The Shape of Fear

The cave exhaled them. Not gently. The last breath of the Underdark came as a cold shove, a pressure behind the ribs, as though the world itself were relieved to be rid of them. Kael staggered forward into night air that tasted sharp and clean, the scent of wet stone giving way to pine resin, frost, and distant running water. His boots slid on loose gravel as he caught himself on one knee, one palm pressed to the earth, the other instinctively hovering near his scimitars. They did not glow. That alone told him how close to the surface they truly were. Behind him, the cave mouth yawned like a wound stitched shut too hastily — jagged stone teeth rimed with frost, darkness within swallowing what little light the stars dared to spill.