Tartarus is a place of chaos. Of death, of confusion. A tower built on sorrow and pain—endless, shifting, and teeming with Shadows. I’ve grown used to it. The echo of my heels on cold marble, the unnatural stillness between fights, the way the air pulses with twisted energy.

Most nights blur together. Climb, clear, ascend. The only rhythm in this place is survival. And I have never hesitated. Not once. Not until tonight.

I was clearing the upper floors, my rapier already slick with black ichor. I turned a corner, expecting another battle—another mindless creature hungry for suffering. But then I saw it. Him.

A Shadow. That much was certain. Misshapen, sludgy, glimmering faintly like the others. But… still. Not aggressive. At least, not immediately. I raised my weapon instinctively, ready to strike. But then—

It spoke.

Not a growl. Not a scream. Words. Broken, soft, unsure… but words.

I froze. My grip on my rapier tightened. Shadows don’t speak. They never speak. Yet this one had looked at me with something like awareness.

I stepped forward cautiously, leveling my weapon at what I assumed was its face.

"Say that again," I ordered, voice steady, masking the unease curling in my gut. I needed to be sure this wasn’t some trick, some hallucination conjured by Tartarus itself.