RAVEN'S GAMBIT | Part 5: The Price of Passage
The sun had barely moved in the sky, but the mood outside White Plume Mountain had shifted from anticipation to dread. The torchlight flickered as Group Two emerged from the mountain’s maw—water-soaked, breathless, and carrying six unconscious bodies between them.
Kale “Whisper” Stonemarch, the silent scout, slumped across Tharn Ironfist’s shoulders. Kaito, Varek, Jahari, Kael, and Elaren were carried likewise, limp as discarded weapons. Their breath was shallow but present.
Thalia Emberbranch, soaked to the bone, lowered her bow and reported grimly: “There’s a sphinx. A guardian. She sits atop a mountain of bones. Demands a riddle be answered before anyone passes.”
The camp burst into movement. Medics rushed in, questions flooded from the commanders. But Group Two said little else—they were spent. Hauling six warriors through waterlogged tunnels had drained even Thog Skullsplitter’s enthusiasm. Tessa Vell groaned, “Somebody else gets to play riddle games this time.”
It was now up to Group Three.
Marshal Darian Thorne stood tall, armor polished and voice calm as a battlefield before the charge. “Let’s move. No delays. Eyes sharp.”
His team fell in without question.
Bayushi Kaede, elegant in crimson and charcoal-gray robes, drifted behind him like a shadow with perfume.
The Legionnaire, silent and faceless beneath his helm, took the front-left flank—an unbreakable wall of routine and resolve.
Marcus Virelli, trenchcoat damp from mist, scanned the ground for anything out of place, mind already ten steps ahead.
Silas Quinn, twirling a coin between two fingers, smiled like a man who already knew how this story would end.
Lira Valesong, humming a haunting chord, brought up the rear—her voice the quiet rhythm that kept their nerves steady.
Torches flared. Weapons were drawn. Group Three entered White Plume Mountain.
The spiral staircase descended into the same humid darkness that had swallowed the two groups before them. The smell of moss and mold was stronger now—like the mountain itself was exhaling rot. Murky water lapped around their boots. The walls seemed to pulse.
They reached the intersection near the throne of bones—and the Gynosphinx, Etrusca, erupted with a roar that shook droplets from the ceiling.
“Where are the others?” she demanded. “They agreed to return. To answer.”
Bayushi Kaede stepped forward with a slight bow, voice calm and lilting. “They are recovering from their burden. But we are here in their stead, O Keeper of Ways.”
Etrusca narrowed her glowing eyes… then slowly nodded.
“Very well. Which path shall you take—West, North, or East?”
Marshal Darian Thorne’s answer was immediate. “East.”
The Gynosphinx's tail twitched as she leaned forward and recited:
“My creator wants me not,And much in dread will I be bought. My cold embrace is fiercely fought,Most all who need me know it not.”
A tense silence followed.
Bayushi Kaede didn't even blink. “A coffin.”
The sphinx let out a sharp breath—half growl, half sigh. “You may pass.”
The party moved quickly through the slime-lined corridor beyond, the water growing deeper around their calves. The walls shimmered with algae, and from above, green slime dropped like acidic rain. Searing pain erupted as it struck exposed skin.
“Burns like treason,” hissed Silas.
They tore strips of cloth to scrub it off, Lira’s song shifting to a faster rhythm as it helped stabilize their steps and spirits.
The passage split—one continuing east, the other bending north.
Darian paused, nodded northward. “We go up.”
A short flight of stone steps led from the swampy corridor to a raised landing. A wooden door, swollen from humidity, sat slightly ajar. Rot streaked the hinges. Silence hung on the air like fog.
He gestured, and the Legionnaire took point.
The door creaked as it opened—No turning back.
Raven watched from the Citadel—his wings folded in shadow, his eyes gleaming with trickster fire.
“Let’s see how well your masks hold,” he murmured, the god of trickery amused.
The game had only just begun.