RAVEN'S GAMBIT

The chamber was lit by no sun, only the dim shimmer of shadowed feathers drifting in the air. Raven’s faithful knelt in a wide circle, cloaked in silence, eyes lifted to the obsidian dais where he appeared. His wings stretched outward, vast and jagged, blotting out the torchlight.

For the first time since his unbinding, he looked… satisfied.

“You came when I was bound,” he said, his voice rolling like thunder over broken stone. “You watched as I twisted the games of gods and liches alike. You bled, prayed, and offered me your laughter when the world denied me mine.”

He stepped forward, talons clicking against the stone. His eyes swept across them, merciless yet gleaming with something close to amusement.

“And now…” His beak curved into a cruel smile. “…the gambit is won.”

Deep beneath the molten veins of White Plume Mountain lay a chamber none had ever charted. A hollow carved not by mortal tools but by divine spite. Here, bound in chains of fire and bone, stood Raven—his wings pinned wide, his beak sealed by burning sigils.

He had laughed at first, mocking his captors. Keraptis and Acererak thought themselves clever, thought they had bound the Trickster God in their maze of traps and wards. For weeks Raven waited, whispering into dreams, tugging at the threads of fate.

But now… now the mountain trembled. Heroes stirred. Wards weakened. And Raven had grown tired of playing prisoner.

His eyes opened—black stars flaring in the dark.

“Your mountain,” he hissed into the stone itself, “is my cage no longer.”

Thog Skullsplitter bent low, his thick fingers trembling as he reached for the black feather lying in the dust where the mountain had been. The plume shimmered unnaturally, glowing faintly as if catching light that wasn’t there.

“Careful, Thog,” Cedric warned, his shield rising instinctively. “That reeks of power not meant for mortal hands.”

“When has that ever stopped him?” Tessa muttered.

The half-orc grinned with tusked defiance. “It is Raven’s gift. Whelm sings to me of loss—perhaps this feather sings of answers.”

He lifted it.

The group had searched for weeks, chasing rumors like smoke in the wind.

Theron Blackroot hurled a stone into the ravine, the clatter echoing like a jeer. “Nothing. No Raven. No sign. Just endless dirt and empty sky.”

“You’re frightening the poor rocks,” Tessa “Quickfingers” Vell teased, twirling a dagger. “What did they ever do to you? Unlike people, stones never lie.”

Theron’s eyes narrowed. “Give me a list of liars, thief. I’ll carve it into the next boulder I find.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she smirked.

Theron Blackroot stood atop the black stone landing platform of the Citadel, the void-light of the Astral Gate glimmering behind him like a wound in reality. His gaunt face was unreadable, but his hollow eyes shimmered faintly, filled with shadows that hadn’t left him since the encounter with Blackrazor.

As the battered survivors emerged from the gate—Sir Cedric, Thog Skullsplitter, Tessa Quickfingers, Elric Duskwind, and Elowyn Mosswhisper—he rushed forward with the rare urgency of someone who felt. And he embraced them.

"You made it," he breathed. “But you’re not all here.”

Sir Cedric shook his head solemnly. “Thalia… is gone.”

“And Lira vanished before the final chamber,” Tessa added. “She disappeared into nothing. Like vapor.”

The vault fell deathly silent, save for the high whine of pulsing energy ebbing from the jeweled skull as it slowly settled into dormancy once more. Thog held Elowyn to his chest, her breathing ragged but steady, the heat of Wave still pulsing faintly in her hands.

Tessa knelt by Thalia’s bow—split down the middle, run through with creeping black veins. Beside it lay only her cloak, empty. The vine-stitched fabric still twitched, as if touched by wind… though there was none.

“I saw her go,” Tessa whispered. “Just—light… then dust.”

Sir Cedric stood, splattered in ichor and dust, staring at the glittering remnants of the treasure strewn before them. The demilich’s gems no longer pulsed with soul-energy; the glow had bled out with Thalia’s sacrifice.

“It’s done,” Elric said quietly, voice hollow. “The trap’s been sprung. The construct’s fed. We were bait… and we lived.”

The ringing aftermath of the demilich’s scream still echoed in the vaulted chamber, clinging to the stone like rot on old bones.

Silence followed, broken only by the shallow gasps of the living and the gurgling collapse of the dead.

