Greykin Mountain

| 50 | Ridge

          "Don't look at them," came a voice.

          Jackson flinched in startle and looked to his right. Huddled up in the corner was a pale man; the look of hopelessness on his face was almost depressing, his dark hair was long and ratty, as was his beard. The guy's clothes were torn enough to reveal his bony body underneath, and he stunk of sweat, blood, and piss.

          "W-what?" Jackson uttered, trying his best not to pinch his nose to escape the smell. That would be rude.

          "The fledglings. Don't stare."

          He turned his head to glance at the seething, groaning men again. Was he talking about them? "Fledglings?" he questioned, looking at the man again.

          The guy nodded. "They make this awful fucking noise. Gave me tinnitus."

          Wait...Jackson knew this man. He squinted, trying to make out the rest of his face under his ratty mane. "Thomas?"

          He furrowed his eyebrows. "Uh...yeah?"

          Jackson's fear was quickly melted away by his relief. "I-I came out here looking for you and the others."

          But that didn't lighten Thomas' face. Instead, it made him appear more depressed than before. He huffed and turned to face the front of the cage.

          If Thomas was here, could that mean Wilson was, too? Were all the other missing journalists here? Where even was here? How had he got here? Where was Draven?

          He had so many questions and couldn't work out which was more important.

          Wilson. Wilson was more important.

          "I-is Wilson here?" he asked eagerly.

          Thomas glanced at him. "You know Wilson?"

          "You do?"

          "Wilson Cosgrove?"

          "Yeah," Jackson confirmed with a nod. "Is he here?"

          "He was."

          A mixture of dread and confusion flooded through him. "Was?"

          "In that town. Farrydare. He—"

          Heavy footsteps echoed through the cavern.

          Thomas adorned a horrified scowl and scrunched up in his corner, hiding his face with his hands.

          "Thomas?"

          He shook his head frantically, trying to move further away, but he was as far in that corner as he could get.

          Jackson turned his attention to the footsteps. When he focused, he heard heavy boots hitting the ground; he could also hear quiet but deep breaths, and something was being dragged along the stone ground.

          The people chained to the walls started sniffing and snarling, growling louder and more frantic with each passing moment. They looked like starved animals that had caught the scent of food.

          And that seemed to be exactly what was going on.

          From a tunnel in the left wall came a man with dark hair and pointed ears, and behind him, he was dragging another man whose body left a trail of blood.

          Jackson tensed up, observing as the man picked up the body and threw it on a table. Then, once he waved his hand, two other men came out of a tunnel hidden behind a large boulder and hurried over to the table. And to his utter revolt, the men grabbed cleavers, started cutting the unconscious guy up, and filled buckets with his blood.