Ivan’s legs gave out. He collapsed onto the jagged cliffside, eyes locked on the monstrosity clawing its way from the ink-black sea. Its silhouette blotted out the sickly green moon—a mountain of writhing tentacles, membranous wings unfurling like sails of rotten flesh, and eyes that glowed with the cold phosphorescence of deep-sea abominations. The air vibrated with a subsonic hum, rattling Ivan’s teeth and churning his stomach.

  *Cthulhu.*

  The name seared his mind, ripped straight from the pages he’d devoured hours—or lifetimes—ago. But this wasn’t fiction anymore. This was real. *He* was real.

  “Nope. Nope, nope, nope,” Ivan gasped, scrambling backward until his palms scraped raw against the stone. His lungs burned, his cut wrist throbbed, and every instinct screamed to run. But where? The cliff dropped sheer into the roiling ocean behind him, and the alley he’d fled from still echoed with the cultists’ guttural chants. To his left, a labyrinth of crumbling stone buildings stretched into the mist, their rooftops sagging under veils of seaweed.

  A gurgling roar split the air. The titan’s head tilted, its gaze sweeping the cliffside. Ivan froze, pinned like a specimen under a microscope. For a heartbeat, their eyes met—one pair human, terrified; the other vast, alien, and utterly indifferent.

  Then, a hand clamped over Ivan’s mouth and yanked him sideways into a crevice.

  “Quiet,” hissed a voice, low and urgent.

  Ivan thrashed, but his attacker—a wiry figure in a tattered trench coat—shoved him against the damp rock. “Stop squirming, kid. Unless you want to be the Old One’s chew toy.”

  The figure released him. Ivan spun, fists raised, but the stranger had already retreated into the shadows. All he could make out was a gaunt face framed by greasy hair, a scar cutting diagonally across a crooked nose, and eyes that gleamed with a feverish intensity.

  “Who the hell are you?” Ivan demanded, voice cracking.

  “Call me Lysander,” the man said, rummaging in his coat pockets. He pulled out a cracked pocket watch, squinted at it, and grimaced. “We’ve got three minutes before the cultists regroup. Follow me if you want to live past sunrise.”

  Ivan hesitated. Lysander radiated sketchy energy—the kind of guy who’d sell your kidneys for a bottle of whiskey. But the alternative was becoming Cthulhu’s appetizer.

  “Fine,” Ivan muttered. “But if you try anything—”

  “Oh, spare me the threats,” Lysander snorted, ducking into a narrow fissure in the cliff face. “You’re about as threatening as a soggy biscuit. Now *move*.”

  ---

  The crevice opened into a warren of tunnels, their walls slick with bioluminescent algae that cast a faint blue glow. Lysander navigated the maze with practiced ease, occasionally muttering to himself and adjusting a pair of cracked goggles perched on his forehead. Ivan trailed behind, hyperaware of every distant drip and skittering sound.

  “So,” Ivan ventured, trying to mask his nerves with sarcasm, “you some kind of post-apocalyptic tour guide?”

  Lysander barked a laugh. “Close. I’m what’s left of the Dream-Cult’s scholarly elite. Before I realized worshiping cosmic horrors was… counterproductive.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re not from here, are you?”

  Ivan stiffened. “What gave it away? The lack of barnacle accessories?”

  “The stench of *reality*,” Lysander said, wrinkling his nose. “Most locals reek of brine and madness. You? You smell like wifi and existential dread.”

  Ivan snorted despite himself. “Wow. Poetic.”

  They emerged into a cavernous chamber, its ceiling lost in shadows. Crates and moth-eaten bookshelves lined the walls, alongside bizarre artifacts: a jar of floating eyeballs, a clockwork device spewing black smoke, and a taxidermied creature that resembled a cross between a squid and a koala. In the center, a rusted iron stove glowed faintly, its chimney ducting smoke through a crack in the ceiling.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Home sweet home,” Lysander said, flopping into a threadbare armchair. He gestured to a stool. “Sit. Talk. What’s your name, kid?”

  “Ivan.”

  “Ivan.” Lysander rolled the name around his tongue like a sour candy. “Let me guess: you were reading some forbidden text, got whisked here by forces beyond mortal ken, and now you’re stuck playing hero in a world that wants you dead?”

  Ivan blinked. “How did you—?”

  “Happens more often than you’d think,” Lysander said dryly. He tossed Ivan a canteen. “Drink. It’s just water. Mostly.”

  Ivan sipped cautiously. The water tasted metallic, but it soothed his parched throat. “So… you’ve met others like me?”

  “A few. They usually die screaming.” Lysander leaned forward, his gaze sharpening. “But you’re different. You’ve got that spark—the kind that either saves worlds or burns them to ash. Question is, which will it be?”