Thalia stood frozen, her bow clutched in pale fingers, knuckles white. Her breathing was erratic—fear, rage, disbelief. The silence where Lira should’ve stood was unbearable. There was no blood, no body. Just an absence. A final, cruel subtraction.

Sir Cedric placed a trembling gauntlet on her shoulder, a silent gesture that said everything his knightly pride could not voice aloud. Elowyn whispered a prayer to the old spirits, her voice hoarse and cracking. Tessa wiped blood from her eyes—her own, or someone else’s, she didn’t know.

"Where is it now?" Elric asked, looking to the dim corners of the chamber, arcane sight flickering like lightning behind his eyes. "It didn't…

Theron Blackroot stood at the edge of the stone scrying basin, his eyes fixed on the churning surface of the water. The image within flickered like a candle in storm winds — unstable, fragile, but vivid enough to show what he could not bear to witness.

Elowyn lay bleeding. Thalia whispered words not her own. Thog hurled Whelm with the wrath of an earthquake, and Lira Valesong — goddess damn her bold heart — turned to face the monster alone.

The pool shimmered.

And Lira was gone.

Theron’s hand tightened on Blackrazor’s hilt. The obsidian blade pulsed once. But that was all.

The thing that wore the efreeti’s skin smiled — but not with lips.

The jaw dislocated with a snap, unhinging in a way no mortal anatomy should allow. Rows of flame-dripping teeth split downward into the collarbone as the voice inside spoke through the widening cavity.

“Come closer, little heroes. Let me taste what centuries of fleshless silence has denied me.”

Sir Cedric swung his bastard sword with all the righteous fury he could muster. The blade screeched off the creature’s chest — not because it was tough, but because the air around it refused harm. His sword bounced off as if striking reality itself.

The possessed efreeti raised a finger, and Cedric froze mid-breath. Not paralyzed. Not stunned.

The first golem slammed its glaive into the stone just inches from Sir Cedric’s shield, and the shock of impact nearly tore the paladin’s arm from its socket. The metal groaned, his boots skidding across the floor as he braced himself, teeth bared, jaw clenched.

A second golem lifted Elowyn off the ground with one massive iron fist — not even striking her, just gripping. Her breath caught as her ribs compressed. Her legs kicked uselessly in the air, and for a moment, her eyes dimmed.

Thog roared and crashed into the construct’s side like a battering ram, Whelm sending cracks through its torso. “Put her DOWN!”

It did — by hurling Elowyn across the vault. She hit a chest with a sickening crunch, slid to the floor, and didn’t rise.

“Elowyn!” Lira cried out, scrambling to her side.

The grinding sound did not stop.

From across the vault, each of the four iron statues twitched — not fluidly, but with harsh, jarring clicks, like oversized clockwork toys forced back into motion after centuries of silence.

Then they moved again.

Thud.

Thud.

The party stood in tense silence before the wall, each breath misting faintly in the stagnant, chill air of the chamber. The scent of ancient dust and scorched ozone lingered. Lira Valesong, her fingers still twitching with residual magic from the last chamber’s trap, stepped forward cautiously.

"There," she said, voice low, gesturing to a hairline crack in the wall. "There’s a door here. It's well-hidden."

Tessa ‘Quickfingers’ Vell knelt beside her, eyes glinting. “Aye… and a keyhole. Fancy stonework too. This isn’t just a door—it’s a vault.”

Sir Cedric Lightbringer unslung his shield and took position beside Thog Skullsplitter, both ready for whatever fresh madness waited on the other side.

Lira produced the golden key they’d taken from the statue chamber and gently eased it into the narrow slit.

The heavy doors groaned open with an echo that seemed to swallow time itself.

They stepped into a room that glimmered with deceptive grandeur—ivory and gold tiles gilded the walls, and polished agate paved the floor like a mosaic of secrets. The silvered ceiling reflected their wary faces, distorted by the curved metal like warped memories of who they used to be.

Each corner of the chamber held a black iron demon—massive, monstrous statues, forged in fury and frozen in poses of destruction. In the center, a massive granite sarcophagus bore the name:

ACERERAK.

Between them, like offerings to a terrible god, sat two iron chests—scarred, ancient, and defiant. And from a filigreed bronze urn issued a thin, curling tendril of smoke, its stopper sealed in place with hardened gold.

The crown sat alone upon the obsidian throne, its golden frame gleaming in the eerie stillness of the chamber. Light bent strangely around it, casting no shadow.

