Scrolls are hidden there. Words of ancient power.
Not for treasure. For protection.”
She turned. Calm worry in her eyes.
“Are you ready to descend again?”
He didn’t answer right away.
But inside, the reply was already burning —
clear. Warm. Simple.
“Yes.”
Into the Deep, Where Even Shadows Fear the Light
Ertoshstuk’s eyes flared.
Not with fear.
With recognition.
He knew these lands.
The smell of cold stone.
The silence that breathes.
The cracks in the walls
where memory hides.
He was born in a realm where birds do not sing.
He grew up among the dead.
And he knew how to move
so that even shadows wouldn’t notice.
“I’m ready,” he nodded.
“I’ll need companions.
The kind who won’t betray – in darkness or fire.”
He stepped forward and said:
“The White Giant.
He lifts a boulder like a child lifts a toy.
But his soul is quiet – full of herbs and stillness.
He does not love noise. He heals.
The Blue Giant.
He steps like snow in March – soft, silent.
But when he speaks… his voice wakes stone. And conscience.
He sings when fear comes – and the fear flees.”
Cinderella listened silently.
Her fingers brushed the map,
but her gaze was fixed on Ertoshstuk.
“Approved,” she said, and in her smile,
something human trembled.
“Just… promise me. Come back.”
He nodded, just barely.
Not loudly. So as not to betray
the real reason he wanted to return.
Something deeper than command.
Deeper than duty.
He wanted to return —
for her.
They packed quickly.
Silently, smoothly.
Herbs, ropes, dried berries, knives, amulets.
The Blue Giant fastened his icy horn to his belt,
and the White one tucked a handkerchief into his pack —
embroidered by his little sister.
At the last moment, someone else joined them —
a girl from the artillery company.
Ria. Thin as a birch sapling,
but sharp with her sling —
as if the stones knew where to fly.
“If the dead are memories,” she said,
“then I know how to fight memories.”
And no one disagreed.
The dungeon did not greet them with a growl —
but with breath.
Slow.
Deep.
It was cold there.
And echoing.
Drops fell from the ceiling —
each one counting down to something important.
The walls were covered in moss, glowing green.
It pulsed, like living skin.
The air was thick —
as though the world itself moved slower here.
Ertoshstuk ran his hand along the stone.
“Here,” he whispered, “I once ate bread from ashes.