The sun beat down like a hammer, casting harsh shadows across the scorched ruins of Ashvile. It was just past 3 PM, and the heat was suffocating. Shank and Elcos crouched behind a blackened tree, eyes locked on the village ahead. Raiders patrolled every street, their axes slung over their shoulders, their movements sharp and disciplined.
Elcos whispered, "We go now. Quiet. Fast."
Shank nodded. "Axes or not, they bleed like anyone else."
They moved.
The first raider stood alone near a collapsed wall, wiping sweat from his brow. Shank crept up behind him, silent as smoke. In one swift motion, he grabbed the raider's head and slammed it into the stone wall. The man crumpled, his axe clattering to the ground. Shank caught it before it hit the dirt.
Elcos signaled—two more ahead, walking side by side.
They waited until the pair passed beneath a hanging beam. Elcos leapt from above, landing on the first raider's shoulders and driving his dagger down into the man's collarbone. Shank rushed the second, swinging the stolen axe in a tight arc. The blade buried itself in the raider's side with a wet crunch. He gasped, staggered, and fell.
They dragged the bodies into the shadows and pressed on.
Near the central courtyard, a trio of raiders stood talking, their axes resting against a wall. Elcos picked up a loose stone and tossed it into a pile of debris. One of the raiders turned to investigate. As he stepped away, Shank lunged from behind a pillar, slashing his throat with a quick, brutal swipe. Elcos charged the remaining two. One reached for his axe—but Elcos was faster. He kicked the weapon away and drove his blade into the man's gut. The last raider swung wildly, but Elcos ducked, grabbed his arm, and snapped it at the elbow. The axe dropped. Elcos finished him with a clean strike to the neck.
They didn't stop.
At the rear of the house, a guard stood watch, axe in hand. Shank approached low and fast, tackling the man into the wall. The raider swung, but the blade glanced off Shank's shoulder. Shank gritted his teeth, grabbed the man's wrist, and twisted until the axe fell. He slammed the raider's head into the wall—once, twice—until he stopped moving.
They reached the rear window. Elcos climbed through first, then pulled Shank in behind him. Inside, the air was thick with heat and the coppery scent of blood.
They moved through the house, clearing each room with blades drawn. The silence was unnatural. The house was too clean. Too empty.
Then they found it.
A hidden door behind a scorched tapestry. Elcos pulled it aside, revealing a narrow stairwell spiraling downward into darkness.
Shank's voice was tight. "This is it."
They descended. At the bottom, a thick iron door stood slightly ajar. Elcos pushed it open.
The chamber beyond was vast. Chains hung from the ceiling. The floor was etched with glowing runes. In the center stood a stone platform surrounded by strange machinery.
Elcos stepped inside. "We found it."
Shank followed, eyes scanning the room. "But where's the prisoner? Where's the—"
CLANG.
The door slammed shut behind them.
They spun around. Iron bars dropped from the ceiling. The torches flared red. And then—the alarm.
A deep, resonating horn echoed through the chamber, followed by a shrill, rising wail. Above them, the sound of boots—dozens of them—rushed toward the chamber.
Shank's eyes widened. "They're coming. All of them."
Elcos's voice was cold. "They knew. They were waiting."
The floor trembled. The runes began to glow brighter, pulsing like a heartbeat. And from the shadows, a voice echoed—low, cruel, and amused.
"Welcome, Elcos. Welcome, Shank. You've come far… only to fall."The voice echoed through the chamber—not from any visible mouth or figure, but from the very stone itself. It slithered through the cracks in the walls, bouncing off the runes and chains, as if the chamber itself had learned to speak.
"Welcome, Elcos. Welcome, Shank. You've come far… only to fall."
Elcos's eyes darted across the room. The platform was empty. The chains hung unused. The altar bore no blood, no body. No Caural.
Shank stepped forward, blade raised. "Where is he?"
The voice returned, low and cruel. "You followed a ghost. A memory. A lie."
Elcos's breath caught. "No… I heard him. I saw—"
"You heard what we wanted you to hear," the voice hissed. "You saw what we allowed. Your brother was never here."
The runes on the floor pulsed brighter, casting a deep crimson glow across the chamber. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of burning herbs and something older—something foul.
Shank's face twisted in realization. "They lured us in. This whole place… it's a snare."
Outside the chamber, the sound of boots grew louder—dozens of them. Raiders, axes in hand, forming a ring around the sealed door. Their war cries rose like a storm, echoing through the stone.
"You're trapped," the voice said. "No escape. No rescue. Just the two of you… and the mountain's hunger."
Elcos turned slowly, his voice low and burning. "Where is Caural?"
A pause. Then the voice returned, colder than before. "Gone. Burned beneath the mountain. Screaming."
The torches flared violently. The runes began to shift, forming a new pattern—a seal. The chains above them rattled, as if stirred by something unseen.
Shank backed toward the center of the room. "They're not just here to kill us. They're here to finish something."
Elcos's jaw tightened. "Then we end it first."
But the chamber was alive now. The trap had been sprung. And above them, the raiders waited—chanting, circling, ready to descend.
The voice whispered one last time, almost tenderly.
"Die well, Elcos. Die knowing you failed him."