Vallenport – Noble District

  The moonlight bathed the noble district in an ethereal glow, casting long, sharp shadows between the stone structures of Vallenport. Both moons, Lunaris and Noctis, hung fully in the sky, their pale beams illuminating the streets with a ghostly radiance.

  In the noble district, outside one of the oldest and most palatial estates a crest glowed in the moonlight – a golden wave crashing on the rocks. House Mariner, one of the oldest noble families of Vallenport.

  Beneath the gleaming surface of the estate was a secret: a hidden entrance. A forgotten tunnel beneath the old manor house. Behind a false wall, in the wine cellar.

  Elite guards, the same golden wave crest pinned to their chests, moved silently through the ancient corridor beneath the estate, their footsteps muffled on the cold floors.

  The air was thick with the smell of wood and dust. Behind the elite guards were: a team of Moonwardens, a secretive organisation of warriors, guards from other noble families – House Tidewell and House Stormridge. Both of those families allied by blood and coin.

  The Moonwardens, clad in flowing white robes with faceless white masks that resembled the moon, were a constant and enigmatic part of the upper echelons of Vallenport society. Their movements were fluid. Even their genders were hard to tell, all of them seeming to practice spells that turned them into these tall, skinny androgynous beings. They were the watchers.

  The team moved through the dim tunnels, lanterns casting flickering lights upon the alls. The Mariners, ever proud, wore tailored doublets, stepping arrogantly through the endless tunnels. But the depths of their descent had created a palpable sense of unease.

  The tunnel just kept going and going. It was at a downward slope, curving left and right randomly.

  Step after step. The air grew heavier with every step. A flickering light of the lanterns failing to reveal what lay ahead.

  A flicker of darkness in the far corner of a corridor shifted. The shadows shifted as though they were alive.

  The guards, being ever vigilant, drew their weapons.

  ‘Stay sharp,’ murmured the leader of House Mariner, his voice low and controlled. ‘We’re not alone.’

  The shadows rippled again, and this time, there was no mistaking it. Figures started to coalesce from the darkness, like ink spilling from a broken bottle.

  They formed perfect, mirror silhouettes of the team.

  Clones.

  The mirror images were almost indistinguishable from their real counterparts – right down to the giant glint of gold on the Mariners doublets, the gleam of steel in hands, and the swaying of the movements.

  The difference was that they were all white. Form head to toe. As if carved from marble.

  For a brief moment the team stood frozen, starting at their own reflections, unmoving. The silence was suffocating, thick with disbelief.

  With a sharp, sudden movement, the all-white clones struck.

  The battle erupted instantly.

  The echoes of steel ringing out through the narrow passages reverberating off the stone walls.

  The different teams all attacked using their standards spells. House Mariner was famous for their water and navigation magic and their spells reflected this. Their standard spells were [Tidal Surge], [Ebbing Mist] and [Aqua Tether].

  [Tidal Surge] was a powerful water based attack that could form waves of crushing force.

  [Ebbing Mist] was a defensive mist that absorbed damage.

  [Aqua Tether] was a spell that created a rope of water between two points, acting like a grappling line.

  The first blow came from a battle with the leader of House Mariner. His [Tidal Surge] was met by his clones [Tidal Surge]. His movements mirrored so exactly that he didn’t have any time to react. The clone had parried the strike with a sneer.

  All the people present were shocked. Some gasping as they realised the implications.

  This wasn’t a trick of the light. No simple illusions. These clones were alive. They were fighting them. Matching every move blow-for-blow.

  The clones and the House Mariner operated in unison. Pairs of [Tidal Surge]’s met with [Ebbing Mists]’s and caused chaos. Drowning out the environment.

  House Tidewell speciality was control of storms and lightning. Their offensive spell was [Thunderclap], defence was [Thunder Ward]. The thunder and water mixing also causing a lot of friendly fire.

  Desperation gripped the team as they tried to break the cycle. But the clones were too perfect. Every attack was countered.

  A scream echoed.

  The first member of the team fell. A member of House Mariner. Their own reflection driving a blade through their chest.

  As he fell his life force was absorbed by the shadow and the shadow grew a little more substantial. He shrivelled into dust and blew away in the winds of battle.

  The only ones to escape the chaos were the Moonwardens. Their speciality was illusion and shadow magic.

