react. It was too far, too fast. The Chieftain and shaman didn't even flinch—no pressure to sense, no power signature to catch.

The shaman looked up a second too late.

CRITICAL HIT.

The arrow slammed into his skull. No scream, no spell—just a slump, a thud, and the faint clatter of a staff rolling on stone.

Michael was already in motion.

He sprinted into the hall, keeping low, avoiding the Chieftain's direct line of sight. Goblins turned toward him—snarling, ready.

Exactly what he wanted.

He zigged between them, weaving through gaps, pulling them away from Alice's position. He shifted his movements to always keep one or two of them between himself and the Chieftain, using the chaos as cover. The Chieftain watched but didn't strike—his vision blocked, his line uncertain.

Another arrow flew, aimed at the Chieftain's throat.

This time, he was ready.

A red glow surged across his body, radiating outward. With a grunt, he swung his spiked mace and deflected the arrow midair, sparks flashing where metal met force.

Then he turned his head toward Alice—and roared.

It hit like a cannon in the narrow space.

Michael didn't process it immediately. The sound punched into him, rupturing something deep in his skull.

His right ear burst with pain. Balance slipped. The world tilted hard to one side. The ringing grew sharp, constant, impossible to tune out.

Everything around him felt distant, blurred, like he'd dropped underwater.

The first goblin charged. Michael barely deflected the blow, his dagger screeching against rusted steel. He let the force carry him back, giving ground just to stay upright.

Shapes moved in the corner of his eye. He couldn't count them anymore.

He saw Alice raise her bow again through the blur.

Then the Chieftain was on her.

It didn't run—it exploded forward. Armor and muscle hit her like a warhammer.

She went flying.

Her body crashed into a wall with a dull, devastating crack. A second later, she hit the floor and stayed down.

Something broke loose inside him, not from pain, not fear, but something deeper—a tight pull in his chest, heat blooming beneath his ribs, and then he moved, without thought or strategy, just motion.

Michael surged forward—faster than he had ever moved, faster than he could understand.

He passed the first goblin in a blink, slashed one across the throat, another staggered with a bleeding leg before he even realized he'd been hit.

Someone screamed, someone swung, Michael wasn't there anymore.

Time hadn't stopped.

He had just outpaced it.

Alice lay at the far end of the hall. Somehow, in four strides, he reached her.

She was still breathing. Barely.

He scooped her up without slowing down.

The Chieftain turned.

Michael was already gone.

He zig-zagged through the hall, past the stunned goblins. One swung wildly and missed. Another turned too late. Boots scraped stone, wind hissed in his ears.

He didn't stop until they were behind a collapsed column, shielded in broken shadow.

Michael dropped to one knee and gently laid her down.

His breaths were short, uneven. Blood trickled from his ear. His hand wouldn't stop shaking.

Alice stirred—then lurched to the side and vomited.

Wind magic flickered at her fingertips, then went out like a dying spark.

She wiped her mouth with a shaky hand, still dazed, and stared at him.

"…What the hell did you just do?"

Michael couldn't hear her.

Only his heartbeat, only the ringing, and the footsteps coming from the dark.

The goblins weren't finished.

Neither was the Chieftain.