Sir Cedric stepped forward, then paused. “We don’t take it,” he said firmly.

“No?” Lira asked, one brow arching. “I thought kings liked crowns.”

“I’m no king. And that thing is cursed,” Cedric replied. “Elric?”

The wizard nodded, peering intently. “Overwhelming transmutation magic. Evil, no doubt. It grants certain advantages within this chamber—but at a price. The crown cannot leave this place. Worse, it binds the wearer to the throne unless the scepter is used to release them.”

The air was heavy as the heroes left the desecrated chamber of the mummy lord, the smell of dust and old decay still clinging to their cloaks. Elowyn gave one last glance to the broken urns and scattered wrappings behind them, Wave still in hand.

They reentered the Chamber of Pillars, careful not to brush against the cursed columns that loomed silently. Near the northern wall, close to the western corner and high on the ceiling, another devil face leered down at them — stone teeth bared in a mockery of laughter.

"Another one," Sir Cedric muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Same as the one that engulfed Theron. These must be markers. Warnings, maybe."

“Or invitations,” Thalia offered grimly, her short sword tapping lightly against her thigh. “Either way, I don’t trust them.”

They passed beneath the devil face and deeper into the hall. What waited ahead was… scorched ruin.

The air was thick with the copper tang of ancient decay.

They stood before the latest door in the corridor of illusions and traps—a squat stone slab with a brass ring glinting in soft, flickering blue light.

“I’m starting to hate magic doors,” Tessa muttered, absently fingering the hilt of her dagger.

Sir Cedric frowned, adjusting his grip on his longsword. “Stay sharp. This place reeks of death.”

Thog grunted in agreement, cracking his neck as Lira leaned close to whisper, “If it reeks of death, why do you look so at home?” Her smirk was met with a chuckle from Elowyn, though Thalia only rolled her eyes and nocked an arrow.

Theron Blackroot stalked through the obsidian corridors of the floating Citadel like a shadow cast in judgment. His boots echoed faintly against the metal-veined stone, every step drawing him deeper into the strange architecture of the place—elven in grace, infernal in purpose.

He had searched every floor, every alcove. No sign of Raven.

His grip tightened around the hilt of Blackrazor. The blade pulsed with unnatural hunger, its edge whispering for souls.

“We’ve searched every inch,” Theron muttered, frustration mounting.

"Not every inch," Blackrazor spoke aloud in his mind, a cold silk voice slithering through his skull. "There are hidden conduits of magic here… rooms folded in on themselves, bound by power you cannot yet wield."

The air grew damp as the next door groaned open on rusted hinges.

Thalia wrinkled her nose. “Smells like rot and regret.”

Light from Elric’s staff spilled into the gloom. The chamber beyond was choked in shadow, but the scent told the tale before their eyes could: mold, decay, stagnant water—and something older, crueler.

A shallow basin was set into the western wall. Murky water spilled over its cracked edge, forming puddles that seeped into the moss-covered floor. The bones of the fallen lay scattered—human, elven, maybe even dwarven—clad in rusted mail and disintegrating leathers.

Sir Cedric’s jaw tightened. “They died slowly.”

The door shimmered with violet and sickly green light as Sir Cedric stepped forward, one gauntleted hand hovering near the brass ring. His other gripped his longsword tightly.

“Remember,” he said quietly, voice echoing slightly in the sealed corridor, “don’t touch the pillars.”

“I know a pillar I’ll be touching,” Lira purred, throwing a wink toward Thog.

Elowyn groaned. “Seriously?”

Thalia rolled her eyes, muttering, “Mating rituals of the unwashed...”

The door groaned as the last makeshift barricade was wedged into place—Sir Cedric’s shield braced with a broken slab of masonry and wedged tight with Thalia’s composite longbow. Outside the small, square chamber, the Tomb of Horrors loomed silent and waiting. Inside, the surviving adventurers slumped to the floor, bone-weary and blood-slicked, adrenaline giving way to exhaustion.

Wave leaned against the wall, still dripping seawater across the floor beside Elowyn. Blackrazor was nowhere to be seen—along with Theron.

“We need rest,” Lira said, though her voice was raw. “Now.”

No one argued.

