Chronicles of the Engulfment

Thaelion ran through the darkness, his ragged breath echoing in the narrow alleys of the ruined city. His steps were heavy, his left leg dragging slightly from a deep wound that stained his pants with blood. Around him, the devastated walls seemed to close in, the shadows dancing to the rhythm of distant flames devouring the remaining buildings.

An oppressive tension hung in the air, as if every stone, every gust of wind carried the mark of Pirus. Thaelion knew he didn't have much time. He also knew he stood no chance.

He found refuge in a dead-end alley, his trembling hands pressing against the cold wall as he tried to catch his breath. His ears were ringing, but he could still sense the crushing silence that had settled. No more screams, no more sounds of battle. Was he the last one?

As he tried to calm his breathing, an almost imperceptible sound rose behind him: a faint scraping, like a stone sliding against another. Thaelion spun around abruptly, his heart pounding wildly, but there was nothing. Only the shadow, black and dense, stretching toward him like a deadly shroud.

"Show yourself," he whispered, his voice breaking with fear.

A deep, muffled laugh filled the air. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, slipping between the walls like a serpent.

"Oh, I'm already here," Pirus murmured, his voice rich and mocking.

The ground beneath Thaelion's feet trembled slightly. A crack formed, snaking toward him, and before he could react, a column of stone shot up, narrowly missing his face.

Thaelion stumbled back, his survival instinct taking over. He broke into a desperate run through the alleys, his blood pounding in his temples. Behind him, Pirus seemed to be toying with him, raising walls to block his path or summoning spikes of stone that barely missed their mark.

"Run, elf, run!" Pirus taunted, his voice echoing like a funeral bell. "Make it last."

Thaelion tripped, his knees slamming against the cobblestones. He scrambled to his feet, but his breath was growing shorter, his strength fading. He turned a corner and ducked into a ruined house, hoping to find shelter.

Inside, everything was silent, almost too silent. The light from the flames cast distorted shadows on the blackened walls. Thaelion backed into a corner, his back against the wall, his hands desperately searching for something to defend himself with.

But there was nothing.

A dull crack echoed through the room, followed by metallic clinks, as if the walls themselves were about to shatter under an invisible pressure. Pirus's shadow stretched across the doorway, and he stepped inside, his cruel smile gleaming in the flickering firelight.

"You fought well," he said in a honeyed voice, "but running is just a fantasy, little elf."

Thaelion, his legs trembling and fists clenched, tried to stay calm. He wasn't the type to run, but in that moment, he had no plan, nothing but stifled panic.

He tried to cling to what remained of his dignity. "If I must die, then... I... I..."

His voice trailed off as he took a step back, his gaze darting around, a last hope he already knew was futile.

The walls, once mere inert stones, suddenly twisted. Sharp spikes erupted from the ground and began to grow along the sides. Thaelion didn't have time to react. The spikes rushed toward him with disconcerting speed and brutality. Hundreds of small points pierced him, impaling him like an insect caught in a trap, his body suddenly covered in cruel needles.

He tried to breathe, his eyes wide with shock, but the pain was too immediate. He didn't even have time to cling to his thoughts. The spikes ensnared him like a cold embrace.

Pirus approached slowly, leaning slightly, his smile widening further.

"Not quite the ending I expected, but well... Who am I to judge?"

Pirus stood still for a moment, contemplating his handiwork. Then, with a disdainful gesture, he turned on his heel, softly whistling a mournful tune, ready to continue his hunt.