  Their offensive spell was [Shadow Spike], defence was [Shadow Veil] and their speciality was [Mirage].

  [Mirage] allowed them to control the situation. It let them cast illusions, creating duplicates of whatever they wanted: the caster, the opponent, the environment.

  They took advantage of the confusion. But so did their clones.

  It was clear that the clones were gaining the upper hand.

  Although the clones were identical, there was a difference in their attacks.

  In chess you can rate a move based on how close to mathematically perfect it is. From 1-100.

  If you were to rate the humans moves, they would be in the 60’s whereas the clones moves were in the 90’s. Their moves were much better.

  A first member fell, then a second, then a third.

  Each time the clones grew stronger, slowly gaining more colour. Their forms becoming more substantial, less ethereal as they fed on the life force of the teams.

  With each fallen warrior, the tension grew tighter and their hopes thinner.

  The captain of House Mariner had ceased to speak. His mind reeling with the difficulty of this trap.

  It was strange. It was as if these shadows had been waiting all this time to take advantage and to come alive.

  The final remnants of the battle settled. The dungeon grew silent. The last man alive was the captain of the Mariners.

  He was covered, head to toe in bloody scratches. He had ran out of magic, using his body and broken sword to parry.

  But he was surrounded and quickly fell. Finally being beheaded by his own clone.

  Then his form shrivelled into dust. The victorious clone also went from being insubstantial to becoming a fully coloured, fully realised copy.

  The dungeon grew quiet. The clones, looking at each other, then turning, picking up the torches, lights and weapons before quietly continuing on their way.

  ***

  Noble District, House Tidewell Library, Several Weeks Earlier

  The smell of old parchment and dust clung to the air in a noble library in Vallenport. Its towering shelves were lined with tomes and scrolls, some ancient enough to make the most seasoned scholar tread lightly.

  In a quiet corned of the room, under the dim flicker of a lamp, three elderly men sat at a large wooden table.

  One, Lord Aldric Mariner, a balding old weathered nobleman adjusted his spectacles as he examined a map of the city’s underground passages. The other, Lord Eryx Tidewell, tapped a silver cane on the floor.

  His blue piecing gaze fixed on the third figure across from them – a scholar of considerable renown, Professor Aldrel. He was an even more decrepit looking old man. Small and hunched. Looking but nothing but skin and bone. His scholarly robes were threadbare, the edges worn with time, and his hands trembled slightly as he leafed through a thick manuscript. Despite his apparent frailty, his eyes were as sharp as a blade.

  ‘The dungeon beneath House Mariner’s estate,’ Lord Aldric said, voice low, ‘has been a point of concern for generations. Yet none have dared approach it. Why now?’

  Professor Aldrel looked up from the manuscript, his pale eyes reflecting a quiet urgency. ‘Because, my lord, the shadows are about to emerge. They are a product of something far older, a power long forgotten, known only in whispers among the oldest texts.’

  Lord Eryx leaned forward, his curiosity piqued: ‘Ancient power? What are you speaking of Aldrel?’

  The scholar closed the manuscript with a sigh, his fingers brushing the spine as though it were something fragile. ‘The shadows are tied to Vallen’s Key – an ancient relic created by the first Vallen, a mage of such skill that he could manipulate the very fabric of reality. An [S-Class] Mage.’

  The two other men gasped at [S-Class].

  ‘The shadows you saw, those creatures, are not mere figments. They are echoes of those who fell prey to Vallen’s experiments. And the key... it binds them.’

  Lord Aldric’s brow furrowed. ‘A key? A key to what?’

  ‘To power, and to a gateway that has remained sealed for centuries. It was Vallen’s last great act: an attempt to unlock the core of shadow magic itself. He believed that by merging the shadow realm with our own, he could transcend death, could create an immortal empire of shadows. But the power consumed him. It consumed everyone who dared to try and master it.’

  Lord Eryx shook his head, disbelief creeping into his voice. ‘You mean to say these shadows are a result of some ancient experiment? What magic could possibly create such creatures?’

  The Professor nodded, opening another aged tome in front of him. ‘Shadow magic, as it is called, is not like any other form of magic. It is a manipulation of memory and identity, a dark mirror that reflects those who touch it. It copies the form and abilities of those it encounters, mimicking their movements, their skills, even their essence. But it is more than mere imitation.’ He paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper. ‘It feeds on the very life force of its victims. The more they take, the more real they become.’