The room smelled of sweat, steel, and blood. The only light came from a dim cantrip Elowyn cast before collapsing against the far wall. Sir Cedric moved to her without hesitation, pulling her close. Their lips met in a familiar hush, and in a blink they were tangled together, kissing as though the world might end before morning—which,…

The red-tiled path split ahead of him like a forked tongue. One path turned to shadow and menace—a grinning devil’s face stretched across the mosaic wall at the corridor’s end. The mouth of the devil yawned in a void of darkness so perfect it seemed to eat light itself.

Then, suddenly, a whump echoed in the passage.

Theron came flying out of the gaping mouth like a bullet loosed from a sling. He hit the cold stone with a grunt and rolled once, twice, then again, Blackrazor clanging wildly beside him with each tumble. Finally, he came to a groaning stop, flat on his back and blinking hard against the swirling haze of disorientation.

“Ugh…” he muttered, propping himself up on his elbows. “Well… that sucked.”

He looked back toward the grinning devil’s face, its mouth still as lifeless and empty as before. Not a single mote of light came…

The silence in the corridor was almost respectful, as if even the walls mourned the latest loss. Bran was gone, and though they'd claimed vengeance on the juggernaut, the weight of grief still dragged at their steps.

Tessa's keen eyes darted along the stonework. She paused beside a slight crack, pressing gently until a soft click echoed. A narrow opening yawned before them, leading into a winding cavern that smelled of ancient dust and secrets.

“Found something,” she whispered.

The passage twisted and squeezed around them like the gullet of some great stone beast. Eventually, it deposited them into another corridor—this one smooth and meticulously carved. At its end stood a door unlike any before: forged of gleaming alloy with massive reinforced hinges, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected their battered forms.

Three narrow slots, vertical and cold to the touch, were set waist-high.

The trap was set.

A narrow choke corridor flanked by jagged outcroppings led into a bowl-shaped cavern with a natural overhang. Vines and thorny growths now pulsed along the rim under Elowyn’s guidance.

Carved arcane sigils burned dimly in the stone, the fruit of Theron’s scroll and Cedric’s divine touch. Overhead, Lira had rigged explosive crystal charges in natural seams, packed with powdered copper and Elowyn’s flammable sap. Tessa placed the final bait herself:

Bran’s tattered brown hat.

It lay in the dust, slouched and proud like its owner. The juggernaut would recognize it. Of that, they were certain.

The golden mist had thinned after the Crypt Chanter’s death, swirling listlessly at their feet like an afterthought. The cavern beyond was quiet—too quiet—its ceiling lost in shadow, walls veined with faintly glowing minerals like a dying heartbeat.

They’d cleared the siren’s old lair, slain the impostor, and patched what wounds they could. But they hadn’t spoken much. Not since Brick.

A small fire crackled at the center of their resting site—an alcove shielded from both mist and noise, discovered by Lira with sharp eyes and a bloodhound’s instincts. Thalia lay wrapped in Elowyn’s traveling cloak, unconscious but stable. Elric stirred occasionally, his breathing shallow but improving.

Thog sat like a stone statue at the edge of the alcove, Whelm across his lap, his massive hand resting gently on the warhammer’s pommel. He hadn’t said a word since dragging Tessa away from the corridor.

Lira crouched nearby, arms wrapped around…

The sound was unbearable—stone on stone, crushing and echoing, an avalanche that had found its voice. The juggernaut’s wheels roared like thunder in a sealed canyon, each turn of its monstrous mass shaking the corridor.

Tessa coughed, stumbling as she tried to drag Thalia, who remained insensate from the mist. Her breath hitched. Her legs buckled.

“I’ve got her!” Bran shouted.

Tessa spun. “No—Bran, you can’t carry both of us—”

“Then go!” he barked, slinging his Colt back into its holster and heaving Thalia over his shoulder in one practiced motion. “I’ll be right behind you!”

The double doors loomed at the end of the passage like the closed lids of some vast stone eye. Unmoving. Watching.

Sir Cedric’s gauntlet glinted faintly in the wan magical light emanating from Elowyn’s trident, Wave. “These are different,” he muttered, running his fingers along the smooth iron-braced edges. “Hinges swing both ways.”

Elric leaned in, eyes narrowed. “That’s not normal. Either it’s meant to let something through quickly… or trap us.”

Bran knelt, examining the seam where stone met door. His revolver rested beside him on the flagstones, the matte black barrel reflecting none of the lantern glow. “No trap trigger I can find. But this smell… you catch that?”

