RAVEN'S GAMBIT

The obsidian throne of Keraptis sat high atop a dais carved from a mountain of bone. It pulsed faintly with magic—the stones themselves feeding off the anguish long soaked into the walls. Zahur the Flame-Sworn materialized in a blaze of crimson fire, collapsing to one knee with smoke curling from his seared flesh and scorched beard. His eyes remained low, but his voice was clear.

“My lord… the relics remain lost. Rashoon is dead. The mortals are stronger than expected. Blackrazor has bonded with one of them.”

The chamber fell silent.

Keraptis leaned forward. His pale eyes burned with ageless fury, twin suns gone cold. Then his voice rolled forth like a glacier cracking.

“Fools… all of you.”

With a casual flick of his fingers, Zahur was lifted into the air by invisible force. His burned form twisted, yet he did not cry out. The efreeti remained silent, resigned. Keraptis studied him like one might a broken puzzle piece.

“Blackrazor must not remain in mortal hands—especially not that warlock. And Whelm... in the hands of that half-orc now. They desecrate my legacy with every breath.”

Keraptis released Zahur from his invisible grip and motioned him away. “Go. Heal. Regain your strength. You may yet serve me again—if your flesh doesn’t rot off first.”

Zahur vanished with a pained grunt, leaving only a wisp of ash in his place.

Keraptis turned to the shadows. He extended his palm to summon an orb from the dark—a scrying sphere that pulsed with violet lightning. Within it flickered the image of the adventurers, deep in the bowels of the tomb.

“They’ve reached the false crypt,” he muttered, lips curling. “Perfect.”

He moved to a cabinet built into the wall behind the throne. Ancient artifacts pulsed with restrained power—each one more cursed than the last. He pulled forth a single amulet, a twisted, living thing of black sinew and red gem. He slipped it around his neck.

Keraptis’s thoughts sharpened.

Raven.

He would not make the mistake of underestimating a god again. Their last meeting had ended in stalemate, but Keraptis had since grown wiser. Angrier. And far more prepared.

If a second meeting occurred, diplomacy would be poisoned by threats and shrouded in contingencies. He would offer Raven a deal he could not refuse—or destroy him for good.

But first, the trespassers would face the wrath of the tomb.

Keraptis extended his hand once more, weaving incantations through the air. The tomb trembled in response, old traps awakening like sleeping dragons, new illusions forming from the dust of ancient bones.

He whispered a single word in a long-dead tongue.

“Begin.”

Tessa ‘Quickfingers’ Vell was the first to sense it—just before the others. A tremor. A silence deeper than silence. The hairs along her forearms rose as she pressed her hand to the stone near the trapdoor. She slid her palm sideways, found the hidden catch, and with a delicate click, a narrow passage opened.

"New door. Must’ve missed it earlier," she whispered to the group.

"You? Miss a door?" Bran ‘Brick’ McGraw teased from behind her, his voice low but warm, a little strained from grief. His tone made her heart flutter despite everything. "Is this your first mistake? Should we commemorate the occasion?"

She offered him a sidelong smirk. "Keep talking and I’ll let you walk into the next pit trap."

They exchanged a look—tender in the shadows—before Tessa led the group through the cramped, newly revealed passage.

It twisted like intestines beneath a dead god. The walls wept condensation, and the air tasted of rotted silk and forgotten breath. They descended a flight of stairs, each step groaning beneath armored boots and leather soles. Ahead, a faint shimmer floated in the air.

"I don’t like this," muttered Kaela Virell, brushing tangled hair from her face. "I don’t like this one bit."

"Do we ever like anything in here?" quipped Kaelen Firebrand behind her, trying to maintain levity—though it faltered in the thickening atmosphere.

They reached the top of a corridor shrouded in unnatural mist.

"It’s not just fog," Elowyn Mosswhisper murmured, her druidic senses tingling. "There’s something... conjured about it."

Tessa crept forward, hugging the wall. "Gas," she confirmed. "Some kind of fear-based effect... You breathe it in, and it scrambles your head."

Sir Cedric Lightbringer’s gauntleted fist tightened. "We push through. Breathe shallow. Hold your breath if you can. We’re too deep now to run."

Thog Skullsplitter nodded and adjusted the weight of Whelm on his back. He hadn’t quite figured out how to make the dwarven weapon work for him, but he carried it with a reverence only he understood. The death of Marcus still lay heavy on his shoulders.

They entered the corridor.

Elric Duskwind coughed first. "Gods... it's like my lungs are filling with screams."

A haze of orange light crept up from the floor, thick and alive. One by one, they began to tremble—panic licking at their minds. Lira Valesong fumbled with her lute, her hands betraying her skill. Even her magic, so often their salvation, seemed hesitant to answer.

Kaela was the first to break.

She gasped and dropped to her knees, eyes wide and unseeing. "It’s him! He’s here! The Lich! He’s right behind us—he’s—"

Kael the Ember-Eyed grabbed her, shaking her shoulders. "It’s in your head, Kaela! It’s not real!"

But her screams became feral and raw. She turned and ran blindly back up the stairs.

"NO!" Kael shouted, sprinting after her. Thalia Emberbranch tried to block their path, but the panic spread like wildfire.

Theron Blackroot stood still in the gas, a dark silhouette against the orange haze. Blackrazor pulsed faintly at his side—feeding off the fear. Whispering. Chuckling.

Sir Cedric clutched his holy symbol and forced himself to chant prayers against the rising tide of terror. "Rally! Gods above, rally to me!"

Elowyn dropped to her knees, clutching her chest. Thog wrapped an arm around her and half-dragged her forward.

Tessa didn’t falter. Her eyes darted along the walls, ignoring the shrieks and scuffles around her.

"There!" she called. "A door!"

She pushed it open and a new draft of stale, cold air rushed in, thinning the gas. The mist retreated like a living thing. A brief moment of clarity returned.

"Keep moving!" she ordered.

The group, ragged and shaken, stumbled into a narrow stairwell. Kaela and Kael did not return.

At the foot of the stairs, thick magical webs veiled their path like the flesh of a giant insect cocoon. Theron stepped forward, and with a whispered invocation and a flick of dark fingers, flames licked into the webs and burned them away.

They moved as one into the darkness beyond—each step heavier than the last.

TO BE CONTINUED...