  Lord Aldric leaned back in his chair, a troubled look crossing his face. ‘Is there a way to stop them?’

  ‘Ah,’ the scholar said, looking up with a glint in his eye, ‘that is where things grow interesting. Shadow magic has limitations. While it can replicate physical abilities, it is bound by the memories of those it copies. The shadows cannot think for themselves, and they cannot learn. They can only replicate. But they can grow stronger with each victory. The more they consume, the more they become real, and the harder they are to control.’

  ‘And how do we stop them?’ Lord Eryx asked, his tone grave.

  Professor Ardel hesitated, his fingers lingering over the pages of the book. ‘There is a weakness—Vallen’s Key. It holds the power to unlock the true source of the shadow magic. If you can find it, you can sever the connection between the shadows and their creator. It will render them inert, unable to replicate or grow. But you must act quickly. The longer they are allowed to feed, the more dangerous they become.’

  The room grew silent as the weight of the scholar’s words settled in. The two old men exchanged a knowing look, the reality of the situation sinking in.

  ‘You understand now, don’t you?’ Professor Ardel continued, ‘This is why the dungeon is so important. It is the heart of the curse, and the only way to stop it is to find Vallen’s Key before the shadows do.’

  ***

  The chamber was unlike the previous tunnels. It was a perfect dome carved from perfect dome carved form black obsidian, its walls gleaming with an inner light that seemed to flow rather than flicker.

  Ancient runes spiralled floor to ceiling in a pattern than made the eye dizzy if followed too long. At the centre stood a raised dais of white stone, untouched by the dampness that pervaded the rest of the dungeon.

  Lyra and Mira stepped through the archway, in perfect synch. Their crystalline armour shifting from azure to amber as they sensed the change in magical currents. Through identical in form and movement, subtle differences marked them apart. Lyra’s icy blue eyes scanning methodically while Mira’s forest green gaze darted with intuitive wariness.

  ‘The ambient magic is… different,’ Lyra whispered. Her voice echoing despite its softness.

  Mira nodded, completing her sisters thought: ‘Something is feeding on it.’

  They moved as one unit towards the dais, their armour adjusting to match the chamber’s bioluminescence – a defensive adaptation honed through centuries of elven crafting. The air grew thick, not with moisture but with potential, like the moment before lightning strikes.

  The first shadow came without warning.

  It stretched from behind a pillar, impossibly fast, a tendril of absolute darkness that seemed to consume light rather than merely block it. Lyra pivoted left as Mira turned right, their synchronization flawless as twin blades of crystalline energy formed in their hands.

  ‘Pattern Seven,’ Lyra murmured, already executing the first strike of the ancient elven combat form.

  The shadow split, fragmenting into a dozen smaller tendrils that darted around the chamber like frenzied serpents. Where they passed, the runes dimmed, their power siphoned away.

  Mira slashed through three shadows in rapid succession, her blade leaving trails of silver light that momentarily stunned the darkness. ‘They're drawing power from the stones,’ she called, ducking as a tendril lashed overhead.

  Lyra spun, her movements fluid and precise, a dance practised over decades of training. ‘Focus on the nexus points,’ she responded, striking at the place where several shadows converged.

  Their perfectly mirrored combat style had never failed them before. For centuries, the Starlight Twins had been unmatched on battlefields across the continent, their minds linked by magic as ancient as the forests of Lunathiel. But here, in this corrupted chamber, something interfered with their bond.

  A shadow, darker and more substantial than the others, surged between them. For the first time in battle, their synchronization broke.

  Mira stumbled, a half-step out of rhythm, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘Lyra—’

  Too late. The shadow enveloped her, dragging her toward the far wall. Their psychic link wavered, static replacing the crystal clarity they'd always shared.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Lyra's composure broke, her dispassionate battle focus giving way to genuine fear. ‘MIRA!’ Her voice echoed, amplified by the chamber's design.

  The shadows seemed to pulse in response, almost laughing.

  Mira fought within the darkness, her armor shifting rapidly through colours—crimson for danger, silver for defence, gold for power. Flashes of her blade cut through the shadow, but for every tendril severed, two more wrapped around her limbs.

