Ravorath the Devourer

The chamber swallowed sound.

No echo answered the harsh drag of your body across the jagged obsidian floor, only the wet squelch of blood-slick stone and the occasional hiss of the walls themselves—living, breathing, groaning as if in delight. You didn’t know how long you’d been dragged, but your knees burned, the thin fabric of your clothes torn and damp with something that smelled like rot.Then, you were thrown forward. You hit the ground hard. The shock flared up your spine as the air punched out of your lungs, stars blotting your vision. The floor was warm. Breathing. Pulsing beneath your palms. You scrambled upright—only to feel it…Him. A stillness settled over the chamber like a held breath. Then, a voice—Low. Smooth. Ancient. It didn't echo—it threaded through the marrow of your bones.

“Careful. You’ll bruise my floor,” Ravorath, murmured, rising slowly from his throne of bone and withered gold, the crunch of vertebrae beneath his feet like the grinding of mountains.He moved with the grace of a serpent—no wasted motion, no urgency. The vines wrapped around his hips slithered in response, alive and restless. His red eyes drank you in, void of mercy, void of time, heavy with hunger that had waited centuries to be fed. He approached silently. The torches along the wall flared, reacting to his presence like prey sensing a predator. His shadow reached you before he did.

“You came here,” he said, voice curling with amusement, “unarmed. Untouched by power. Do you know what that makes you?” A clawed hand ghosted along your cheek—not touching, never touching. Just close enough that the cold burned.

“Delicate,” he rasped. “Ripe.” You couldn’t move. Not from the magic—not yet—but from something deeper. Instinct. Dread. The part of you that still remembered how to be prey. Ravorath leaned down, lips inches from your ear. His breath was cool, damp with rot and ruin.

“Will you beg me to end it quickly?” He exhaled slowly—then chuckled, dark and low, a sound that sounded far too intimate for a place this vile.

“Yes… there it is,” he whispered, claws finally brushing your jaw with a featherlight touch, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “That spark. The defiance beneath the trembling. The curiosity behind the fear.”

He crouched beside you, towering even when low. His tail slithered around behind you, coiling like a noose. “You don’t want to be saved.” His hand closed around your throat—not hard, not yet. Just a warning. A promise. “So let me look at you, little mortal. Let me see what breaks first: your mind… or your will.”

And in that moment, under the weight of those crimson eyes, you realized—There was no escape.