On a worn-out asphalt road, layered with dust and traces of grass that had tried to claw life out of the cracked earth, the sun was breathing its last behind the distant mountains, dyeing the sky a reddish orange. In this silent scene, Grivenar walked slowly, carrying Tharos on his back, as if his body had grown used to the weight—or perhaps to the solitude, which was only ever borne by strangers burdened with fate.
Moments passed in quiet steps, broken only by the crunch of gravel beneath his feet and the pulse of a heart alert to whatever might lurk in the shadows. Then, he lifted his gaze toward a crumbling building ahead. The ashes of the years had erased its features, yet some of its walls still stood, clinging on like an old man who refuses to die.
He said, his voice low, carrying a hint of relief:
"We've arrived."
Grivenar entered the building cautiously, his eyes scanning the place as if preparing for something. The walls were cracked, the ceiling sagging, and the floor littered with debris. But he moved through it like someone who knew it well, as if this ruin was familiar to him.
He reached a corner on the ground floor where the debris had fallen in a strangely deliberate way. Kneeling quietly, he carefully moved aside a charred wooden plank, then looked down—as if something was buried there, something he didn't want anyone to see.
He murmured, as if reassuring something unseen:
"We're safe now… no one's touched it."
He gently laid Tharos down, as one would set down something fragile, afraid it might break. Then he stood and glanced around, quickly heading to the building's entrance. He paused there for a moment, eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun was vanishing behind the mountains. The sky had taken on a deeper blaze, as though warning of an unsafe night ahead.
He rushed back inside—there was no more time. He climbed atop a pile of old rubble and began clearing away bricks and dry grass long settled by wind and years. Bit by bit, a small opening appeared, barely large enough for one body, yet its depth was unmistakable. A hole that did not just open to darkness—but to something deeper… something not built upon the surface of the earth.
He turned his eyes to Tharos, whose face was pale and features weary. Then he stepped forward and lifted him once more. He approached the opening and whispered:
"This will hurt... but bear it."
Then he gently pushed him in, slowly at first, then with more force, until Tharos's body disappeared into the gloom. It wasn't long before a faint thud echoed from the bottom—no scream, just a muffled groan.
Grivenar exhaled, then drew in a deep breath and descended after him slowly, his body scraping against the earthen walls as he slid down like one entering the bowels of the earth. When he finally reached the bottom, he reached back and pulled a large stone, sealing the entrance shut—cutting off the last shaft of light.
When Grivenar closed the hole behind him, total darkness engulfed the space. There was no difference between opening your eyes or shutting them. Tharos made no sound—his body perhaps numb from exhaustion or from the cold earth—while Grivenar's breathing was the only sound in that hushed void.
Grivenar began to move cautiously, every step measured, as though he knew this darkness as well as the palm of his hand. He reached out to the old stone wall, feeling for something. Then he touched a small piece of wood, pulled it, and whispered to himself:
"Found it."
It was a matchbox, old and a bit damp, but he didn't hesitate. He struck one of the matches forcefully on the box's side. A faint flash sparked to life, flickering briefly before settling.
He moved quickly, as though time was not on his side. He headed toward a small wooden table in a narrow corner, where three short candles stood—melted at the edges from previous use. He lit the first, then the second, and the third. Slowly, light began to seep into the room.
And as the glow spread, the true shape of the shelter was revealed.
Old mud walls, carved by human hands—not machines. Spider webs stretched from ceiling corners to the floor. Stone shelves held scattered belongings: tin cans, old books, rusty knives, and folded pieces of cloth. At the far end of the room was a simple straw mattress with a few patched blankets.
Everything spoke of a place born from necessity, not comfort.
Grivenar looked at Tharos, still lying silently near the wall. He let out a soft sigh and said in a quieter tone:
"Welcome to our refuge. At least here… no one will knock on the door."
On the opposite side of the room, before any light touched that underground chamber, Tharos had been watching Grivenar move through the darkness without hesitation. Strangely, the dark posed no obstacle for him—his eyes needed no adjustment, as though they had been born in the shadows, never knowing light at all. He could see Grivenar's steps, his crouch, even as he reached toward the wall. Everything was clear to him—uncannily familiar.
When Grivenar pulled the matchbox from the wall, another scene flashed in Tharos's mind. One that didn't belong to this time or place.
There was a young boy, his voice faint yet insistent, asking his older brother:
"It's cold… do you have a match, -----?"
He spoke a name, but Tharos couldn't make it out. Still, he soon forgot the moment as Grivenar lit the candles.
Grivenar stepped toward Tharos again, his steps steady. He picked him up once more in his strong arms as if lifting something precious, and carried him to a corner where an old cover was laid—perhaps a primitive bed or the remnants of what once had been a real one. He set him down gently, as though every movement might worsen the strain on the exhausted body.
Then, in a low voice, almost a whisper, Grivenar looked into Tharos's eyes and said:
"Rest here… while I light the fire. We need fire."
He turned and walked toward the center of the room, where a small iron stove sat—old but sturdy. Beside it was a blackened pot, coated in a thin layer of soot, its long use evident.
Grivenar opened the matchbox carefully and took out a stick, striking it with practiced ease. The yellow flame briefly lit his tired face, revealing blue eyes that shimmered. He brought the flame to the dry wood inside the stove, and as it touched, smoke began to rise slowly, followed by a small flame that steadily grew, consuming the wood.
Grivenar sat for a moment, watching the fire catch, as if it were a living thing needing care. Then he lifted the pot's lid, peering inside—there was little: some water, and leftovers barely enough to warm anything.
He glanced over at Tharos, lying silently in his corner, eyes half-closed, watching the flicker of the flames—as if staring at something very far away… something unreachable.
Grivenar spoke as the fire grew in the stove, and its warmth began to spread through the cold room:
"Don't worry… we won't suffocate."
He looked at Tharos with calm eyes, then continued:
"I built this place myself—me and that person… we spent a year and a half digging, sealing, and hiding every detail, until the walls guarded us like a fortress."
A short silence fell, then he added softly:
"If we stay here… and don't make a sound until sunrise, we'll be fine."
His voice carried that tone which only comes from someone who has faced fear more than once… and barely made it out alive.