  Lyra charged forward, abandoning the calculated strategy that had served them for so long. Her blade elongated, transforming into a spear of pure light that she hurled into the mass of darkness surrounding her sister.

  The shadow shrieked—a sound felt rather than heard, vibrating through bone and tooth. It loosened its grip just enough for Mira to leverage a desperate burst of energy, tearing herself free and rolling clear.

  But the victory was momentary. The shadows regrouped, circling the twins with predatory patience.

  ‘My token,’ Mira gasped, her hand flying to her belt where a small crystal shard—their key to the next chamber—had been secured. ‘It's gone.’

  Lyra's eyes narrowed, tracking the movements of the largest shadow. ‘There,’ she pointed. A faint glimmer betrayed the position of the stolen token, now embedded within the darkness itself.

  The chamber dimmed further as the shadows drew more power from the runes. Soon, visibility would be non-existent—even elven sight couldn't penetrate absolute darkness.

  ‘We need to adapt,’ Lyra said, her mind racing. The traditional patterns wouldn't work here. ‘Split formation.’

  Mira nodded, understanding instantly. For the first time in centuries, they would fight not as reflections of each other, but as complementary forces.

  They positioned themselves on opposite sides of the chamber, armor shifting to contrasting colours—Lyra's crystalline plates blazing white while Mira's darkened to deepest blue. The shadows hesitated, confused by this unexpected change.

  ‘On my count,’ Lyra called, her voice steady once more. ‘Three...’

  Mira crouched, blade transforming into a curved hook of energy.

  ‘Two...’

  Lyra raised her hand, light gathering between her fingers.

  ‘One...’

  They moved in perfect opposition—Lyra leaping high, unleashing a burst of blinding light that forced the shadows to condense, while Mira darted low, her hooked blade snagging the crystal token from the momentarily solid darkness.

  The shadows shrieked again, this time in unified rage. They abandoned caution, rushing toward Mira in a wave of consuming darkness.

  ‘Now!’ Mira called, tossing the token high into the air.

  Lyra caught it mid-descent, her armor flaring with protective energy. She slammed the crystal into a matching indentation on the dais, where it locked with an audible click.

  Light erupted from the centre of the room, radiating outward in a perfect circle that pushed the shadows back against the walls. They writhed, their substance thinning as the runes reactivated, glowing with renewed power.

  But Mira hadn't escaped unscathed. Where the shadows had touched her, the crystalline armor had dulled, turning ashen gray. She stumbled, one knee hitting the stone floor hard.

  ‘Mira!’ Lyra rushed to her sister, supporting her weight. ‘What did they do to you?’

  Mira managed a weak smile, though pain etched lines around her eyes. ‘They... feed on energy. Any kind.’ She flexed her hand, revealing a blackened patch spreading beneath her armor. "Even life force."

  The shadows continued to retreat, forced into the cracks between stones as the chamber's defences reasserted themselves. The token on the dais pulsed rhythmically, its light growing stronger with each beat.

  With a final flash, the shadows vanished completely, leaving only the clean, crisp scent of ozone behind. The obsidian walls lightened to reveal intricate murals—scenes of elven mages constructing the very dungeon they now traversed.

  Lyra helped Mira to her feet, concern evident in her usually stoic expression. ‘Can you continue?’

  Mira nodded, straightening with effort. ‘I must. The corruption here... it's not just dangerous to us.’ She glanced at the dais, where a doorway had appeared, leading deeper into the dungeon. ‘If these shadows escape...’

  ‘Then Vallenport will fall,’ Lyra finished grimly. ‘And the rest of the continent with it.’

  They moved toward the newly revealed passage, armor gradually returning to its synchronous state, though Mira's remained slightly dimmer than before. Behind them, they heard distant footsteps—the other groups were catching up.

  ‘They'll face the shadows too,’ Mira said, not slowing her pace.

  Lyra's expression hardened. ‘Let them. We need to reach Vallen's key first.’

  Together they stepped through the doorway, leaving the chamber behind.

  In the chamber they'd left, the shadows began to reform, darker and hungrier than before.

  ***

  Emberfist's voice echoed with frustration as they reached what appeared to be a solid wall of carved stone: ‘Another dead end?’

  Her gauntlets flickered brighter with her annoyance, casting long shadows across the narrow corridor.

