The impulsive thoughts had won. They might spell his doom.

  With each pant, Henry’s lungs burned. Every slap of damp boots against the stone floor echoed down empty stone hallways, and sent an ache up his foot. At this point, Henry only knew two things. First? He should never have come here. Second? He had no explanation for the… thing, he had seen.

  He dared a glance behind him before desperately scrambling, stumbling around a corner. He tightened his shaking grip around a long torch, who’s flickering flame sent dancing light far down the dark, oppressive hallway. He saw nothing but stone. Blank, smooth, featureless stone. Walls, ceiling, floor, all the same; perfectly hewn with not a blemish to be seen. He had seen no hint of reason why these halls were so barren - the answer, he decided, was clearly beyond him.

  Maybe he could catch his breath. Maybe he had run far enough? He dared twist his body, leaning against the wall for support, as he glanced back around the corner. Nothing. Not a sight, not a sound.

  A particularly rough breath felt like stabbing crystal in the lungs, bringing a pained wince out of him. It seemed too good to be true, that he had outrun the… thing. But there was no sign of it. And he would collapse if he ran anymore. He had to risk it.

  With a deep breath, he relaxed his back against the wall, followed shortly by the back of his head. Both damp with sweat. “What the fuck…” he whispered, daring to close his eyes for a moment. He pressed the base of his long torch against the ground - for a moment, treating it as an improvised walking stick. “Am I doing? Shit-fuck it all.” He reached inside his jacket. A sturdy, protective jacket of tough leather. All the protection a laborer might need. But this wasn’t labor. This was adventuring. Delving, even - and he was finding himself sorely lacking.

  His hand found the holy symbol. A disc made of cheap wood, the emblem of a feather duster somewhat crudely carved into the surface. It hung on a thin leather cord. He counted himself lucky the cord hadn’t snapped yet.

  “Four and twenty blaze it,” he then hissed at his foolishness, regretting the blasphemous oath immediately. The hubris, to utter something so foul to his own god, a callback to some of the most vile events in Sarrenot’s history. Now, of all times, when he needed Sarrenot’s blessing the most!

  Immediately, he tried to pay penance. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the pain as they thudded on the unyielding stone. He fumbled and clutched Sarrenot’s symbol tightly, whispering a few more mundane oaths while holding the wooden disc in front of his face, his eyes closed. People closed their eyes when they prayed, right?

  Henry was never really sure. Seemed right enough.

  “Oh… um, wise and exacting Sarrenot,” his voice was barely a whisper. A shaky one. Henry had always prayed silently - but, he thought, maybe saying it aloud could make the gods hear?

  “Keeper of the maids. Helper of the laborer. Wielder of the flame.” His prayer paused, sweat dripped from his furrowed brow as he tried to think of other honorifics. Henry knew she had them. Pretty sure, anyway. When dealing with a god as great and terrible as Sarrenot… flattery helped. Yet his mind came up blank.

  “I… beg you. C-cleanse my mind of doubt. Grace me with your calm. Aid me with survival, so I may w-wash my body of filth, to cherish the c-cleanliness so close to g-godliness.” he took in a shaky, ragged breath as desperate sweat trickled down his face. He was no cleric. He was no dedicated maid. He was just a man - yet even so… it had always unnerved him, how a cleric’s personality changed when channeling their god. Right now, though? That eerie calm could be salvation.

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  “Please, forgive me,” he continued in his hushed, hurried whisper. Was that… thing, still there? He sucked in another desperate breath, hoping his lungs would finally calm. “Forgive me Sarrenot for my failings, for blaspheming against you so. Let my soul be washed clean. Let…”

  Henry wasn’t sure why he took that moment to end his prayer. To open his eyes. Was it fear? Was Sarrenot urging a warning to him? Or did he have some kind of sense, some whisper in the back of his mind, that something was wrong?

  In any case, he almost wished he hadn’t.

  It was here.

  He choked out a gasp as he recoiled, only to soon hit his back against the too-smooth stone. It made a thudding sound, one that echoed into the long hallway of nothingness. A hallway that seemed to amplify every noise Henry made - yet this… creature had made no sound at all. Was it even capable? Henry gulped, failing to swallow the lump in his throat. He raised a pitiful hand, as if it could protect him as he stared up.

  It had the form of a man. At first glance, it might even fool most - it had fooled Henry, at first. It had all the right parts, in the right porportions. The right look. But nothing about it felt natural.

  It’s legs were straight, as if it was a man stood lock-still. Except for the fact that it floated, perfectly stationary, a scant few inches above the ground. If that. It had the torso of a man, but not the breath of one; its chest neither rose nor fell like a normal man’s would. Not an inch. Not a millimeter. Not a speck.

  It even had all the parts that would make a man’s face, in the right places. But even the worst dullard had expression. Even in death, there was a life of sorts in a man’s face. But not here. A machine held more life. The undead held more empathy - this thing had neither. Blank, still, unblinking, expressionless eyes stared straight ahead. They didn’t look at Henry - never had those pupils wavered from their straightforward course. Yet all the same, Henry felt observed. That horrid itching that crawled up his spine, that sixth sense that cried out when one was being watched. Ice ran through his veins, his soul rendered naked and exposed, read like a book by… something. Somewhere.

  Elsewhere.

  A loud ringing started in his ears.

  Somewhere, there was a draft. He felt the air on his skin, it rustled his clothes, flickered his flame. It didn’t touch the fake man. It was dressed in rags, so many countless loose threads that the tiniest of breezes could make alight - yet not a thread moved. Still as steel - no. Stiller, somehow. The very concept of motion seemed lost on it.

  Finally, it’s arms. Each were extended, as rigid and straight as its legs. Right arm, stretched to the right. Left, to the left. Palms laid perfectly flat, pointed to the ground. Motionless as the rest of them. It gave the thing an ominous presence. Motionless, it seemed to tower over Henry. Dominant. Imposing. Uncaring.

  Henry suddenly understood why animals made themselves look bigger. It had always looked so silly, he thought - yet now he felt as tiny as an ant, in a very big world.

  “No.” He whispered, cowering. The thing did not respond. “No.” he repeated, shaking his head. He stared into those eyes, shaking, quivering, helpless. He tried to stand - his legs merely collapsed under him, weak as jelly. His legs could only scoot. His eyes could only see death - but a death beyond death. And End beyond Ends.

  He shuffled away. He dropped the torch, which fell over, resting against the thing’s arm. Shuffle, shuffle, he made desperate distance, dragging himself along the ground. Each breath was more labored than the last. Was the air thicker? He couldn’t get enough - every breath a desperate, wheezing gasp. “No.” A hoarse whisper. He couldn’t look away.

  Why couldn’t he look away?

  “S-stay back!” he shouted.

  It did not stay back.

  It finally moved. It didn’t move the way anything normal did. Its limbs never adjusted. It didn’t push off of anything. Nothing on the thing moved… but, rather, the whole thing moved. Suddenly turning to keep its body pointed straight at Henry, floating closer. It wasn’t stopping. It slowly approached, closer, closer, looming, towering, CONSUMING -

  “NOOOOOOOO!” he shrieked, as his mind shattered.