"A true predator doesn’t play with its food. It simply eats."
***
But the pain never ca.
Instead, he heard a soft clink-clatter from sowhere behind the transford shaman.
A small, dark sphere rolled to a stop between the creature’s feet. Barely visible in the dying torchlight. An innocuous thing. The kind of object you might overlook entirely if you weren’t expecting it.
A marble, perhaps.
Or a child’s toy that had sohow found its way into these ancient depths.
The creature looked down.
Its burning eyes narrowed in confusion. Its head tilted, almost dog-like, as it tried to process this interruption to its al. The claws that had been descending toward Rhys’s flesh paused mid-stroke.
The sphere erupted.
Thick, acrid smoke instantly filled the chamber. Billowed upward in choking clouds that blinded and stung. The smoke was black as pitch and moved with unnatural purpose. Spread too fast. Clung too long. Found every corner of the tunnel and filled it with impenetrable darkness.
The creature roared in confusion and rage.
Its grip on Rhys loosened as it clawed at its own eyes.
Rhys dropped to the stone floor.
Gasped and coughed as the smoke burned his throat and made his eyes stream tears. His shoulder scread at the impact. But the pain was distant now. Less important than the simple miracle of being alive.
The stone was cold and wet beneath his palms as he pushed himself up. Trying to get his bearings in the sudden darkness.
Through the swirling grey haze, he heard sothing that didn’t belong in this nightmare.
Sothing that made no sense at all in this mont of blood and terror and ancient evil.
The slow, deliberate, almost mocking sound of soone clapping.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
Each impact of palm against palm was perfectly tid. Theatrical in its leisure. Like soone applauding a diocre performance at a local theater. Like soone who had seen better entertainnt and was being polite about their disappointnt.
The sound ca from everywhere and nowhere. Echoed off the tunnel walls in a way that made it impossible to pinpoint the source. It bounced and multiplied until it seed like an audience of phantoms was offering their sarcastic appreciation.
A silhouette erged from the smoke.
Not walking. Seeming to materialize from the darkness itself.
The figure was indistinct. More suggestion than substance. But its posture radiated an unnerving calm that made the creature’s earlier confidence look like nervous bluster.
Whoever this was, they weren’t afraid.
They weren’t even particularly concerned.
They stood in the presence of sothing that had just promised to turn a student into an art project of suffering.
And they were applauding.
The transford shaman spun toward the newcor. Its claws extended and ready to tear apart this new threat. Smoke parted around its massive form as it turned. But more smoke seed to flow in to replace what had been pushed aside.
The creature’s burning eyes swept the darkness. Searched for a target to destroy.
But sothing in the figure’s bearing made it hesitate.
This wasn’t another terrified student stumbling through the tunnels. This wasn’t a lost academy guard or a confused monster hunter who had wandered too deep.
This was sothing else entirely.
Sothing that didn’t fit the creature’s understanding of how prey was supposed to behave.
The clapping stopped.
"You know," the figure said, its voice carrying clearly through the smoke, "I’ve always found it fascinating how bullies react when soone their own size shows up to the party."
The voice was young. Barely more than a teenager’s.
But it held an edge that made Rhys’s skin crawl even as relief flooded through him at the possibility of rescue.
There was amusent there, yes. But it was the kind of humor you might hear from soone pulling the wings off insects. Cold. Detached. Curious about suffering in an academic sort of way.
The creature snarled. Its head swiveled as it tried to track the speaker through the haze.
The smoke seed to move with purpose. Always thickening wherever the creature looked. Always thinning elsewhere.
"Who dares—"
"Oh, pay no mind," the voice interrupted. Dripping with placid amusent that sohow made the darkness feel colder. "I’m rely a critic that got lost on the road of life. And your performance..."
The figure shifted in the smoke. Still impossible to pin down. Still maddeningly casual.
"It lacks finesse."
Rhys couldn’t see the speaker’s face. But he could hear the smile in those words.
"Too much monologuing. Not enough follow-through. A true predator doesn’t play with its food. It simply eats. You’ve wasted twelve seconds on theatrics. An eternity."
The smoke began to clear.
Revealed more of the newcor’s form.
Average height. Slender build. Wearing the simple grey robes of a House Onyx student.
Nothing about him should have been threatening.
He was unremarkable in every physical way. The kind of person you would pass in a corridor and forget five seconds later.
But the transford shaman took a step backward nonetheless.
Its claws lowered slightly.
Its burning eyes narrowed with sothing that might have been the first stirrings of caution.
Rhys had seen that look before.
On the faces of borderland wolves when they realized the sheep they’d been stalking was actually a trap.
On the faces of goblin raiders when they discovered the village they’d thought defenseless had been warned of their approach.
On the faces of predators who suddenly understood they weren’t the only hunters in the room.
The stranger tilted his head.
Like a curious bird examining a particularly interesting worm.
"You want to know what real power looks like?"
His voice was soft now. Almost gentle.
But Rhys felt the temperature in the tunnel drop by several degrees.
The smoke around the stranger began to move differently. Not random anymore. Not chaotic. It swirled with purpose. Ford patterns that hurt to look at directly.
The creature’s red eyes widened.
For the first ti since its transformation, it looked uncertain.
The stranger smiled.
Rhys couldn’t see it. But he could feel it.
The way you could feel a thunderstorm approaching before you saw the clouds.
"Let show you."
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