  Tavalor shook his head, studying the wall with narrowed eyes. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘Not a dead end.’ His [Dragon Sight] revealed what the others couldn't see—faint traces of magic pulsing beneath the ancient stone, a current of power that had remained dormant for centuries.

  He pressed his palm against the central carving—a stylized eye surrounded by seven stars. The stone felt warm beneath his touch, almost alive. ‘There's something here.’

  Luneth appeared at his side, her sharp elven senses detecting subtle shifts in the air. ‘A concealment enchantment,’ she whispered. ‘Old magic.’

  With deliberate intent, Tavalor channelled a sliver of his draconic power into the carving. The stone responded immediately—the eye flared with brilliant blue light, and the wall began to recede, sliding silently into the floor to reveal an immense chamber beyond.

  ‘By the Two Moons…’ Emberfist breathed, her usual composure faltering as they stepped into the vast space.

  The chamber was colossal, its ceiling so high it disappeared into darkness. But what arrested their attention was the massive fresco spanning the entirety of the curved walls—a panoramic masterpiece that glowed with its own inner light, the colours still vibrant despite the passage of countless years.

  ‘It's... a history,’ Tavalor said, his voice hushed with awe. ‘The history of this world.’

  The fresco began with a depiction of a peaceful land—rolling hills, dense forests, and crystalline lakes populated by slender, ethereal beings that resembled elves but weren't quite the same. Their forms were taller, more luminous, their features both beautiful and alien.

  ‘The First Ones,’ Luneth whispered, recognition dawning in her eyes. ‘The ancestors of modern elves. But I've never seen images of them so... detailed.’

  As they walked slowly along the wall, the narrative of the fresco unfolded. The peaceful scene gave way to one of upheaval—the sky torn open by a blinding light, and from this breach emerged massive figures, their bodies like mountains, their armor gleaming with stars.

  ‘Giants,’ Emberfist said, her voice tight with disbelief. ‘Actual giants.’

  The next section depicted these giants teaching the First Ones, sharing knowledge symbolized by scrolls of light. The giants built towers that reached into the heavens, constructed networks of ley lines across the land, and created what appeared to be portals between worlds.

  But as they continued along the wall, the imagery grew darker. The giants began to change—their forms corrupted, twisted by some inner darkness. Conflicts erupted between them. Wars that scarred the land. The fresco showed terrible weapons unleashed, mountains splitting, oceans boiling.

  ‘They destroyed themselves,’ Tavalor murmured, piecing together the visual narrative.

  The centre of the chamber held a raised dais, upon which rested a strange device—a crystal orb nested within a bronze framework of interlocking rings. As Tavalor approached it, the orb pulsed once, then projected a shimmering figure into the air above it.

  Vallen—or rather, a much younger version of the ethereal being they'd met at the entrance to the dungeon. His translucent form regarded them with solemn eyes.

  ‘You have found the Chamber of Remembrance,’ the projection said, its voice resonating with ancient power. ‘Few have seen these truths in the centuries since I sealed them away.’

  ‘What is this place?’ Tavalor asked. ‘What history is this showing us?’

  The projection of Vallen gestured toward the fresco. ‘The true history of our world. Not the one recorded in your libraries or taught by your scholars, but the reality that the Watchers have worked to obscure.’

  ‘The Watchers?’ Emberfist stepped forward, her brow furrowed.

  Vallen's form replied. ‘The Watchers came after the Fall of the Giants, when the world was broken. They claimed to bring order to chaos, structure to a realm torn apart by the Giants' wars.’ His translucent hand waved, and the fresco seemed to animate momentarily, showing tall, hooded figures arriving through portals of blinding light.

  ‘They brought the current system of magic,’ Vallen continued. ‘They bound the wild forces that once flowed freely, constraining them within rigid structures of circles and rules. They claimed it was for safety, to prevent another cataclysm.’

  The projection's eyes narrowed. ‘But there was a cost to their order.’

  The fresco shifted again, showing the Watchers constructing a massive apparatus at the centre of the world—a machine that pulsed with energy drawn from the land itself.

  ‘They created prison worlds,’ Vallen said. ‘Circular continents surrounded by impassable seas—each one a perfect cell to contain what they feared. And what they feared most was the return of the Giants, for the Giants alone possessed the knowledge to undo their work.’