Thalia sniffed the air and frowned. “Dust. Old stone. But something under it—metallic. Sweet. Like... nectar left too long.”

The hidden corridor behind the ruined funereal chamber was narrow, the walls close and damp with age. Moss glittered faintly in patches, catching the light of Elowyn’s staff as the party moved single-file, deeper into the tomb’s forgotten arteries.

Tessa ‘Quickfingers’ Vell led the way, dagger in one hand, the other brushing lightly along the stone wall. The corridor finally widened, and the rogue paused at the edge of a broad archway, waving the others to stillness.

“What in all the Realms…” she whispered.

Before them lay a chamber cloaked in swirling silvery mist, shot through with slow-dancing streamers of gold. The haze glowed as if lit from within, the swirling beauty both mesmerizing and ominous.

“Do you hear that?” Lira Valesong tilted her head, her Elven ears catching the faintest sound—a melody, haunting and wordless, threading through the mist like silk.

“Not all graves are empty.”

The stone corridor was silent but tense as the party followed Tessa ‘Quickfingers’ Vell deeper into the unknown. The rogue pressed a gloved hand against the moist, mildew-covered wall, pausing at a subtle seam in the stonework. She grinned. “Secret door. Here.”

Thog Skullsplitter grunted approvingly. “Good eyes, mouse.”

The narrow stairwell beyond plunged deeper than they had expected—carved from blackened limestone slick with condensation. The party descended carefully, torches sputtering and steel clinking. At the bottom, the air grew cold, and their steps slowed as the corridor widened into a strange hallway.

A 30-foot-long pit yawned ahead of them, 10 feet deep and studded with rusted metal spikes. Elowyn Mosswhisper muttered, “It’s not just a trap—it's a lure. Someone made this look worse than it is.”

The echo of their footsteps followed them like ghosts as the surviving members of the party crept back to the corridor marked before their strange and solemn night of rest. The group moved with practiced silence, wary now of what new horrors Keraptis might unleash from the shadows. Theron Blackroot led, Blackrazor humming low in his hand, its presence growing heavier, as though feeding on anticipation.

"I think we’ve all earned a little vacation after this," Bran muttered with dry humor. He kept his hammer across one shoulder and glanced sidelong at Tessa, who gave a quiet smirk.

The corridor twisted once, then again, before ending at another solid stone door. Elowyn’s hand brushed against its surface, her fingers tensing. Wave pulsed with a cool rhythm on her back like an ocean heartbeat.

“Locked?” Thalia asked, brushing aside a curtain of ash-blonde hair. The tension was thick, but her eyes…

The cursed tomb swallowed them again. Dusty corridors, ancient stones, and a silence so oppressive it felt like a scream held in a thousand throats. But now, something else stirred—something old, watching.

Theron walked at the rear, shadowed by the obsidian blade clutched in his hand. Blackrazor no longer hummed; it throbbed, each pulse like a heartbeat echoing in his veins.

It had begun to speak—not with words, not even in his mind—but in will.

Every time he looked at his companions, especially when they bled or weakened, he could feel it... urging him.

Take their soul. Feed me.

After the harrowing encounter with the false Acererak, the shattered party limped their way back to the chapel. No one spoke of Kaela, Kael, or Kaelen. Their names hung unspoken in the misty air, too sacred—or too painful—to break the silence.

The golden couch had been discarded. The relics looted. The shattered mace lay forgotten near the ashes of the vanished lich. Tessa had carefully marked the location of the last remaining secret door. But for now, their only priority was rest.

In the gloom of the temple chamber, the pews became makeshift bedding. Bandages were wrapped, salves were spread, and what little healing remained was carefully rationed among the wounded. No one emerged unscathed. Every breath carried the weight of loss.

But in the darkness, humanity remained.

Tessa ‘Quickfingers’ Vell reached out to Bran ‘Brick’ McGraw, her hand brushing his along the pew’s edge. Their eyes met. No words…

Keraptis turned from the chained god, his robes hissing like serpents across the obsidian floor of the prison. The portal pulsed behind him, an ever-watching eye that tracked the dwindling flame of Raven’s champions in the Tomb of Horrors. His back to the god, he whispered incantations, binding chains of light tighter with each pass of his fingers.

Raven sagged slightly in the bindings. They burned, yes—but he had endured worse. The pain wasn’t what weakened him.

It was the silence.