  Before Ivan could reply, a tremor shook the chamber. Dust rained from the ceiling as a deep, resonant *gong* echoed through the tunnels. Lysander cursed, snatching a lantern from the wall.

  “They’ve found us,” he growled. “Cultists. And they’re not alone.”

  ---

  The tunnels throbbed with the sound of dragging footsteps and wet, guttural chanting. Lysander shoved Ivan behind a stack of crates, his lantern extinguished.

  “Stay here,” he whispered. “If things go sideways, run straight ahead. There’s a sewer grate at the end of the tunnel—leads to the sunken caves.”

  “Wait, where are you—?”

  But Lysander was already gone, melting into the shadows like a wraith. Ivan crouched, heart hammering, as the chanting grew louder. Torchlight flickered against the walls, casting elongated silhouettes of figures in barnacle-encrusted robes. Among them lumbered a hulking shape—a Deep One hybrid, its amphibious skin glistening, bulbous eyes scanning the darkness.

  “The outsider is here,” croaked a cultist, clutching a serrated dagger. “The Old One demands his blood.”

  Ivan’s breath hitched. He glanced at the escape route Lysander had mentioned—a yawning tunnel to his left. But abandoning Lysander felt wrong, even if the guy was a walking red flag.

  A gurgling shriek split the air. Ivan peeked over the crates just as Lysander lunged from the shadows, slashing a cultist’s throat with a curved blade. The Deep One roared, swiping at him with webbed claws, but Lysander danced back, hurling a vial that exploded into acrid smoke.

  “Go, kid!” Lysander shouted, parrying a dagger strike. “I’ll hold them off!”

  Ivan hesitated, then cursed and bolted. He’d barely made it ten paces when a hand shot out from a side tunnel, grabbing his collar and yanking him into the dark.

  “Foolish child,” rasped a voice like grinding stone.

  Ivan struggled, but the figure—taller than any human, draped in a cloak of living seaweed—lifted him effortlessly. Its face was hidden beneath a hood, but twin pinpricks of violet light burned where eyes should be.

  “Q’alath…” Ivan whispered, the name surfacing from some primal part of his brain.

  The Seer tilted its head. “You know me, yet you do not. Curious.” It set Ivan down, though its grip remained vise-like. “You tread a path not meant for mortal feet. Why?”

  “I didn’t *ask* to be here!” Ivan snapped, channeling his fear into defiance. “Just tell me how to get home!”

  Q’alath’s laugh was the sound of icebergs calving. “Home? You are a thread in the Tapestry now. Your only choices are to unravel… or weave.” It leaned closer, the scent of brine and decay overwhelming. “Three artifacts hold the key: the Prime Tome, the Nautilus Key, the Veil of Dreamless Sleep. Secure them, and you may yet bend fate to your will.”

  Ivan’s mind raced. *The artifacts from the overview—this is the quest setup.* “And if I refuse?”

  The violet eyes flared. “Then the Rising will consume all. Your world. This one. Every star in the sky.”

  A crash echoed from the chamber—Lysander cried out in pain. Q’alath released Ivan, gesturing to the tunnel ahead. “The scholar will die without aid. Prove your worth, little thread.”

  Then, the Seer dissolved into mist, leaving Ivan alone.

  ---

  Lysander was cornered, blood dripping from a gash on his temple. The Deep One lunged, but Ivan acted on pure instinct. He snatched a jar from a shelf—*please be acid or something*—and hurled it.

  The jar shattered against the Deep One’s skull, releasing a swarm of bioluminescent moths. The creature reeled, swatting at its face, and Lysander seized the opening. He drove his blade into its chest, black ichor spraying the walls.

  The remaining cultists faltered. Ivan grabbed a torch, waving it wildly. “Back off! Or I’ll… I’ll summon Yog-Sothoth’s wifi password!”

  The cultists glanced at each other, confused. Lysander burst out laughing. “Gods, kid. You’re insane.”

  But the distraction worked. The cultists retreated, dragging their dying comrade. Lysander sagged against a crate, clutching his side. “You came back,” he wheezed.

  “Yeah, well.” Ivan offered a shaky grin. “Turns out I’m a slow learner.”

  Lysander chuckled, then winced. “Help me up. We need to get to the sunken caves—the Prime Tome’s hidden there. And you’re gonna need it if you want to survive the week.”

  Ivan slung Lysander’s arm over his shoulders. “Lead the way, Gandalf.”

  As they staggered into the tunnels, Ivan’s mind buzzed. Three artifacts. A cosmic countdown. And a guide who might stab him in the back before breakfast.

  But for the first time since the truck hit, Ivan felt a flicker of hope.

  He had a plan.