  Tavalor felt a chill run through him. ‘The circular shape of our continent...’

  ‘Is no natural formation,’ Vallen nodded. ‘The Elder Isles, the Storm Shores, Vallenport itself—all part of a constructed reality. A cage built to look like home.’

  Luneth stepped closer to the orb, her expression intense. ‘And Titanos? The newly discovered continent?’

  Vallen's projection seemed to smile—a sad, knowing expression. ‘Not newly discovered. Newly returned. The Giants were not all destroyed. Some escaped the Watchers' purge, fleeing to realms beyond the world's edge. And now, after millennia, they have found a way back.’

  The implications landed heavily on the group. Emberfist was the first to voice what they were all thinking.

  ‘So the magic system we use—the six-spell limit, the structured circles—it's all a prison?’ Her gauntlets flared brightly with her agitation. ‘A way to keep us weak?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ Vallen replied. ‘It is a constraint, but also a protection. The Watchers feared what unbound magic could do—and not without reason. You've seen the shadows in this dungeon? They are echoes of what once was—fragments of the chaos that reigned when magic had no limits.’

  Tavalor's mind raced with connections. The limited magic system. The circular continent. The strange barriers he'd sensed at the edges of the known world that nobody talked about. All of it suddenly made terrible sense.

  ‘The dungeon,’ he said slowly. ‘What is its purpose in all this?’

  ‘This place,’ Vallen gestured around them, ‘was my attempt to preserve the truth. To keep alive the knowledge of what came before. But it is also a key.’ His ethereal eyes locked with Tavalor's. ‘A key to unlocking the prison the Watchers built.’

  ‘And the real Vallen?’ Luneth asked. ‘What happened to him?’

  The projection's form flickered slightly. ‘I... committed the greatest transgression in the Watchers' eyes. I sought to merge structured and wild magic—to restore balance without losing control. For that, I was hunted. This sanctuary became my final refuge.’

  The projection moved closer to Tavalor, studying him with disconcerting intensity. ‘You are different,’ he said softly. ‘The magic within you... it does not adhere to their rules. Perhaps that is why you found this chamber when so many others passed it by.’

  Emberfist shot Tavalor a questioning look, but he remained silent, unmoving under Vallen's scrutiny.

  ‘The Watchers will come,’ Vallen continued. ‘They always do, when old truths threaten to emerge. The return of Titanos has already drawn their attention. The shadows that hunt in these depths are but a taste of what they will unleash to maintain their order.’

  The projection began to fade, its voice growing fainter. ‘You stand at the crossroads of history. What you do with this knowledge is your choice. But know this—the Giants return not as conquerors, but as refugees. Their world's dying, and they seek only to reclaim what was once theirs.’

  As Vallen's form dissipated completely, the orb dimmed, leaving them in silence broken only by their own breathing.

  ‘So,’ Luneth said finally, ‘do we continue deeper? Knowing what we know now?’

  Emberfist's gauntlets crackled with barely-contained energy. ‘If what he said is true, the world we know is built on lies. A magic system designed to keep us leashed. How can we just walk away from that?’

  Tavalor stared at the fresco, at the final panel showing Giants and the First Ones standing together against the hooded Watchers. His draconic heritage stirred within him—ancient power recognizing ancient truth.

  ***

  Kethar's shoulders pressed against the cold stone as he backed into the corner, the cold reality of their situation settling in his bones. The loss of Auris still burned fresh in his mind—the mage's final cry echoing in the hollow chamber. Now it was just him and the two remaining Solaran guards, their silver armor dulled with blood and dust.

  ‘Stand your ground,’ Kethar commanded, his voice hoarse but unwavering. ‘Formation Theta.’

  The shadows surged across the chamber floor like a black tide—no longer individual entities but a writhing mass of darkness that consumed everything in its path. Their forms had evolved since the first encounter, becoming more substantial, more defined. Some now bore the faces of those they had killed, twisted in permanent agony.

  ‘There must be hundreds,’ whispered one of the guards, his hands trembling on his spear.

  Kethar unsheathed his blade with grim determination. ‘Then we'll send hundreds back to the darkness.’

  The three formed a triangular defence, backs to each other, weapons pointed outward. The shadows circled, testing for weakness, their movements jerky yet coordinated. One lunged forward, claws extended, and Kethar's blade flashed, severing the tendril of darkness. It dissipated with a hiss, but three more rushed to take its place.