The voice—the divine connection to his chosen—was muted. He could still feel them. Like flickers of candlelight in the far corners of a darkened house. But he could no longer reach them. No longer whisper warnings, no longer lace their dreams with hints or guide their instincts. It was like watching them balance on a blade’s edge, blindfolded and bleeding.

And yet… he smiled.

Keraptis sat in silence, the air around him dense with latent power. His scrying pool rippled with afterimages of fire and shadow. Zahur the Flame-Sworn had been tended to and dismissed, his wounds scabbed by flame and soot. Now, only the crackle of arcane wards and the slow ticking of time remained.

The chamber was not of this world—a fold between reality and the arcane. Glyphs pulsed along every surface. Keraptis stood slowly and approached the blackened altar in the center, placing his hand over an obsidian relic.

"Come, Raven," he whispered. "Let us parley."

The name alone summoned a breeze of divine consequence. Shadows bent. Light flickered. And then he appeared.

Raven materialized in a swirl of violet smoke and moonlight, a figure draped in midnight-blue robes, his eyes like wells of starlight.

The smell of ash and damp rot greeted them at the bottom of the stairs. The last tendrils of conjured mist clung to their boots like frightened children refusing to let go.

They stepped into a chamber dressed in decay.

The crypt was a mausoleum of forgotten opulence. Ancient rotting divans sagged beneath mold and dust, shattered chairs sat like broken bones around the room’s edge, and scraps of once-splendid tapestries clung to stone walls like the shedding skin of something old and angry. In the center, perched with an uncanny pride, was a couch gilded in the thinnest layer of gold leaf, glinting like a false sunrise in the gloom.

And on it… lay a corpse. Wrapped in ornate funerary linens, a gold crown resting askew on its mummified brow. A jade coffer rested reverently at the foot of the couch, as though it were a tribute—or a trap.

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.”

The new corridor loomed before them, a yawning passage shaped like a cone and filled with a wedge of unmoving stone—massive, ancient, and deliberately foreboding.

The group pressed on, descending the cracked stairwell beyond the passage and entering a westward-leading hallway, tension thick as the crypt dust that clung to every surface. Tessa crouched low, her gloved fingers ghosting across the stones as her eyes narrowed.

“Hold,” she whispered, then again, louder. “Hold!”

Before them, three separate points in the floor looked innocuous. Ordinary, even. But to her trained eye, they were death.

“Trapdoors. Three of them. Old but active. Just give me a moment.”

Marcus was fuming.

“None of you,” he growled, glaring at the collection of wizards, sorcerers, and mystics, “have anything that can undo this?! Nothing?! Not even a bloody scroll?!”

Elowyn shrugged helplessly. “My magic is druidic, not... whatever that was.”

Kaela Virell offered a sheepish smile. “Transmutation reversal requires a wish spell or… divine intervention.”

“Divine intervention?! You want me to pray my balls back?!”

The crawlspace seemed endless.

Their hands scraped along stone polished smooth by time and repetition. Their breath grew shallow. Joints ached. Sweat beaded. Crawling single file in choking silence, every minute felt like a lifetime.

“I swear this thing curves back on itself,” Khopesh muttered.

“You don’t breathe,” Tessa replied, muffled, “so don’t complain.”

Theron chuckled softly. “Says the rogue who’s been in front for an hour.”

They rested in silence, a silence so thick it felt like the dungeon itself was holding its breath.

No one spoke of Seren’s death. Not yet. Not here.

The only sound in the chamber was the soft rasp of cloth on skin as wounds were bound with scraps of linen and whispered apologies. The party was battered. Their healer was gone. Their hope felt worn thin.

Theron Blackroot sat apart from the group, his back against a cold stone wall. Before him, laid across his knees, was Blackrazor—no longer the eerie relic of myth, but now a strange and seductive companion.

The blade gleamed like a window into a starless void. Not empty. No. Alive. Pinpricks of starlight shifted beneath its obsidian surface like distant suns pulled into a slow, infinite spiral.

The chamber of spheres pulsed with tension as the two remaining efreeti—Zahur the Flame-Sworn and Rashoon of the Searing Grasp—stepped out of the mist-filled archway, just as the party emerged from the northern crawlspace.

Both sides froze.

Weapons were held tighter. Spells were readied silently. Eyes narrowed across the vast, echoing chamber, where painted beasts watched from stone.

