Silas moved with deliberate caution through the barracks, his breath slow and controlled. The building bore all the hallmarks of an old military stronghold—medieval in its structure, yet possessing faint traces of modernization. The walls were thick stone, lined with wooden beams darkened by time and smoke. Iron sconces adorned the corridors, their candles long melted down to brittle nubs. Frayed banners, their once-proud insignias reduced to tattered remnants, hung solemnly from the rafters.


    He stepped lightly on the worn stone floors, careful to avoid the loose debris scattered throughout. Broken furniture, discarded papers, shattered glass—all remnants of a place once bustling with life and order, now reduced to ruin. The air carried the scent of dust, mildew, and something more unsettling—a faint metallic tang that made the back of his throat tighten.


    As he passed through the dim corridors, his eyes caught deep claw marks raking across the wooden panels. Some were small, scattered scrapes, while others were jagged, gouging furrows that had nearly split doors in two. Scorched streaks marred sections of the walls, as if fires had erupted sporadically throughout the facility. And then there were the stains. Dark, dried splatters soaked into the cracks of the floor, trailing toward doorways and pooling in grim shadows.


    He forced himself to keep moving, ignoring the unease curling in his gut.


    The layout of the barracks was structured yet labyrinthine, its halls twisting through administrative rooms—offices, planning chambers, storerooms filled with decayed documents and rusted weaponry. But nothing of use. Nothing he could wield to defend himself.


    Finally, after navigating a large foyer filled with overturned furniture and remnants of shattered chandeliers, he reached a heavy wooden door at the far end. The faded engraving above it sent a flicker of hope through him.


    Armory.


    His fingers curled around the iron handle, but before he could move further—a sound. A long, slow creak.


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    His body tensed instinctively, and he dropped low behind the wreckage of a long wooden bench. Peering over the splintered edge, his breath caught in his throat.


    A quadruped creature emerged from the shadowed hallway. Its body, grotesquely lean and sinewy, bore a warped resemblance to a massive, hairless hound. But it was the head—or lack thereof—that sent a chill down Silas’s spine.


    Instead of a face, the creature bore a bulbous, swollen mass, smooth and featureless, like a fleshy tumor where its head should have been. And then—it split open.


    With a sickening, wet sound, the flesh peeled apart, revealing a cavernous maw lined with concentric rings of needle-like teeth, not unlike a leech’s. The creature rasped, a chittering, guttural sound reverberating through the empty barracks as its body shifted, sniffing, searching.


    Silas’s hands clenched into fists. The creature was too close. Far too close to the armory’s entrance. If he made any sudden moves, it would surely sense him. He could not afford to fail here—what lay behind that door could mean the difference between surviving the night or not.


    His gaze darted around the room, searching for anything—anything—that could aid him. And then he saw it.


    A broken piece of wooden debris from an adjacent bench. Rough, but solid enough to serve as a distraction.


    Carefully, slowly, he reached out, his fingertips grazing the wood. He lifted it, keeping his movements deliberate, and angled himself toward the hallway he had come from. His muscles coiled, breath steadying—


    He threw it.


    The moment it clattered against the stone floor in the corridor beyond, the creature reacted like lightning. Its grotesque form twisted unnaturally, and then it was bounding toward the sound, its movements eerily silent despite the speed.


    Silas stayed low, pressing himself deeper into the shadows as the beast tore down the hallway, its rasping sounds fading into the dark.


    For once, he was grateful for the lack of light inside the barracks.


    He did not hesitate. Moving with measured urgency, he crept around the edges of the foyer, every step precise, every motion calculated. His heart pounded in his chest as he neared the armory door. He reached for the iron handle, his hand steady despite the adrenaline surging through his veins.


    He turned it.


    The door gave way with a soft groan, and he slipped inside, closing it carefully behind him. The moment the latch clicked into place, he exhaled shakily, his body sagging slightly from the tension.


    Then, he turned his attention to the armory itself.


    The room was large, lined with racks of weapons that stood eerily untouched despite the ruin outside. Swords, spears, bows, and shields rested in their mounts, a stark contrast to the decay he had seen throughout the barracks. Cabinets containing daggers and throwing knives lined the walls. A massive, locked chest sat against the far end of the room, its iron fittings rusted but sturdy.


    Armor stood in neat rows, some tarnished and dented but still serviceable. Chainmail glimmered faintly in the dim light filtering through a slitted window. Wooden practice weapons lay scattered across one side of the room, signs of drills long abandoned.


    For the first time since arriving in this forsaken place, a sliver of hope sparked in Silas’s chest.


    He had found what he needed.


    Now, he just had to arm himself before the creature returned.