In the depths of the dungeon, five figures stood amidst the crushing dark. The air hung thick and unmoving, as if the shadows sought to choke the life from them. Every breath, rustle of cloth, and shift of boot against stone echoed unnaturally loud, swallowed instantly by the suffocating silence.

  Before them loomed an imposing gate, its towering frame etched with shimmering runes—glowing deep crimson with hints of black. Its eerie radiance pulsed, as if yearning to consume the darkness with something far more sinister.

  Its surface bore murals depicting a woman of pure innocence, her delicate hand raised in prayer. The image might have been ethereal—divine, even—if not for the grotesque abominations surrounding her. Twisted figures clung to her form, their writhing bodies lost in a profane orgy, defiling her sanctity.

  The five figures stood motionless, hearts tightening with unspoken dread. Merely witnessing the mural felt like an act of blasphemy—an intrusion upon something forbidden.

  At the front, Ishar finally broke the silence, his voice dry and low.

  "That isn't the virtue of purity, is it?"

  No one answered.

  Ishar shifted his weight, fingers briefly clenching before relaxing at his side. A strange unease settled in his chest—not fear, not quite—but something quieter. Subtler.

  The runes on the gate pulsed again, and for the briefest moment, he thought his breath fell into rhythm with them.

  His gaze flicked toward the mural, to the woman's outstretched hand. A trick of the dim light made it seem almost inviting.

  Kael shifted, clearing his throat. "Don't let this get to you. If the zealots hear we've seen this, they'll have us hanged for blasphemy."

  A shudder ran through the group, a silent understanding settling. None of them needed to say it aloud, but the warning was clear. They'd seen something forbidden. Something dangerous.

  Ishar exhaled, shaking off the thought. Just the atmosphere getting to him. Nothing more.

  Lyria stepped forward, hesitant at first. Her fingers hovered over the runes, trembling for the briefest moment before she steadied herself, tracing the symbols with careful precision.

  Ishar pulled a bottle from his bag, tilted it back, and took a slow, deliberate gulp. The sound echoed, sharp and jarring, an intrusion against the suffocating silence.

  "This place is a mess," he muttered, giving a dry chuckle that sounded too loud. "When we're done here, we should drink 'til we forget any of this happened."

  No response.

  Lyria's fingers hesitated, just for a second, before continuing their tracing. Kael exhaled slowly through his nose, his grip shifting slightly on his sword. Rudrik gave a faint chuckle—short, like he wasn't sure if he should be laughing. Vael adjusted her gloves, movements smooth, deliberate.

  Ishar's gaze flicked between them. The way they stood, the way their shoulders tensed just a little too much—they were acting like they were waiting for something. Or dreading it.

  For what?

  He took another sip, letting the burn sit on his tongue, trying to shake the feeling crawling at the back of his mind.

  Vael shifted, drawing a quiet breath—

  Then stopped.

  The others turned to her, silent.

  Rudrik's gaze was unreadable. Kael's hand tightened around his sword. A small movement, almost absentminded—yet his knuckles were white.

  And then—

  She smiled.

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  Not her usual smirk, sharp and knowing, but a real smile—soft, sad, as if she wasn't sure when she'd be able to do this again.

  "Let's drink tomorrow."

  Ishar blinked.

  A joke? A promise? A lie?

  He didn't know.

  But for the first time since entering the dungeon—he felt cold.

  His thoughts flickered back to their journey here—Kael's restless pacing in the tavern, Vael standing before his house as if something weighed on her. The strange atmosphere before they'd set out, the odd tension that clung to them here, now amplified by Vael's smile.

  He wanted to shake his head, to snap out of it. He wanted to trust their years of camaraderie, their shared battles, the unspoken understanding between them. But doubt crept in, slow-working poison, like a devil's whisper.

  A low hum suddenly filled the chamber. The runes beneath Lysia's fingertips pulsed, bleeding crimson light into the gate's cracks. Stone groaned as unseen mechanisms rumbled to life, dust spilling from the frame.

  The gate parted, inch by inch, with a low, grinding protest. A wave of heat spilled out, thick and stifling—like the breath of something buried alive.

  The heat thickened as the gate groaned open, the passage yawning wide. Beyond it, a single torch sputtered to life, its crimson flame cutting through the suffocating blackness.

