Deepanalabyss -

At the exact moment the moon’s edge darkened, a staircase unfolded from the far wall of the chasm. Not stone. Not wood. It looked like fossilized cartilage, each step fused to the next by what might have been dried sinew. It descended at a steep angle, spiraling into the throat of the world.

Kaelen felt something brush his ankle. Not a hand. A thought that had grown fingers. Deepanalabyss

Kaelen kept walking. The abyss wanted him to stop, to doubt, to turn back. That was the first rule of the Deepanalabyss: The descent is the defense. At the exact moment the moon’s edge darkened,

He did not look back. The first hour was ordinary—if you can call descending into a bottomless pit ordinary. The walls of the Rift were striated like sedimentary rock, but upon closer inspection, the layers were not stone. They were compressed things : bone fragments, rusted gears, shattered lenses, the husks of insects the size of horses. Every few hundred feet, a ledge would jut out, and on it would be an object: a child’s doll with button eyes, a still-warm cup of tea, a mirror that showed not your reflection but the back of your own head. It looked like fossilized cartilage, each step fused

At the twelfth hour, the staircase ended.

If you want me to write the next part—what Kaelen sees in the mirror, the “use” the abyss has for him, or a completely different version of the story (horror, epic fantasy, psychological thriller, cosmic weird fiction)—just let me know. I can also adjust the tone, length, or level of detail.