NTR: Stealing wives in Another World

The wind was a constant whisper at their backs as they descended into the lower dunes, the sky overhead pressing down like a dull weight. Every step away from the cliff face felt too loud, too heavy, as if the sand itself might give them away. The glass-limbed thing hadn't moved when they turned to leave, but Allen felt its attention like a nail being driven between his shoulder blades.

The thread in his palm was still dead—no pulse, no pull, just a length of silk that suddenly felt lifeless. That was worse than when it had been frantic. At least then, it had been telling him something. Now it was as if it had given up.

Rinni's voice was low, barely more than a breath. "It's still looking."

Allen didn't ask how she knew. The way the hairs on his neck stood told him the same thing. He shifted course, keeping his back angled, never fully turning his head to check. Velith's warning was burned into his skull—don't cut it, don't confront it, don't give it a reason.

Fina stayed silent, her steps as smooth as if she were moving through a forest instead of sinking sand. Her tail swayed just enough to brush against Allen's leg now and then, the contact small but grounding.

The dunes weren't uniform here. Some sloped gently, others broke in jagged, wind-scoured walls, and Allen used each one as cover, putting as much uneven ground between them and the cliff as possible. Still, there were times he swore he heard something—not behind, but beneath. A faint shifting, like hundreds of fine threads drawing tight and then loosening again.

The sun, such as it was, dipped behind the steel-grey haze, and shadows stretched longer across the sand. It made distances tricky—what looked like a small ridge could be a cliff face, and what seemed far might be only a few steps away.

By the time Allen stopped, his calves ached from fighting the sand's pull, and his throat was dry from the grit-laden wind. They sheltered in the lee of a tall dune, the hollowed-out space cutting the wind enough to let them hear themselves breathe.

"That thing…" Rinni started, then stopped, ears twitching toward the direction they'd come.

Fina's eyes narrowed. "It's not chasing us."

Allen crouched, resting his elbows on his knees. "Doesn't have to. It knows where we are." He held up the thread, limp in his hand. "And whatever this is, it doesn't like it anymore."

Rinni frowned. "Velith said it was for guiding you. So if it's dead now…"

"Either I'm where I need to be," Allen said, "or I'm where I shouldn't."

They rested there only long enough to let the wind change direction, shifting to sweep their tracks away. When they moved again, it was with the rhythm of people who knew they were still being followed.

Hours stretched in the sameness of the dunes, until Allen's focus began to slip into the quiet between footfalls. That was when it happened.

The sound came first—not from behind, but ahead. A single, sharp crack, like a pane of glass under strain. The dunes in front of them shivered—not in the wind, but as if something beneath was pushing up. Sand slid down in thin streams, and a black line split the ridge ahead, growing wider with a faint hiss.

Allen's hand shot out, pulling Fina and Rinni back just as the ridge tore open. What rose from it wasn't the cliff-thing, but it was made of the same wrongness. Smaller, spider-thin, its body a mass of twitching silk strands wrapped around something glassy at the core. It moved without displacing the sand, head cocked at an angle that didn't match the rest of its frame.

It didn't rush them. Instead, it began to circle, limbs pressing into the ground in slow, deliberate sequence. Each touch left behind a faint, perfect cut in the sand that didn't collapse.

Allen drew steel, but didn't raise it. His instincts screamed not to attack first. The thing's head tilted again, and the glass at its core caught the weak light, flashing like an eye.

"Allen," Fina murmured, "it's marking something."

He saw it now—the cuts forming a shape in the sand, looping around them in an ever-tighter spiral.

"We're leaving," he said, voice flat.

They moved fast, breaking the spiral before it could close. The moment they stepped over one of the cuts, the thing froze, every limb going rigid. Then, with a suddenness that made Allen's skin crawl, it folded in on itself, collapsing into the sand without a sound.

The spiral cuts remained.

Allen didn't speak again until they'd put three dunes between themselves and that spot. "We're camping in the open tonight," he decided. "No hollows. No shade. If it wants to come up under us, it'll have to come through a whole dune."

Rinni shuddered but nodded. Fina didn't comment, but the way her hand brushed his when she passed told him she agreed.

They made camp as the haze overhead deepened into night. There were no stars, only the dim reflection of the dunes and the jagged silhouette of the glass cliffs in the far distance. Allen lay awake long after the others settled, the limp thread beside him, waiting for the faintest hint of a pulse.

It didn't come. But somewhere in the quiet, far off across the sand, he thought he heard it—the single, high note of glass being scored, again and again, without end.

Allen didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke with the taste of dust in his mouth and the sound of breathing that wasn't theirs. His eyes opened slow, careful, every muscle tense. The dunes were quiet, the air still. Fina and Rinni were curled near him, tails draped over their legs, their chests rising and falling evenly. But the sound wasn't coming from them—it was coming from somewhere past the edge of camp, deep in the dark, steady and slow like a lung that had been breathing for centuries.

