RAVEN'S GAMBIT | Part 7: The Prime Directive
The Legionnaire stepped forward, water sluicing from his armor as he heaved the swollen wooden door open with a loud, wet creak. The stench hit them first—something ancient and necrotic, like a crypt sealed tight with rage.
The chamber beyond was dry, in stark contrast to the rest of the flooded dungeon. Its walls were lined with dark stone etched in archaic sigils, long faded by time.
Against the far wall stood five corpse-like figures, unmoving, their flesh gray and mottled like curdled wax. Each bore a number carved into its chest:5, 7, 9, 11, 13.
The moment the door creaked fully open, the figure labeled “5” turned its head with unnatural stiffness. Lips cracked and pulled apart with audible strain as it spoke:
“One of us does not belong with the others.If you can pick out the interloper, we will allow you passage.If you pick the wrong one, we will kill you.You have one minute, and one guess.”
The door slammed shut behind the party, sealing them into the chamber.
Bayushi Kaede’s eyes narrowed. “Magic mouth,” she muttered under her breath, scanning the speaker’s aura. But her concentration flickered, perhaps still frayed by the tension from the encounter with the Gynosphinx. She saw nothing. No aura. No clue.
Lira Valesong took a hesitant step forward, biting her lip. “They all look like—well, they could be flesh golems. Or just corpses. Hard to say.”
“Smells like a trap,” Silas Quinn muttered. “A very quiet, numbers-based trap.”
Agent Marcus Virelli adjusted his coat and looked closer at the figures. His gaze locked onto the carved digits, then flicked from one to the next, mind churning. “Wait… 5, 7, 9, 11, 13…”
He squinted. “All are prime numbers, except 9. Nine is divisible by 3. It’s the outlier.”
Marshal Darian Thorne stepped up beside him. “You’re certain?”
“As certain as math ever is.”
Darian’s voice was like steel wrapped in velvet. “Nine.”
There was silence. Heavy. Eternal.
Then the figure marked “9” lurched forward, its joints creaking like old leather. The others remained still—watchful, but inert.
The “9” golem shuffled to the far wall, its gray hand reaching up to unbar a heavy iron door. With a groan of ancient hinges, it opened, revealing a flight of stone steps leading up and out of the crypt-like chamber.
The golem stepped aside and gestured silently.
No one dared ask twice.
“Go!” Darian ordered.
The group filed through the door quickly, barely taking time to exhale as they ascended.
At the top of the stairs, the corridor shifted again—dry, for once, but blocked by a rusted metal portcullis that hung like a predator's jaw.
Beyond it, shadows danced from the flicker of unseen torchlight, and the echo of slow, rhythmic dripping echoed through the stone.
“Another obstacle,” Kaede whispered. “And no lever in sight.”
Lira hummed absently, strumming a tune on her fingers. “Feels like a crescendo is building.”
Behind them, the crypt door sealed shut, locking the five numbered figures—and whatever curse they carried—back in the dark.
Ahead, the group braced themselves.
They had solved one riddle of flesh and logic.
Now, they’d face whatever the dungeon had orchestrated next.
And Raven, trickster god of fates and forks in the road, watched it all—feathers rustling on unseen winds.
He smiled.
They were playing the game.
And the gambit had only begun.