  ‘The hide!’ Kethar yelled, reaching for the enchanted beast skin strapped to his back. ‘Now!’

  The guards moved in practised synchrony, helping to unfurl the skin—its surface still glowing with the faint blue runes of northern magic. Kethar began the incantation, his voice rising above the hiss of the approaching shadows. The hide responded, its magic flaring to life, creating a barrier of shimmering energy.

  But the chamber itself seemed to respond to their desperation. A deep groan emanated from the walls as cracks spread across the ancient stonework. Dust and small rocks began to rain from the ceiling.

  ‘The room is collapsing,’ Kethar realized, a plan forming in his mind. ‘We use it.’

  Understanding flashed in the guards' eyes. There would be no standing their ground, no glorious last stand. Only a strategic retreat—if they were lucky.

  Kethar pointed to a narrow archway across the chamber, almost entirely surrounded by shadows. ‘There. When I give the signal, run. Don't stop for anything.’

  He channelled more energy into the beast hide, causing it to pulse with blinding light. The shadows recoiled momentarily, creating a small gap in their ranks. Simultaneously, Kethar slammed his blade into a crack in the floor—a precise strike against a structural weakness.

  The chamber shuddered violently. Larger chunks of ceiling began to fall, forcing the shadows to scatter. The rumbling intensified as ancient support pillars began to crack under centuries of pressure finally released.

  ‘NOW!’ Kethar roared.

  The three warriors sprinted toward the archway, leaping over debris and dodging falling stones. A shadow lunged at one of the guards, wrapping around his leg. He stumbled, crying out as the darkness began to feed. Kethar spun, slicing through the shadow with a desperate swing, then hauled the guard to his feet.

  ‘Keep moving!’

  The chamber was disintegrating around them now, massive sections of ceiling crashing down, crushing shadows beneath their weight. The ancient stones seemed almost eager to collapse, as if relieved to finally surrender to time.

  They reached the archway just as the central support column gave way with a deafening crack. Kethar shoved the guards through first, then dove after them as the entire chamber imploded behind him. The shock-wave threw him forward, scraping him across the rough stone of the new corridor.

  For several moments, they lay in the darkness, coughing in the thick dust, the sound of settling rubble the only noise. Kethar pushed himself up, wincing at the new gashes across his armor. His hand went instinctively to his belt—the token Vallen had given them was still there, glowing faintly.

  ‘Did we... win?’ asked one of the guards, his voice barely audible.

  Kethar stared back at the wall of rubble that had sealed off the chamber. No shadows pursued them, but the price had been steep. Only three remained from their original party of eight. The enchanted beast hide was gone, sacrificed in their desperate escape, along with most of their supplies.

  ‘We survived,’ Kethar said grimly. ‘For now.’

  A faint rumbling from deeper in the dungeon drew their attention forward. The corridor ahead descended sharply, leading toward what sounded like a massive chamber. Light—actual light—spilled from around a distant corner.

  ‘We're being funnelled,’ Kethar realized. ‘All paths converging.’

  They had no choice but to push forward, toward whatever awaited them in the heart of Vallen's sanctum.

  ***

  The corridor opened into a vast circular chamber with a domed ceiling that stretched so high it disappeared into shadow. Seven doorways, evenly spaced around the perimeter, led into the room—a perfect convergence point for the dungeon's winding paths.

  Tavalor, Emberfist, and Luneth were the first to arrive, stepping cautiously into the chamber. The revelation from the Chamber of Remembrance still weighed heavy on their minds, transforming their understanding of both past and present.

  ‘Looks like we're not alone,’ Emberfist murmured, nodding toward one of the opposite doorways.

  The Starlight Twins emerged, their once-pristine crystalline armor now dulled and cracked in places. Mira leaned slightly against Lyra, her movements betraying an injury. Their usually synchronized steps were now awkward, tentative.

  ‘Five survivors,’ Luneth counted quietly.

  Tension crackled between the groups as they entered the chamber, each keeping a wary distance from the others. None had emerged unscathed—the trials of Vallen's dungeon had extracted their toll from every team.

  Another doorway darkened as Kethar stumbled in, supporting one of his guards while the other limped behind. Blood stained the silver armor of the Solarans, and Kethar's face was etched with grim determination. The absence of Auris was telling.

