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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.”

Sir Cedric nodded. “Let’s check the chests first. Then we rest.”

The group tensed, weapons drawn and spells readied, as Tessa approached the golden chest. Her slender fingers moved quickly across the…

Tessa moved with practiced care, leading her companions single file through the narrow crawlspace. Each movement was deliberate, her sharp eyes scanning the cramped tunnel for traps or hidden passages. Her fingers grazed a seam overhead, and she halted. A hidden plug. She tapped the tunnel wall and whispered behind her, “There’s something above us. A plug, maybe an exit. Sir Cedric, you’ll suffocate in that tin can if we don’t get you out of this crawl soon.”

Sir Cedric, armor-clad and groaning with the effort of crawling, muttered, “I’d praise the heavens if this leads to anywhere I can stand.”

One by one, they climbed out of the cramped tunnel into a bare chamber. It was quiet, almost unnervingly so. In the center of the room were three ornate chests—one gold, one silver, and one oak reinforced with bronze bands.

Sir Cedric stretched and cracked his back. The movement…

Tessa moved beside Lira, heart pounding in her chest as the lingering sensation of déjà vu refused to fade. She crouched low, brushing dust and debris aside, and her fingers traced a faint seam in the stone.

“There’s definitely a trapdoor,” she whispered, confirming what her instincts had already screamed.

She wedged small shims along the edges to prevent it from springing open. Then, with delicate precision, she chipped away at the nearby stucco. The work was slow, but her hands moved with strange certainty. A thin vertical crack emerged—a hidden door.

“It was all true,” she muttered aloud, disbelief coloring her voice.

“Everything.”

The corridor was cloaked in a silence so absolute; it smothered even the sound of breath. Tessa ‘Quickfingers’ Vell leaned in, her ear pressed gently to the old wooden door that loomed at the end of the passage. She held up a hand—nothing. Then, with a flick of her fingers, she signaled: unlocked.

Sir Cedric Lightbringer nodded grimly, adjusting his grip on his masterwork bastard sword. Beside him, Thog Skullsplitter grunted and hefted his greataxe. Together, the armored knight and the half-orc barbarian pushed the door open.

They didn’t even have time to scream.

A grotesque roar exploded from the darkness—a mutated, four-armed gargoyle, twisted and stony-skinned, wings spread wide despite the narrow confines. Its horned head snarled like a demon, and each of its four hands ended in talons like obsidian daggers. Around its thick neck, a collar gleamed, set with grotesquely large gems that shimmered with unnatural light.

In seconds,…

Thalia Emberbranch lowered herself carefully into the spike-filled pit, guided by rope and steady hands above. Tessa ‘Quickfingers’ Vell kept a watchful eye, ensuring that no further traps triggered as her ally descended.

"Lira deserved better," Thalia muttered as she maneuvered around the bloodied spikes and reached the broken form of Lira Valesong.

As she tied a sturdy loop around the bard’s waist for retrieval, her eyes caught the glint of something half-buried among the debris—a pair of slender goggles, covered in dust and grime. Curious and cautious, she pocketed them quickly, saying nothing to the others above.

Tessa waited tensely, calling down, “Ready?”

“Bring her up,” Thalia responded, climbing out behind Lira’s lifeless form.

They began as sixty-nine.They returned from White Plume Mountain as ten.

Now, reborn, reforged, and reforgiven—they stood again as fourteen.

Sir Cedric Lightbringer trudged through the marsh, every footfall in his heavy plate armor sinking deep into mud, reeds, and stagnant pools. The clank of steel echoed with each effortful stride. Armor like his was not made for terrain like this. He knew it. They all knew it. But still, he wore it—for honor, for penance, for purpose.

He was not supposed to be alive.

Twice, fate had chosen him for resurrection.

The clang of steel echoed in the armory chamber of the Citadel as Sir Cedric Lightbringer stood before an ancient bronze mirror. He stared at his reflection, no longer a phantom but flesh, blood, and burden.

The enchanted full plate armor was as cumbersome as he remembered—dense, heavy, and awkward in the shoulders—but it was his. With methodical reverence, he fastened the straps and belt buckles, tightening leather until his form was sealed in radiant metal. He hung a masterwork bastard sword and longsword at his hips, and slung a heavy steel shield across his back. Lastly, he lifted the enchanted heavy mace, the head of which bore the symbol of a sunburst wrapped in thorns.

"I won’t waste this opportunity," Cedric whispered, his voice steady with purpose.

Across the chamber, Tessa ‘Quickfingers’ Vell suited up in sleek masterwork studded leather armor, admiring the mobility it offered. She ran a hand along the length of…