Ellie entered the guild as usual through the side door. The one that didn't creak. The one avoided by those who liked grand entrances.
She passed a drunk slumped against a column, mug in hand, a lump on his forehead. He didn't stir. That meant things were normal.
The air inside was warm, with a tinge of smoke, cheap stew, and someone's overpowering perfume. She turned toward the board. A crowd was already gathered—those looking for work. Swordsmen with large hands and small heads. Mages in cloaks more worried about their folds than their spells. A couple of rookies, eyes wide as calves', armor shiny only on the outside.
She stood off to the side, where she could see the board without having to breathe in others' ambition.
The tasks were varied:
– "Eliminate a cluster of forest parasites near the Southern Path."
– "Scout the old crypt beneath the Ridge of Vil."
– "Escort a caravan to the village of Lemm."
– "Collect samples of mushrooms (poisonous)." Especially popular among those who hadn't yet realized how easily mushrooms could kill.
At the bottom was what Ellie was looking for: scouting, surveying, documenting.
No "mandatory extermination," no "bring back the monster's head." Just go, walk through, take notes.
– Interested in routes? – came a voice beside her.
She turned. A man in his forties stood there. Not old, but far from young. Lean, tidy, a plain cloak. A short staff by his side and a satchel clearly full of parchment.
He didn't look like a fighter. But also not like someone who traveled alone.
– Yeah, – she answered curtly. – Scouting. Recording.
– Hm. – He tilted his head. – Then we're in the same niche.
She looked more closely. A researcher's badge on his chest. Not a rookie.
An old guild mark on his bag, one that had been disbanded three years ago. Archival division.
– I didn't know any of you were still around, – Ellie said.
– There are few of us. But we're tenacious.
– And cautious.
– Always. – A pause. He watched her with a slight squint. Polite. But tense. – You're the one who maps alone?
– I am.
– Not convenient.
– It is for me. I don't owe others convenience.
– You know, - he smiled slightly, but not in a kind way, - usually people like you burn out quickly. Too independent, too self-confident. No support, no cover. Just a map, a knife and "I can handle it."
– Are you alone?
– No. I have a team.
– Then you don't know what it's like to be alone. Don't compare.
He nodded. Respectfully. But coldly.
– I'm not comparing. I'm warning you. We work in the same field. Which means we'll cross paths.
– I'm not chasing contracts.
– But if you take a route I've already worked...
– I don't bite unless I'm bitten.
– Then good luck. Hope we don't meet in the same tunnel. – He turned and walked away. Calm. No drama.
Ellie exhaled. Dryly. She knew the type: not malicious, but dangerous. He wouldn't shove you, but he'd remember. If they crossed paths in the field, he wouldn't help.
The task she picked was simple:
"Scout the northern ravine. Missing sound of water. Possible structural change in the flow."
An old spot, known as the Maw. There'd always been a stream. A week ago it stopped. No panic. But strange.
Ellie wrote down the task code and approached the scribe.
– Logging in. Northern ravine. Recon. One to two days.
– Alone?
– As usual.
– If you start changing anything, warn us in advance. Otherwise, we've already gotten used to you here.
He handed her the registration slip.
- Signature. Time of departure. Upon return, you must check in no later than three days, otherwise they will think that you are dead.
- I will write it right in the air, if necessary.
He chuckled.
- Have you started a diary yet?
- Today.
– Just don't forget to write down what matters, not musings on leaf color.
– I wasn't planning to write about leaves.
– Good luck. Seriously.
– Thanks.
Her gear was light. A water flask, a knife, a spare pencil, her journal, a rolled map, a packet of dried meat, and two pieces of rye bread.
No armor. No flashy trinkets. She walked the road until the city fell behind. Dust in her eyes. People passed. Some waved, some spat, some didn't notice.
After half an hour, the outskirts began—houses sparser, manure scent, less noise.
Then fields. Then forest. Sun filtered through the treetops. The path led downward, toward the ravine.
Ellie stopped. Opened her journal.
"Finally left. Route: northeast, 12 km, descent into the Maw.
Trail overgrown but still marked. Looks like a few parties came through. Wind from the north. Humidity higher than expected. Hearing's clear. But… no sound of water. Should be audible from here.
Possible causes: landslide, blockage, or something living below.
Fear: 3/10. Curiosity: 7/10."
The path sloped down gradually. First soft earth and grass. Then stones. Then moss. Then silence.
Usually, on such descents, one could hear something: birds, dragonflies, a draft, rustling of small creatures. Here—nothing.
Ellie stopped, removed a glove, placed her palm on the ground.
Dry. Warm. But the earth felt dead. Usually, there was a pulse: water, roots, mana. Now it felt empty. Like a basement. Like a stone cage.
She made a note in the journal:
"Descent into the Maw feels unnaturally silent.
Temperature stable, but earth seems dead.
No birds. No tracks. No air movement."
The ravine's edges began to narrow. The path became a narrow maw.
