Elowen's fingers trembled violently as she fumbled with the makeshift bandage, the rough strip of torn linen soaking red within seconds. Blood, slick and warm, ran down her arm in rivulets, sticky against dirt-caked skin. Every inch of her body cried out in protest, her muscles aching from exertion, her joints grinding with fatigue, but she refused to yield. She forced herself upright with a grunt, spine stiffening against the pain, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Her breath came in shallow gasps, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the dry, suffocating dust that filled the air. Across the dungeon, several pairs of eyes watched her warily, suspicion etched into their expressions like scars. They were no longer the predators they had seemed when she first stumbled into their camp, bleeding and alone. But they weren't allies either. That line had not been crossed.
"I wasn't supposed to be here," she rasped, her voice barely more than a whisper dragged over broken glass. It scraped at her throat, raw, hoarse, each word a labor. "I mean, when I first came here, there was a hut… and a man named Azazel saved me from a giant snake, or maybe a dragon with claws. I went east to look for something, but when I came back, I saw this dungeon."
A derisive snort echoed from the shadows where the rogue leaned, slumped against the jagged remnants of a shattered column. His leg was wrapped in crude bandages, the cloth dark with old blood. "Yeah," he muttered, eyes narrowing beneath a messy fringe of black hair, "that much is clear."
Elowen didn't respond to the jab. She simply closed her eyes for a second, forcing down the burn in her throat, the rising tide of everything, grief, fear, exhaustion. "My village is on the edge of the Kaelith," she said slowly, as though the words cost her more than breath. "A beautiful realm, between heaven and Earth. It's not even on maps anymore. People there… they can do magic, even teleport. We were happy there. Even though I was poor, I was happy.
The moon hung like a pearl in the heavens, its tender light casting shadows in the air. The glowing leaves of the trees swayed gently to and fro, and their branches formed arches beneath which the stars seemed to rest. Flowers bloomed in every color beneath us, filling the air with sweet fragrances."
The silence that followed was thick and heavy.
"A deadly plague, known as the Malice Bloom Plague, had swept through one of the villages in the Kaelith realm, casting a shadow over once-bright glades. I felt responsible for it, or perhaps it was my recklessness that had awakened the illness within my mother's body. All the villagers became trapped in a feverish sleep, growing worse with each passing day. Every night, I slept by my mother's bedside, offering empty words of comfort as I brushed the damp hair from her forehead. My heart felt heavy as I sat outside our cottage, hidden beneath the ivy. My memory wouldn't let go. It kept replaying the mistake. I regretted it," she took a deep breath.
"Then one day," she continued, "I received a box."
That caught their attention. The mage, who had remained mostly still until then, straightened slightly. Her eyes, sharp with curiosity, flicked up beneath her hood. "A box?"
Elowen nodded slowly. "Black iron. Cold even in the sun. It hummed when you touched it, like it was alive. And inside…" Her voice dropped lower, and she reached into the folds of her cloak, drawing out a worn leather bag. "This strange book, with no map or clear directions." She paused, swallowing. "And then I ended up here… in this strange forest."
Even the bard's ever-present smirk faded into stillness.
"I didn't understand it at first," Elowen said, her voice gaining a fraction of steadiness as she pressed on. "But the dreams began soon after. Whispers. Names I'd never heard before. Places I'd never seen, buried beneath the forest, behind crumbling walls and sealed doors. Doors that wouldn't open unless all the keys were brought together." Her eyes swept across the dungeon, the cracked stone and flickering torchlight casting everything in shades of unease. "I followed it here. I thought I was alone. I didn't know anyone else was involved. I don't even know who Rosa is, or why she sent me. Maybe I was never meant to survive this far."
Silence. Then the dungeon itself stirred.
It began as a faint groan, low and ancient, like the deep inhalation of something enormous waking from centuries of slumber. The walls quivered. The cracked floor rippled beneath their feet, dust cascading from the arched ceiling like powdered bone. Then came the quake, sudden, violent, and impossible to predict. The chamber heaved sideways with a thunderous boom, throwing several of them off balance. The rogue cursed, bracing himself too late. The knight barked a warning..."Quake!"...his voice barely audible over the roar as he stumbled toward a wall.
A jagged crack tore across the flagstones beneath Elowen's boots, splitting the floor like shattered ice. Across the room, a massive urn embedded in an alcove, rimmed with faded sigils that glowed faintly red, toppled from its perch. It struck the ground with a sound like a ribcage cracking, splintering into shards. And from its shattered remains spilled a dense, sickly green mist, hissing like steam from a rotting wound.
The rogue, Vane, was closest. He tried to dive aside, but the mist was faster. A shard of pottery slashed across his side, and the green vapor clung to the open wound like smoke seeking warmth. Within seconds, he crumpled to the floor.
"Vane!" the bard shouted, her voice cracking with panic. She was at his side in a flash, turning him over, but his body was already convulsing. His muscles spasmed uncontrollably. His breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat poured down his face, and the veins beneath his skin darkened rapidly, spreading like ink in water.
"Gods," the mage whispered, digging through her satchel. "What was that?!"
The knight knelt beside the rogue, his face grim. "Some kind of toxin," he growled, pressing his gauntleted hand to Vane's chest. "His heart's racing. Look at his veins, it's moving fast."
The sorceress joined them, her fingers tracing urgent glyphs through the air, only to watch each one fizzle and fade. "It's old magic," she muttered in disbelief. "Ancient. The spells don't recognize it. I can't purify it.....something's corrupting the arcane threads."
Elowen remained still for a beat, the tremor fading beneath her feet. Her instincts screamed at her to stay quiet. She didn't owe them anything. But something twisted inside her as she watched Vane twitching in the bard's arms, his body betraying him, his life ebbing away in sharp jerks and strangled gasps.
"I know what it is," she said.
Every head turned.
"What did you say?" the mage asked, voice tight.
Elowen stepped forward. "I've seen it before. That green mist? It's called Blackroot's Breath. A relic from the Obsidian Wars. It doesn't kill quickly. It was meant to make people suffer. Dying slowly, screaming, so others would hear it. So others would break."
The bard was pale now, holding Vane close. "Then do something. Please."
Elowen hesitated. Just for a second. Then she dropped to her knees and dug into the satchel at her side. "I have the antidote. Sort of. It's incomplete. I was saving it...just in case I got caught in one of those traps again. But it might be enough."
Her hands moved quickly, driven more by muscle memory than thought. She uncorked a small vial of amber liquid, its contents thick and pungent. From a wax-wrapped bundle, she withdrew thin slivers of brittle black root and added them to the mix. The concoction hissed in the carved shell she used as a bowl, the liquid turning from gold to violet, darkening like a bruise.
"You trust her?" the knight asked, voice rough with uncertainty.
"We don't have time not to," the bard snapped, desperation edging her words. "Give it to me."
"No," Elowen said firmly. "It has to go straight into the blood."
She didn't wait for permission. She knelt beside Vane, his eyes fluttering, lips forming broken syllables. "This will hurt," she whispered, then jabbed the crude bone needle into his arm.
The scream that tore from Vane's throat was raw, primal, enough to make even the stone walls shudder in response. His back arched, limbs seizing. For a long, agonizing heartbeat, it looked like the antidote might be killing him faster. Then the spasms slowed. His breathing evened. Color crept back into his skin. Elowen sagged back, her vision swimming, sweat pouring from her brow. She felt her strength slip through her fingers like water.
No one moved. The bard cradled Vane, her face streaked with tears. She looked up at Elowen, not with suspicion, not with fear.
"Okay," she said, voice low, hoarse. "She stays."