  Ishar hesitated at the threshold. It is just another dungeon, just another ruin.

  With a quick, almost impatient step, Ishar moved forward.

  As they stepped ahead, torches along the walls flickered to life one by one, their crimson flames unfurling like waking eyes. Each burst of fire cast twisting shadows across the stone, revealing the chamber inch by inch.

  As the light gave salvation to darkness, the horror struck.

  A sharp inhale. A muffled curse. Someone's boot scraped back against the stone, instinct overriding reason.

  Heads.

  Dozens of heads lined the chamber in grotesque display. Their mouths gaped in silent screams, eyes bulging, frozen in final moments of terror. Some were fresh, skin still slick with the last traces of warmth, while others had decayed into leering skulls, grinning through peeling remnants of flesh.

  From beyond the flickering torchlight, something stirred.

  It stepped forward with the deliberate grace of a king, its presence pressing down like the weight of an unspoken truth. The torches quivered in its wake, their crimson flames bending toward it in tribute.

  Its form was a paradox of beauty and terror—tall, statuesque, wrapped in obsidian and dusk. Muscles coiled beneath a surface both flesh and something far more unearthly, shifting between smooth darkness and glistening reflections of crimson light. Its limbs were too perfect to be human, too dreadful to be divine.

  A mantle of shadow clung to its back, unfurling like wings of liquid night. Golden veins traced its chest, pulsing like the slow beat of a heart too vast for mortal comprehension.

  And then, there was its face.

  No fangs, no maw—only the unsettling symmetry of beauty marred by something wrong. A mouth that did not move, yet whispered into the mind. Eyes like smoldering embers, holding no malice, no cruelty—only the weight of eternity.

  The heads that lined the chamber, once a pinnacle of horror, now seemed like mere ornaments in its presence. The air itself bowed to it, thick with reverence and fear.

  It raised a hand—long fingers ending in obsidian-tipped claws. The motion was fluid, almost gentle.

  The gesture was neither threat nor greeting. It was simply an inevitability.

  The air shifted.

  A flicker of movement—too fast, too close.

  Ishar barely had time to register it before his instincts screamed.

  Vael.

  The dagger flashed as she lunged—low, swift, like a predator striking without warning. But for just a moment, her gaze locked with his, and in that brief, fleeting second, something in her eyes faltered. There was no anger there. No rage. Just a flicker—something caught between regret and determination, something that seemed to question what she was about to do.

  Her blade gleamed with something slick, something green.

  [Skill: Sneak B]

  Ishar twisted, his hand already moving for his weapon. Instead of dodging, he moved straight into her attack. The dagger buried itself in his forearm, stopping inches from his ribs. His body lurched from the impact, but his gaze never wavered.

  For just a fraction of a second, she faltered.

  Her lips parted, not to curse, not to beg—but for something else, something unspoken.

  A flicker of something passed through her face—a breath that was almost too heavy to be real, a silent moment of conflict. The dagger, once so sure in her hand, wavered just slightly.

  Then, something flickered across her face. A breath. A hesitation. A choice.

  Ishar moved.

  His sword whipped through the air, a silver streak against the dark.

  [Skill: Silver Reversal C] Activated.

  Vael's breath hitched.

  The blade carved through her with effortless grace, cutting so fast the blood hadn't yet caught up.

  Her dagger slipped from her fingers. A half-step backward. A sharp inhale.

  And then, her knees gave.

  Ishar watched as she crumbled, her body folding like a marionette with its strings cut. A dull thud.

  For a fleeting moment, disbelief flickered in her eyes. But there was no scream. No rage. No final words.

  Just... something.

  Not quite fear. Not quite relief. Something else entirely.

  Then, her head fell with a wet thud.

  Silence claimed the chamber.

  Vael's body lay still.

  The others hadn't moved.

  Not Kael. Not Lysia. Not Rudrik.

  They just… stared. At him.

  Ishar exhaled, the taste of metal thick on his tongue.

  His body stood unmoving, mechanical, his grip tight on the sword as if he were part of the very stone around him. The blood on his fingers felt foreign, alien—too warm against his skin, too real.

  A single streak of blood traveled down his face, starting from his eyes and flowing slowly to his cheek.