On both sides—sheer, fractured walls. The stone not just limestone—ancient, layered. In places, it looked like someone had scraped it clean, then left scars behind.
She moved cautiously, not from fear, but habit. Step. Check footing. Look up. Down. Sideways.
A minor landslide at the fifth turn. Stones tumbled in a way that looked like they'd been shifted, not fallen.
Ellie crouched. Picked up a stone. It was smooth. On both sides, marks of pressure. As if held by fingers. Not claws—fingers.
Signs of manipulation. Not a fall. Too neat. The stones hadn't dropped—they'd been pulled out, stacked, tossed aside.
Dust smell. But beneath it… something else. Iron? She kept moving.
Five more minutes and she reached the spot where the stream had been.
And it was truly gone. Not just dried up. The bed was clean. As if washed. No clay, no moss, no debris. Everything… smooth.
Too smooth.
– This isn't right, – she said aloud. Her voice echoed dully off the walls.
She pulled out her flask. Took a sip. Sat on a stone. Took off her gloves. Opened her journal.
"Streambed dead. No signs of water. No signs of life. No larvae, no snake trails, no mold.
Everything scrubbed. Either something absorbed the water—or left.
Why clean the streambed?"
She stood, looking downward. Deeper in the ravine, a depression.
Like a body mark. Or… something that had crawled. The ravine narrowed. The shape nearly symmetrical. As if cut with a knife. Not by nature. Not by time. By hand.
Ellie moved on. Step. Pause. Step. Inhale.
She stopped. Crouched. Touched the surface. A layer of dust. Beneath—not just rock. Something smooth. As if polished. She scratched it with her knife.
At first—nothing. Then a thin mark, and underneath… a gleam. Metal? She wasn't sure. Too deep a layer.
But whatever it was—this wasn't just a ravine.
"Walls fractured, but lower levels symmetrical. Unnaturally clean shapes. Streambed smooth. Shiny spots beneath stone. Possible artificial structure.
Hypothesis: ravine is unnatural. In use. Purpose unknown."
At the very bottom, she saw a trail.
Like an imprint. Not paw, not sole. Long, stretched, curved. Like a spine. Not bone or body, but a shape pressed into the earth. Smooth. As if something had crawled. Slowly. Deeply. Same kind of mark as at the descent.
She knelt. Touched the line. Cold. Not temperature—sensation. Her fingers twitched. She pulled back. Sat again.
Someone was watching. Definitely. Not from above. Not from shadows.
From the ground.
"Trail on the bottom: curved groove, spine-like. Feeling of being watched.
Not 'observed,' but 'evaluated.'
Place isn't just abandoned. It's waiting.
Need to finish survey and leave. No panic. No sudden moves."
Ellie stood. Calmly. As if nothing had happened. Rolled her journal. Packed it away. Checked her step. Looked back. Kept going.
Under the streambed it was colder. Not a sharp chill, not frost, but that dry, ancient cold buried deep under the soil—not from night, but from something long dead.
She stepped into the center and stopped. The ground was firmer, but not stone. Like clay packed down not by rain or time, but something heavy, evenly.
She crouched, ran her hand along the bottom, and found a thin, barely visible line running along it. The groove wasn't deep, but so straight it seemed cut. No sweeping motion. Precise.
At first, she thought: root. Then a snake. But the mark wasn't wavy. It was segmented. Like a spine. Or something trying to resemble one.
Ellie drew her knife, carefully traced the edge. Dust flew up thick, like chalk undisturbed for centuries. She peeled back a thin layer—and found beneath it a pale, smooth structure, with rare metallic flecks.
It wasn't bone. It wasn't soil.
She wiped the blade, stood, and looked back. The ravine was empty. But the feeling of being watched lingered. Not from above. Not from the side. From beneath.
She opened her journal to a fresh page. Her pen scratched, the ink was thickening, but her hand moved quickly, automatically. The entry went dryly, almost thoughtlessly. Until her hand began to slow on its own.
"Maw. Bottom.
Groove runs entire length of streambed, oriented north to southwest. Depth ~5 cm, width ~15 cm, spine-like.
Touch: cold.
Under dust—smooth fragment, possibly ~metal? or cartilage-like?
Texture artificial. Nothing in common with sedimentary rock. Dust unnaturally dense. Possibly not dust, but camouflage.
(Someone may have tried to scrape it before. Barely visible.)
sensation: no ground vibration. pressure present. as if… waiting?
Hypothesis: artificial groove or imprint of sliding entity. But if a trace—too fresh. Where is the body?"
Her hand froze. A few lines were half-scribbled, then overwritten. Ellie didn't erase them. Such parts help later, when rereading, trying to recall what had gone through her mind. Mistakes are part of the route too.
She stood, tucked the journal into the fabric pocket under her coat. Walked along the groove. Every two steps, she bent down, examined the soil, touched it.
At one spot, she noticed something odd: the groove cut into stone.
The stone was split, but the cracks didn't radiate from an impact point.
It was as if they didn't break through… but slipped through.