Mimicry of The Abyss

chapter 3

"Ilyra, put the sword down," Dalen said, his voice trembling with a frantic, wet edge. "It’s me. I swear on my mother’s grave, it’s me. You’re seeing things. The light... the magical veil... it’s playing tricks on your eyes."

"The veil doesn't touch the shadows, Dalen," Ilyra hissed, her blade steady against his windpipe. "Mirra, tell him. Does your magic mess with the way a man’s shadow behaves?"

Mirra, her face pale under her silver-trimmed hood, shook her head slowly. "The veil only suppresses the travel of light. It doesn't decouple a reflection from its source. Dalen... your shadow didn't move. It stayed still while you laughed."

"It was a fluke!" Dalen cried, his hands raised, palms out. "A glitch in the dungeon! Rhael, tell her! You saw me! I gave you the bread, didn't I? A monster wouldn't feed you!"

Rhael scrambled backward, his boots skidding on the stone. "I—I don't know, man! I’m new here! But the laugh... it sounded like a recording. Like you were playing back a memory of yourself."

"Exactly," Ilyra said, her eyes narrowing. "It’s learning. It’s practicing. How long ago did they take you, Dalen? Was it when you went to fetch the water? Or maybe while we were sleeping?"

"I’ve been right here!" Dalen screamed. "Kaelen, help me! You’ve known me for three years! We served in the Duke’s guard together!"

Kaelen, the archer, didn't lower his bow. The arrow remained nocked, pointed at Dalen’s chest. "The Dalen I know has a scar on his left thumb from a tavern brawl in Oakhaven. Show me your hand, Dalen."

Dalen hesitated. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Slowly, he extended his left hand. The thumb was smooth, the skin unmarred and pristine.

"I... I must have healed," Dalen whispered, his voice losing its jovial warmth and turning into something flat, something hollow. "The magic in this place... it’s restorative, isn't it?"

"Kill it," Mirra whispered, her voice cracking.

"Wait!" Rhael shouted, his heart hammering. "Wait! If you kill him and he is real, we’re down a man! And if he’s not... if he’s one of those 'Perfects' Ilyra talked about, won't the others know? Won't they attack us the second we spill its blood?"

Ilyra didn't flinch. "If it’s a Perfect, it’s already over for us if we keep it in the circle. But Rhael’s right about one thing. We can’t afford a loud execution right now. Not with the Blanks prowling the halls."

"So what? We just walk with it?" Kaelen asked, his voice dripping with venom.

"We move to the second level," Ilyra commanded, her eyes never leaving Dalen’s. "Immediately. Tarek! Get over here! We’re moving out!"

From the edge of the darkness, a fifth figure emerged—Tarek Sol, the scout who had been maintaining the perimeter. He was a man of few words, his face partially obscured by a leather mask. "The stairs are clear," he said, his voice a low gravel. "But the air is changing. Something's coming up from below."

"Pack it up," Ilyra snapped. "Dalen, you walk in the center. Kaelen, keep the bow on him. If he so much as sneezes without permission, put an arrow in his eye."

"This is madness," Dalen muttered, but he began to pack the supplies.

Rhael watched him. He watched the way Dalen’s fingers moved. They were too fast. He was folding the bedrolls with a mathematical precision, his movements fluid and devoid of the usual fumbling a man does when he’s terrified.

"You're doing that pretty fast, Dalen," Rhael said, trying to keep his voice casual. "The packing, I mean."

"Practice makes perfect, Rhael," Dalen replied. He didn't look up. He didn't even look at the bag. He reached behind his back, grabbed a flask, and slotted it into a side pocket without a single glance. It was the movement of a machine, not a man.

"Right. Practice," Rhael echoed, a chill running down his spine.

The group descended the spiraling stone stairs to the second level. The air here was colder, smelling less of stagnant water and more of something sweet and rotting, like overripe fruit left in a cellar.

"Stay close," Ilyra whispered. "The second level is where the 'Echoes' start to take physical shape. They’re not just smoke anymore."

"What does that mean?" Rhael asked, his torch flickering as the wind picked up in the narrow stairwell.

"Look for yourself," Tarek said, pointing his blade toward the end of the corridor.

In the dim light, Rhael saw them. They were similar to the shadow-dwellers from the first floor, but these things were draped in tatters. Not just rags, but recognizable pieces of human clothing. One wore a shredded silk scarf. Another had a single leather boot tied around its waist with a length of gut.

"Is that... is that a guild badge?" Rhael whispered, pointing to a creature that had a rusted piece of tin pinned directly into its smoky chest.

"They collect trophies," Kaelen said, his voice grim. "They take what they don't understand, hoping it’ll make the imitation stick. They’re obsessed with the 'weight' of being human."

"It’s pathetic," Mirra said, though her hands were shaking as she clutched her staff.

"It’s efficient," Ilyra corrected. "Dalen, keep moving. Don't look at them."

"I'm not looking, Ilyra," Dalen said. His voice was perfectly calm now. The panic from the campfire had vanished, replaced by a terrifyingly neutral tone. "I'm focusing on the logistics. We’re low on oil. We should reach the supply cache in the eastern wing by midnight."

