They both moved, slow and cautious, the water around their boots rippling in expanding rings. Each step disturbed the surface tension just slightly—but the scent in the air was growing stronger now. That coppery, iron tang. Blood. And it was fresh.
"We're getting nearer," Marcus murmured, voice low, his eyes flicking ahead with focused precision. "That much is clear."
They advanced carefully through the subterranean lake, the only sounds being the quiet slosh of water and the distant, unearthly drip of moisture from the crystal-studded ceiling. Every ripple they made could be a warning bell to whatever monstrosity lurked ahead.
Cynthia trailed a few meters behind, as usual. Her role was clear—rear guard and retreat anchor. If things went wrong, she'd be the fallback point. The lifeline.
