THE BROKEN DREAMS

Fred and Clara sprinted through the winding tunnel, the sounds of pursuit growing louder behind them.

Heavy boots.

Metal scraping stone.

Low growls, not entirely human.

Fred's lungs burned. His legs felt like they would give out.

But he kept going.

Beside him, Clara reloaded her pistol with practiced speed.

She glanced at him, grim determination written across her blood-smeared face.

"If they catch us, they won't just kill us," she said. "They'll turn us."

Fred didn't ask what that meant.

He didn't want to know.

---

The tunnel split ahead—three paths, all plunging into deeper blackness.

"Left," Clara barked.

Without hesitation, they veered left.

The air grew colder.

Damp.

Fred noticed faint symbols scratched into the stone walls—different from the spirals from earlier.

These were sharper, crueler.

He shivered.

A feeling of being watched crawled under his skin.

"Where do these tunnels even lead?" he gasped.

"Not where we want to be," Clara muttered.

---

Behind them, the hunters came into view.

Men and women in dark, tattered cloaks.

Eyes glowing faint red.

Some dragged wicked-looking blades along the walls, raising showers of sparks.

And they weren't alone.

Low to the ground, strange hound-like beasts prowled beside them—skeletal, with wet snarling mouths full of too many teeth.

Fred's heart pounded.

Clara grabbed his arm, pulling him down a side shaft just as a blade whistled past his ear, embedding itself in the stone.

"Move!"

---

They stumbled into a wide, circular chamber.

Ancient statues lined the walls—broken figures missing arms, heads twisted in agony.

A dry fountain sat in the center, coated with moss and grime.

Fred skidded to a stop.

Carved into the fountain's basin were words in a language he couldn't understand.

But he understood the feeling: Warning.

Clara knelt, running her fingers over the carvings.

"This place..." she whispered. "It's older than Velmont's cult. Older than anything in the city."

The hunters' howls echoed closer.

No time.

Fred noticed a door half-hidden behind one of the statues—rotten wood, barely standing.

"There!" he pointed.

---

They bolted for the door.

Fred shoved it open—

only to find himself staring down the barrel of a rifle.

At the other end stood a familiar figure.

Barton.

The man who had first welcomed Fred into the city.

The man Fred had trusted.

Barton smiled coldly.

"You really thought you could run?" he said. "You're not a player here, Fred. You're just another piece to be sacrificed."

Behind him, more hunters poured into view.

Fred froze.

Clara raised her gun—

but too late.

Barton fired.

---