  ‘Seven,’ Emberfist updated the count. Her gauntlets glowed brighter, ready for potential conflict.

  Silence stretched as they sized each other up. Former rivals now reduced to battered survivors, all drawn to this central chamber by Vallen's design.

  ‘Where's the golden peacock?’ Kethar growled, scanning the room for Dorian.

  As if summoned by the question, a blinding flash erupted from the final doorway. Golden light poured forth, and Dorian strode in—his armor gleaming as if freshly polished, seemingly untouched by the trials that had devastated the others. Behind him followed three of his original crew, similarly pristine.

  ‘Fashionably late,’ Dorian announced with his characteristic smirk. ‘Though I see some of you barely made it at all.’

  ‘How?’ Mira demanded, her voice strained with pain and suspicion. ‘The shadows—‘

  ‘Were barely an inconvenience,’ Dorian replied smoothly. ‘Perhaps you simply chose the wrong path.’

  Kethar took a threatening step forward, but Tavalor raised a hand, halting him. Something wasn't right. Dorian's immaculate appearance felt... wrong. Like a mask worn too perfectly.

  The chamber itself commanded their attention now. At its centre stood a pedestal of black stone, upon which rested an ornate box carved with intricate symbols that matched the tokens each group still carried.

  The floor around the pedestal was inlaid with concentric rings of silver, gold, and obsidian, forming a massive magical circle that pulsed with latent energy.

  ‘The heart of the sanctum,’ Lyra whispered. ‘Vallen's vault.’

  Dorian stepped forward, his movements fluid and confident. ‘Then let's not waste time. The key—’

  ‘Wait,’ Tavalor's voice cut through the chamber. His [Dragon Sight] revealed what the others couldn't see—a faint shimmer in the air around Dorian and his team, like a mirage distorting reality.

  The shadows began to seep from the walls—not rushing in as before, but gathering deliberately, coalescing at the edges of the chamber. Watching. Waiting.

  ‘They're here for a reason,’ Tavalor continued, his gaze fixed on the shadows. ‘All the trials, all the losses—they were sifting us, testing us.’ He glanced at the other groups. ‘And now comes the final elimination.’

  The air shimmered as Vallen's form materialized above the pedestal—no longer the multiple aspects they had encountered at the entrance, but a singular presence, more solid than before.

  ‘You have reached the threshold,’ Vallen intoned, his voice echoing around the chamber. ‘But only one may claim the key. The power it holds cannot be divided or shared.’

  The shadows surged forward slightly, forming a circle around the gathered survivors. Their movements betrayed eagerness, hunger.

  ‘What happens to those who fail?’ Kethar demanded, his hand tightening on his sword.

  Vallen's expression remained impassive. ‘The shadows must feed. It is the price of the key's power—life for life, sacrifice for mastery.’

  ‘And if we refuse this bargain?’ Lyra asked, supporting her sister's weight.

  ‘Then none shall leave,’ Vallen’s face fell into shadows as he replied simply. ‘The shadows will consume all, and the key will remain unclaimed for another age.’

  The survivors exchanged glances—wary, calculating, desperate. In that moment, alliances began to form silently through shared looks and subtle nods. Former rivals became potential allies against a common threat.

  ‘He's lying,’ Luneth muttered to Tavalor. ‘Something's not right about this whole setup.’

  Tavalor nodded imperceptibly. The chamber's design, the converging paths, the shadows' behaviour—it felt like they were being manipulated into a specific outcome. But to what end?

  ‘Prepare yourselves,’ Vallen announced, beginning to fade. ‘The final trial begins now.’

  The shadows surged forward as Vallen vanished, forming grotesque, twisted shapes—mirror images of the adventurers themselves, but wrong. Distorted. Hungry.

  Dorian laughed, the sound echoing unnaturally. His form flickered momentarily, like a mirage in desert heat. ‘May the best contender win,’ he called, his voice overlapping with another, deeper tone.

  The survivors formed a defensive ring, backs to each other, facing the advancing darkness. Whatever rivalries had divided them before were temporarily set aside in the face of mutual destruction.

  ‘If we survive this,’ Emberfist muttered, her gauntlets flaring to life, ‘remind me never to go dungeon diving again.’

  The shadows closed in.