The Oathsworn Salvager

The stone floor trembled beneath your boots as the corridor behind you groaned and slid shut, sealing the way you'd come. Dust rained from the ceiling, and somewhere deep in the maze's heart, something vast and patient shifted in its sleep.

You pressed your palm flat against the wall. It pulsed—slow, warm, like a heartbeat beneath moss and mortar. The vines threaded through the cracks glowed faintly, a soft green light that traced the path ahead.

"Faster." The Spirit's voice curled through the air beside you, barely more than a whisper of wind through leaves. It had no face, only a shimmer of pale light and the suggestion of a shape. "She's close. I can feel her blades cutting through the passages behind us."

You didn't need to ask who. The Huntress had been three corridors behind you for the last hour, never losing ground, never gaining it—just waiting for you to make a mistake.

The maze shifted again. Ahead, the glowing vines dimmed, then re-routed down a narrow crevice that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"I can hold her off," the Spirit said, its light flickering like a dying candle. "But I'm fading. If you want the artifact, you'll have to trust me now."