Freezing liquid seeped through the cracked leather of Allen's boots, numbing his toes with every agonizing step. Cold water of the abyss had a way of biting straight to the bone, forcing him to grind his teeth to keep from shivering. He focused on keeping his balance, navigating the slippery rocks with practiced ease.
Every movement felt like wading through wet cement as they dragged themselves deeper into the dark. The air was thick, heavy with moisture that clung to their skin like a damp shroud, though they refused to speak of the heavy burden in their chests. They had been walking for hours, and the weight of the underworld was beginning to take its toll.
Black, sluggish water snaked through the southeastern reaches of this subterranean nightmare, forming the notorious River of the Dead. It moved without a sound, a silent highway of despair flowing toward the heart of the abyss. No fish swam in these dark depths, and no plants grew along the barren banks.
Sickly green fungi clung to the jagged stone walls, casting a weak, watery glow that barely penetrated the absolute gloom. This light was faint, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to stretch and warp against the damp rock. It was a miserable excuse for illumination, but it was all they had to guide their way.
Kristoffer walked half a step behind his companion, his breathing shallow, rapid, and loud in the oppressive quiet. His pale face was slick with cold sweat, his gaze darting nervously from the water to the dark forest bordering their path. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
His hand hovered constantly near the worn hilt of his shortsword, his fingers twitching with nervous energy. He gripped the pommel, seeking comfort in the cold steel, but found none. The weapon felt uselessly small against the vast, crushing emptiness of the cavern.