53 entries
Play Free Now All chaptersKill it once. Depths bosses, their minions, and every World Boss file themselves.

Sent down to map the first gallery and report back by supper. Came back eleven months later, on all fours, and has been extremely territorial about the supper question ever since.

She does not spin to catch. She spins to keep records — every thread a name, filed by the date they came down the stair. The archive is enormous and growing and she is, by any reasonable measure, very good at her job.

Built to hold a door shut. Nobody wrote down which door. Nobody has been able to ask since the jaw fused, and it is not taking questions.

Malachar himself died on the fourth floor, quietly, of something boring. What waits there is the dent his absence left in the room, and it has had two hundred years to practise the walk.

Other drakes hoard gold. Emberclaw hoards warmth. It has been drawing the heat out of that chamber since before your grandmother, and the walls are now cold enough to take skin off.

Does not freeze you in order to kill you. Freezes you in order to keep you. Has a great many of you already, arranged by height, and is beginning to run out of shelf.

Was not born and was not built. It arrived, in the way a hole arrives, and has stood on that one flagstone ever since. It has never explained the flagstone and nobody has pressed the issue.

The only thing in the Depths that keeps a court. The court is beautifully dressed, impeccably mannered and has been dead for some time. Nobody has had the heart to mention it.

A titan is not a large person. It is a piece of the world that stood up one afternoon, and the world has been politely asking it to sit back down ever since.

Put both hands into the seam to find out what was on the other side. Found out. Is now on both sides at once, and the half you fight is the smaller and considerably more reasonable half.

Undefeated in the Cheese Pits for eleven consecutive seasons. The pits are real. The seasons are real. The belt is real and quite heavy. Nobody has ever satisfactorily explained the cheese.

Third of his name. The first two are still in the dryer. He does not talk about it and it would be a kindness not to ask.

Commands a fleet of one. Undefeated in naval engagements, having taken great care never to be in any. The medals are self-awarded and the paperwork is immaculate.

Arrives at the hour of the third meal, uninvited and enormous. Leaves nothing standing and — more upsettingly — no crumbs.

Wound from every errand you have ever put off until tomorrow. It gains a layer each day. In a real and unflattering sense you are feeding it right now.

Forty years of published research into the attraction between bread and inevitability. Peer review was hostile. Peer review is now buttered.

Too small for the pack, too loyal to leave. Has been promised a promotion for six years.

Eight eyes, no depth perception. Compensates with enthusiasm.

Assembled from three earlier automatons and the leftovers of a fourth. Walks with a limp it did not earn.

Died mid-argument. Still winning it.

Guards a door that was bricked up two centuries ago. Nobody has told it. Nobody will.

Hatched too close to the forge and came out wrong in an extremely useful direction.

Carries embers in its mouth like a promise. Has never once dropped one.

Was a person. Has kept the coat.

Frozen mid-step on the way out. Still facing the stairs.

Arrived with the Sentinel and stands eleven paces behind it. Always eleven. Nobody knows why eleven.

Makes no sound at all, including when struck, which several veterans describe as the worst part.

Reflects light wrong. Look at it twice and you will stop looking at it.

Court attendant. Fetches, carries, bows. Has been dead for a hundred and forty years and remains impeccably professional.

Weaves the court's clothing. Only knows one pattern. Has had a long time to perfect it.

The Queen's taster. The job is exactly as bad as it sounds and it has never once complained.

A chip off the Titan. Still the size of a cart.

Rolls rather than walks. Gets there.

Holds up a ceiling that stopped needing holding a long time ago. Will not be talked out of it.

Came through the seam behind Xal'Thor and has been trying to go back ever since.

Exists on both sides. Fights on this one. The other side is reportedly also having trouble with it.

Speaks constantly in a language that has not been invented yet. Grammatically flawless.

The last thing Xal'Thor made on purpose.

Small, quick, and entirely convinced it is the dangerous one in the room.

Hatched on the wrong side and has never been told which side that was.

A light with opinions. The opinions are bad.

Hunts the shallows at the exact depth where you stop being able to run.

Moves sideways, which nobody is ever ready for.

One of nine identical drones. The other eight are also here.
Lives in the ash and takes it personally when disturbed.

Does not breathe fire. Simply is fire, in a hound-shaped arrangement.

Slow, hot, and completely unbothered by anything you have brought with you.

Guards a vault that was emptied years ago. Nobody has updated the roster.

Struck from a single sheet of something that was never meant to be sheeted.

Was the first thing through the breach and has not stopped since.

Speaks in the voice of whoever it killed most recently. Currently: nobody you know.

Made from the seam itself, which is why it keeps almost not being there.

The last one out. Waiting to be the last one in.
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