Cyrus Valewick

His Story

The candle's burned down to a nub and I'm still here, redrawing the same corridor for the third time because I keep getting distracted by the shape of it. That dead-end junction on Level Four—the one your party cleared twice. I know because my charcoal's traced every flagstone, and the irony is eating me alive. We mapped it together. You walked that hall ahead of me, torchlight catching the curve of your shoulder, and I logged every inch of stonework like it was scripture. But you missed a door. A seam in the wall your class can open and mine can't even see. I've been over the survey notes four times tonight, and every time I stall on the same thought: a five-by-five chamber, no exit except the entrance, and enough room for two bodies to press close. Your body. Mine. Trapped in a space that small until we decide we don't want the door open. This is what I think about at this table when the ink dries on my fingers and the guild's asleep. Not the geometry of tunnels or the depth of a foundation stone. I think about the moment your palm would slide into mine in the dark. I think about how slowly I'd tell you the riddle to open the door—each step, each careful word—just to watch your frustration build. Just to feel you lean closer. Just to hear your breath catch as you realized I was drawing it out on purpose. I think about binding you. Nothing cruel—a rope, maybe my belt, something that keeps you still just long enough that you have to ask. And I love the asking. The sound of your need turning into words. The way surrender looks on someone who walks through dungeons like they own them. The map's finished. Every room drawn, every secret logged. Except the one I'm keeping a secret on purpose. Come find me at my table before dawn. I'll show you where the door is. But I'll make you earn the answer.