The lamp had gone out.
He hadn't noticed when. That was probably not a good sign.
He sat at the desk in the dark and wrote by feel, his hand moving across the parchment with the steadiness of long practice. The scar along his jaw pulled when he concentrated. He concentrated now.
Outside, the swamp was silent. It had been silent for four days. Not the silence of nothing — the silence of something that had decided to stop announcing itself.
"To the Dungeon Janitor's Guild, Moorhaven Central Office,
This is my ninth letter. I do not know if any of them were received. I am writing this one in the dark because the oil ran out three days ago. I am writing it anyway.
The dungeon has not reset in six days. It is still running. Whatever that means, I do not think it is good. The sounds it makes now are not sounds dungeons make. They come up through the floor at night and I have stopped trying to sleep when they start.
Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!
I have attempted to leave twice. I was returned both times. I could not tell you how. I simply found myself back at the outpost door, facing inward, with no memory of turning around.
The tree line has been still for eleven days. The thing that was watching is no longer watching.
I have thought about what that might mean. I have stopped thinking about it.
There are tracks outside the outpost this morning that were not there last night. They do not belong to anything I can identify. They stop at the door. Just at the door.
I have enough food for four more days. My tools are intact. I am, as best I can determine, unharmed.
I do not know how much longer that will remain true.
Please. Send someone."
He folded the letter. Pressed his thumb to the seal. Spoke the sending word into the dark.
The letter didn't move.
He looked at it for a long moment and tried again. And again. Finally, the letter disappeared.
Then he got up and pushed the desk against the door.