"Well," Zahur rumbled, flame licking his shoulders. "It seems fate brings us together at last."

Sir Cedric stepped forward, shield raised, visor lowered. "Your kind has stalked us long enough."

When the plane shift ended, Zahur the Flame-Sworn and Rashoon of the Searing Grasp emerged into absolute darkness.

Gone were the crumbling stone corridors and flaming weapons of battle. In their place: a 10-foot-square iron cell, the air stale and unmoving, a century’s worth of dust settled thick across the floor.

The only features in the cubicle were three iron levers, each about a foot long, jutting from one wall like accusing fingers.

Zahur, still in his full efreeti form, pressed a hand to the ceiling and walls, frowning. “No exits. No light. No honor.”

Rashoon, eyes glowing faintly, muttered, “This feels like a trap Keraptis would set for a friend.” He waved a hand—no arcane shimmer of a doorway, no secret glyphs revealed by simple magic.

A breath of air, like wind over still water, curled through the chamber of spheres.

Raven, far away in the Citadel, spoke not aloud, but into the very minds of the adventurers—his quiet, warning whisper riding a thread of arcane energy only they could sense:

“The efreeti are close. I cannot touch you. But I can speak.Keraptis wants his relics back—preferably with you wielding them…As his slaves.”

Then, silence.

The entire party paused. No one spoke. No one dared.

The remaining six efreeti returned to the room where Sulkar the Ash-Hunter and Zayid the Brand-Bearer had fallen. The shattered remains of the four-armed gargoyle still lay where they’d left them, chunks of stone and glistening dust scattered like grim confetti across the ground. The air was still heavy with the scent of scorched magic and blood.

Zahur the Flame-Sworn knelt before the remains, his expression grim. “Their sacrifice will not be forgotten,” he growled.

Velharr the Smokecaller reached down and pried a gem-studded collar from the rubble, brushing dust from its polished surface. Ten blue quartz stones gleamed in the light, each worth a hundred gold by appearance alone.

“What’s this?” Rashoon of the Searing Grasp asked, his ember-lit eyes narrowing.

Velharr turned the collar and found a hidden latch. With a hiss of pressure and old magic, it popped open to reveal a scrap of parchment etched in…

“I’d save the thick misty doorway for last,” Tessa muttered, eyeing the swirling magical arch at the far end of the hall of painted spheres. Her voice echoed softly in the vast chamber, half-lost among the strange symbols and faded murals that still seemed to breathe with ancient malice.

Sir Cedric nodded, his plate armor creaking softly. “Agreed. I don’t trust a door that hides itself behind a cloud.”

As the group regrouped near the center of the hall, Khopesh ran his fingers lightly along the wall near a painted minotaur. “Here,” he rasped. “The stone is false.”

Another crawlspace.

Once more, the adventurers ducked into a tight, claustrophobic tunnel. It sloped down slightly and then turned sharply before opening into a long-forgotten chamber.

The blasted air shimmered with heat as five efreeti stood within a pocket of the Elemental Plane of Fire, their figures flickering against the endless blaze. The remaining three—Zahur the Flame-Sworn, Kazem the Flame-Tongue, and Velharr the Smokecaller—had just arrived via Plane Shift, the tension boiling off them hotter than the fires around them.

Zahur’s eyes glowed like molten metal as he turned to face the others. His voice, deep and commanding, echoed with fury.

“You abandoned the mission.”

Ifraka the Ember-Skinned bristled, crossing his muscled arms.

“We assessed the threat—”

Blackrazor hungered.

Though it lacked a voice, it whispered. Though it had no eyes, it watched. Though it could not move, it waited. It was a weapon of darkness, of ambition, of devouring. But it was clever too—dangerously clever.

Khopesh, its current bearer, was a problem.

Undead.

A mummy. Immune to its whispers. Resistant to its charm.

The chamber stood silent, its emptiness broken only by the presence of three large chests—one gleaming gold, one silvery and cool in the dim light, and the last a sturdy banded oak box that looked as if it had withstood a century of storms. Each was bolted firmly to the floor, as if daring adventurers to test their luck.

“There are three chests, each different,” Sir Cedric mused, looking around the room with narrowed eyes. “Is there anything else here?”

Tessa didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes scanned the northern wall. “There’s a secret door,” she whispered. “Looks like the only other entrance or exit. This might actually be a good place to rest. Two entrances, both hidden. Defensible.”