He sat up, hand closing around the thread before his sword. It was no longer limp. It was warm, faintly trembling, and pulling—not a violent yank, but a steady, patient drag toward the horizon. Toward the cliffs.

His first thought was to wake the others and move, but something in that pull didn't feel like the glass-limbed things. It wasn't sharp, wasn't cold. It was… coaxing. Luring, maybe, but not in the way predators did. More like a hand beckoning him forward, a whisper just out of earshot.

He stood, and the pull grew a fraction stronger, a hum running up his arm into his chest. In the faint light, the thread seemed longer than before, and when he looked down, he couldn't see where it ended. It just… faded into the dark.

Fina stirred as he moved. "Allen?" Her voice was thick with sleep, but she was alert in an instant, pushing herself up. Her eyes tracked the thread and narrowed. "It's back."

Rinni was slower to wake, ears flicking before her eyes opened. "That's not good."

"It might be worse if we ignore it," Allen said quietly. He tested the pull, stepping away from camp. It didn't jerk or snap taut—just kept that same patient draw, as if it had all the time in the world.

They followed. There was no point in packing the camp; everything they owned was already on them. The dunes ahead were unbroken and smooth, the horizon shifting in that strange way it did out here, where distance felt like a suggestion instead of a fact.

For the first hour, the pull was almost gentle. Then, without warning, it surged. Allen stumbled, catching himself before he could fall, and the thread in his palm grew hot enough to sting. Fina swore under her breath. Rinni pressed closer to Allen, her eyes scanning the sand ahead.

The pull dragged them up a dune that seemed taller than the others, its peak sharp like a blade's edge. As they crested it, Allen saw why.

Below was a flat expanse of glass. Not sand that had been melted by lightning, not natural crystal—this was smooth, flawless, stretching farther than the haze let him see. The moonless light from the sky caught its surface and made it look like a lake frozen in place. In the center, rising out of it, was something like a spire—narrow, jagged, and entirely black.

The pull was toward that spire.

Allen's jaw tightened. "Velith didn't mention this."

"Maybe she didn't know," Fina murmured. Her tail flicked, uneasy. "Or maybe she didn't want you to."

They descended carefully, the sand thinning under their feet until it was more like walking on frost. The moment Allen's boot hit the glass, the thread went cold. He stopped mid-step.

The surface under him wasn't still—it pulsed. Slowly, faintly, like a heartbeat. The spire in the distance seemed taller now, as if it had grown while they approached.

They walked in silence. Every step carried a faint echo, as though the glass were hollow. Once, Allen thought he heard something moving under it—a slow scrape, like claws dragging along the underside.

Halfway to the spire, the pull changed. It no longer came from the thread—it came from beneath them, deep in the glass. It was heavier, more insistent, until Allen felt like each step wasn't his own choice. The thread itself began to unravel in his palm, the fibers peeling away and sinking into the glass like they were being eaten.

When the last strand vanished, the pull became a shove.

The spire loomed above them now, the black surface not solid but made of thousands of interlocking shards, each one reflecting the faint light differently. As Allen reached for it, the surface shivered. A thin seam split down the middle, and the shards moved—not falling apart, but folding back, layer after layer peeling away like the petals of a flower.

What lay inside wasn't stone.

It was an eye.

No—many eyes, each one pressed flat into a surface of milky glass, all looking directly at him. They didn't blink. They didn't move, except for the faintest dilation of something like pupils.

Allen's breath slowed without him meaning to. The air felt thick, syrupy, and somewhere far away, a voice spoke—not in words, but in the same way the thread had pulled him. A feeling. An invitation.

He took a step closer. The glass beneath him trembled, and for the first time since they'd entered the expanse, Fina grabbed his arm. "Allen, don't—"

The surface cracked. Not under his feet—around the spire. Thin fractures raced outward in all directions, spreading faster than the eye could follow. The sound was deafening, like an endless chorus of knives on stone.

From each crack, something began to rise. Not the spider-thin watchers. Not anything he recognized. These shapes were taller, their forms fluid but sharp-edged, like sculptures made of water and glass at once. They had no faces—just hollows where light bent wrong.

The eye—or eyes—inside the spire didn't look at them. They looked through them. Past them.

And the pull changed again.

It was no longer coaxing. It was dragging.

Allen's legs moved before his mind caught up, the weight in his chest pulling him toward the spire like he'd been hooked through the ribs. Fina and Rinni shouted, but their voices sounded distant. The faceless things kept rising from the cracks, their bodies catching and bending the dim light until it hurt to look directly at them.

He was almost at the spire when the first one reached for him.

The hand—if it was a hand—passed through his shoulder without resistance, and yet he felt it. Not as pain, but as the sudden absence of heat in his body, as if something had stolen the blood from that part of him. His vision swam, the pull now a violent current trying to tear him into the eye's gaze.

He reached for his sword.

And the eye blinked.

Everything went silent.