The silence broke.
Not with sound, but with movement—a shift in the dark ahead. A scraping, soft as breath, too deliberate to be wind.
Riven froze.
The Phantom had already stopped. One hand raised, body low. Still as stone. Not even her cloak stirred.
They weren't alone.
A new silence pressed in—sharp, alert. It felt like being watched by something that didn't blink. Then came the stench. Sour. Foul. Like rotting meat drowned in wet soil. It filled Riven's lungs like poison, and something deep in his bones recoiled.
A shape slithered forward.
Then another.
And another.
They emerged from the dark like smears of living ash—long-limbed, twitching. Their flesh clung like wet cloth to bone. Hollow eyes glowed dimly in their sockets, too wide, too hungry, staring without blinking. Their fingers ended in jagged claws, dragging across stone with slow, deliberate scratches.
Witherspawn.
Not like the mindless, drifting Broodlings they'd seen before. These were older. Tainted things with direction. Purpose. Malice.
They didn't stumble—they stalked.
Before—
The Phantom had peered into the abyss ahead. A vast chasm swallowed by the earth, lit by ghostly flickers of blue.
She had said only this: "We move. Stay silent."
And they had descended.
But the descent hadn't gone quietly.
Riven had slipped—just a grunt. Just one sound. But in this place, silence wasn't just safety.
It was survival.
And the Witherspawn had heard.
They didn't come alone.
The Phantom's whisper cut the dark, more to herself than to him. "They hunt in packs. One death calls the others."
Riven hadn't understood.
Not yet.
But he would.
---
The first Witherspawn lunged—and the Phantom moved.
She was a blur.
One step, one twist, one body folded backward with a sickening crack. Another came—she met it with a clean sweep of her blade, slicing through its neck like paper.
Stillness followed.
Then came the sound behind Riven.
Claws on stone.
He turned—too late.
The Witherspawn slammed into him, knocking the air from his lungs. His arm shot out to block the impact—and shattered against the wall.
Pain exploded through him.
White-hot. Blinding.
His wrist snapped sideways with a sickening crunch. Bone gave way. The blade clattered. Blood sprayed from torn skin as he hit the wall hard.
The creature pinned him there, snarling, its breath fetid. Riven could smell its rot, feel its weight pressing down. Its claws scraped at his chest. Its jaws opened—rows of jagged teeth dripping with black saliva.
It wanted his face.
Riven moved on instinct.
His good hand found the blade.
One stab—missed.
Second—glanced.
Third—
The blade drove deep, straight through the creature's throat.
A convulsion ran through its body.
It shuddered violently.
Then slumped.
[YOU HAVE SLAIN A WITHERSPAWN]
The words weren't spoken aloud. They weren't thought. They just were. Etched behind his eyes. Branded into his bones.
Riven gasped, trembling. The corpse sagged over him, twitching once before going still. He shoved it off and nearly collapsed with it, coughing blood, hand shaking.
His broken wrist dangled uselessly. Fingers twitching. His ribs howled with each breath.
His body was breaking.
And the silence was gone.
The Phantom stood over him, blade lowered, cloak dusted in gore. Her eyes glowed faintly beneath her mask.
Still silent.
Then finally she spoke.
"Too loud."
She looked deeper into the tunnel, where shadows stirred like ripples in water.
"They'll come now. If it screamed, more are already on the way."
Riven's voice was hoarse, ragged. "Why? It's dead."
She crouched beside the twitching corpse, examined its throat.
"They send signals. Not always. But if they die wrong—if they feel death—it echoes through the Net. The pack hears it."
She rose, blood running from her blade.
"Killing one doesn't end it."
Her voice lowered.
"It begins it."
She turned.
"Move."
Riven staggered to his feet, biting back a cry as his broken wrist throbbed like fire. Blood ran down his arm, dripping onto the floor.
There was no time to breathe.
No time to ask questions.
The dark was stirring.
And the Brood was coming.