"How do you know where the cache is?" Kaelen asked, his bowstring taut. "We haven't looked at the map since we descended."

"I remembered it," Dalen said. "Every line. Every ink blot. It’s all very clear now."

Rhael felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck. "Dalen, buddy... what’s the name of that girl you mentioned? The one from the port town? The suspicious one?"

Dalen stopped for a microsecond. Then he kept walking. "The suspicious one? Ah, yes. Her name was... Mary."

"You said she was suspicious of her dates," Rhael pressed, his heart leaping into his throat.

"Yes. Mary. She made me taste her ale," Dalen said.

"You didn't call her Mary before," Rhael whispered. "You didn't give her a name at all."

"I just remembered it," Dalen said, turning his head 180 degrees to look at Rhael. His body was still walking forward, but his neck had twisted with a sickening, dry crunch. "Names are important, aren't they, Rhael Dorne?"

"Ilyra!" Rhael screamed.

"I see it!" Ilyra lunged, her saber swinging in a brutal arc.

Dalen—or the thing wearing his skin—leapt backward with supernatural grace, landing on the wall and clinging to the stone like an insect. His face began to ripple, the features blurring like melting wax.

"Not yet," the Dalen-thing said, its voice now a dissonant harmony of Dalen’s voice and a dozen others. "The harvest isn't ready. We need more... data."

With a flick of its limbs, it scrambled up into the darkness of the vaulted ceiling and vanished.

"Don't shoot!" Ilyra barked as Kaelen aimed into the dark. "You'll just waste arrows. It’s gone."

"It was him," Mirra sobbed, dropping to her knees. "It was him the whole time we were at the fire. We were eating food prepared by that... that thing."

"Check the supplies," Ilyra commanded, her face a mask of iron. "Rhael, Tarek, help me secure this hallway. We can't stay here."

"I need a second," Rhael gasped, leaning against the wall near a small alcove that looked like it had been used as a latrine by previous expeditions. "I think I’m going to be sick."

"Make it quick," Tarek said, standing guard.

Rhael stepped into the shadows of the alcove, his stomach churning. He kicked something soft. He lowered his torch, expecting to see a discarded rag or a pile of refuse.

Instead, he saw a pile of translucent, human-shaped film. It was thin, like the discarded skin of a cicada, but it was the size of a grown man. He could see the outlines of fingers, the shape of a nose, and the hollowed-out sockets of eyes. It was a perfect, empty casing of Dalen Rusk.

"Oh, gods," Rhael whispered, his voice failing him. "It didn't just copy him. It... it peeled him."

"Rhael! Get out of there!" Ilyra yelled.

He scrambled back into the hallway, his face white. "I found it. I found Dalen's... shell. It’s back there. It’s empty."

"We don't have time for a funeral," Ilyra said, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the stairs. "We have to find the next waypoint. If that thing is loose, it knows everything we know. It knows our tactics. It knows our fears."

"It knows my name," Rhael said, his voice trembling. "It said my full name."

"It's just a sound to them," Tarek said, though his hand was white-knuckled on his sword hilt. "Keep moving. I’ll take the rear watch. Go."

They ran through the winding corridors, the sound of their own footsteps echoing back at them—only now, the echoes were slightly out of sync, a chorus of ghostly feet following just a second too late.

They reached a small, reinforced room with a heavy iron door. Ilyra slammed it shut and barred it.

"We rest here," she panted. "Four-hour shifts. Tarek, you’re on first watch. Kaelen, you’re second. Mirra, third. Rhael, you’re last."

"I don't think I can sleep," Rhael said, sitting on the cold floor, his shield clutched to his chest.

"You have to," Ilyra said. "The dungeon eats the tired first."

Hours passed in a blur of terrifying silence. Rhael drifted into a fitful doze, dreaming of shadows that wore his skin like a coat. He woke up to the sound of a torch flickering.

The room was dim. The campfire they had managed to start was a dying ember.

"Kaelen?" Rhael whispered, looking around.

Kaelen was slumped against the door, snoring softly. Mirra was curled in a ball. Ilyra was awake, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Where’s Tarek?" Rhael asked, his voice rising.

Ilyra sat up instantly, her hand on her sword. "He was by the vent. He said he wanted to listen for movement in the pipes."

They looked toward the corner. Tarek Sol was gone.

His torch was still there, lying on the floor. It was still burning, the flame dancing in a steady rhythm, illuminating a small circle of stone. There was no sign of a struggle. No blood. No scuff marks. Just the torch, burning away in the silence.

"Tarek?" Ilyra called out, her voice cracking for the first time.

From the ventilation shaft above them, a soft, gravelly voice whispered back.

"I'm right here, Ilyra. I just... I found something. Come here, Ilyra. I found a way out."

It was Tarek’s voice. Perfectly pitched. Perfectly calm.

But as the light of the dropped torch flickered, Rhael looked at the wall behind the vent.

A shadow was emerging from the hole—a tall, spindly thing with too many joints. It didn't have a face, but it was wearing Tarek’s leather mask. And it was holding a piece of translucent skin in its long, smoky fingers, stretching it out, trying to see if it would fit.