By mid-morning, the four reached the outskirts of Lintharen. At first glance, it looked like any other countryside village. Children played tag near the well, their laughter carrying lightly on the breeze. A couple of farmers hauled buckets, sweat glistening under the sun. Smoke rose in thin threads from chimneys, carrying the smell of broth and baked bread.
But look closer, and the truth bled through.
The children's games were half-hearted, their frames thin. The farmers' fields showed more patches of withered stalks than green. The broth's smell was weak, stretched thin over too much water. Even the air seemed heavy, as if the soil itself resisted giving life.
The villagers greeted them with weary smiles—polite, grateful, but edged with quiet desperation.
At the center of the square, an elder waited. His beard was long and gray, his frame bent but not broken. A wooden cane supported him, and though his eyes carried warmth, there was no mistaking the burden behind them.
"You've come from the guild, then," he said, his voice both relieved and strained. "Good… good. I feared no one would answer our plea."
Emi stepped forward gently. "We're here to help. Please, tell us what's happening."
The elder's shoulders sagged. "For months now, the land has been failing us. Crops wither before they ripen. Livestock vanish in the night. Monsters stray too close to our homes, bolder than they should be. We've stretched food as far as we can, but…" He looked toward the children, voice dropping. "…not for long."
Kaelen bowed her head respectfully. "You've held out well, Elder. We'll do what we can."
Altheron crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. "Where do these monsters come from? Any lairs nearby? Caverns, ruins?"
The elder shook his head slowly. "That's the strange part. We've searched. There are no nests, no dens. They simply… appear."
The words unsettled them all.
Emi, however, didn't stand idle. She moved among the villagers with quiet purpose, her presence a gentle balm against the gloom. She knelt beside a boy whose knee was scraped raw, cleaning and binding it with cloth she carried. "There," she said warmly, brushing his hair back. "Strong enough to run again, but maybe don't race the wind just yet." The boy grinned, his earlier tears forgotten.
She joined a group of women tending to the stew pot, crouching beside them. "If you dry these herbs first, the flavor lasts longer," she offered, handing over a small pouch she had brought from Caelburn. The women looked surprised, then grateful, as the scent brightened the otherwise thin broth.
Later, she crouched to speak with a mother fretting over missing livestock. Emi placed a reassuring hand on her arm. "We came here for this very reason. Hold on a little longer—we'll make sure you have peace again."
By the time she rejoined the group, children were following her steps with laughter, clutching little trinkets she had carved from spare twigs. The elder gave her a long, grateful look, murmuring something about how kindness could sometimes feed the soul as much as bread.
---
For the next several days, the party combed the surrounding land.
At dawn, they patrolled the fields, blades ready as farmers prayed behind them. By afternoon, they ventured into the woods, where the rot was clearest—patches of soil blackened and cracked, trees sagging as if drained of life. By nightfall, they returned to the village with grim reports: nothing found, no trace of a dungeon or nest.
Yet the monsters kept coming.
A pack of corrupted wolves ambushed them on the second day, their hides split with black veins, eyes burning yellow. Kaelen's shield held their fangs at bay, Lyra darted in with flashing daggers, and Emi cracked skulls with her staff while Altheron carved through them with brutal precision. The wolves bled black ichor, their bodies hissing as they hit the earth.
On the third day, they found a scarecrow toppled in the fields, shredded straw scattered. Claw marks cut deep into the wooden frame, as if the monsters had torn it apart not out of hunger, but hatred.
At night, the adventurers gathered at the inn's hearth. Villagers sat nearby, whispering of old stories—curses, spirits, ancient grudges. Lyra dismissed them with a laugh, but Altheron stayed silent, staring into the flames with unease. Emi glanced at him often, concern in her eyes.
By the fourth day, frustration gnawed at them.
"We've searched everywhere," Lyra groaned, tossing a pebble into the dirt. "Fields, forest, hills—nothing! If there's a dungeon, it's hiding too damn well."
Kaelen folded her arms. "And yet the monsters keep appearing. They must be coming from somewhere. Dungeons don't simply vanish."
Altheron frowned, scanning the horizon. "Maybe we're looking in the wrong place…"
That evening, as the sun sank and the air cooled, Altheron lingered by the fields. The lake shimmered nearby, its surface smooth as glass.
And then—ripples.
He froze.
From the dark water, movement stirred. Shapes broke the surface—goblins, twisted and gray-green, their bodies mottled with black veins, eyes glowing yellow. They crawled out of the lake, shrieking, water dripping from their warped forms.
"Monsters," Altheron growled, drawing his blade.
The others rushed to his side as the creatures charged.
The stench hit them first—metallic and sour, like rotting meat left too long in the sun. The goblins' claws gleamed jagged and unnatural, patches of bark and stone fused into their limbs.
Lyra's daggers spun into her hands. "By the gods, they're crawling out of the water?!"
Kaelen planted her shield in the earth. "Form up! Hold the line!"
The first goblin lunged. Altheron met it head-on, his sword cleaving its head clean. Black ichor sprayed the dirt.
But instead of faltering, the others grew frenzied. Ten… fifteen… more burst from the lake, shrieking in chorus.
"They're multiplying too fast!" Emi shouted, swinging her staff into a skull.
Kaelen braced as three slammed into her shield, their claws screeching against metal. She shoved them back with a roar, sword stabbing one through the throat.
Lyra ducked under a swipe, twin blades flashing as she gutted another from behind. "Tch—these things don't even bleed right!"
Altheron slashed through one, only for its torn flesh to bubble and knit back together. His jaw tightened. "Regenerating now, too?!"
"Corruption's mutating them!" Emi cried, her strikes growing desperate. "The longer it spreads, the worse they'll get!"
Altheron's eyes hardened. He shifted his grip and swung again, cleaving another's skull in two. This time, the body stayed down.
The battle dragged on, brutal and exhausting. Heads rolled, ichor hissed against soil, and the stench of rot filled the air. At last, with coordinated strikes—the shield holding, the daggers flashing, Emi's staff cracking, and Altheron's blade cutting true—the corrupted goblins lay still.
Their yellow eyes dimmed to black. The ground where they died withered instantly, grass curling and soil burning.
Panting, Lyra wiped ichor from her cheek. "Gods… that was no ordinary goblin band."
Kaelen's gaze hardened, scanning the lake. "If monsters are crawling out of the water… then the dungeon isn't on land."
Altheron's hand clenched around his sword. He stared at the blackened soil, his voice low. "No. It's hidden beneath us. A corrupted dungeon… under the lake."
As silence returned, Altheron felt a faint weight stir against his chest.
The egg.
It shifted—faintly, but unlike before. Not a random pulse. Not idle warmth. This time, it moved as if alive, as if responding to his words.
His breath caught.
"…You agree with me, don't you?" he muttered under his breath.
No one else noticed, too busy tending their gear and wiping blood from their hands. But Altheron's grip lingered on the egg through his tunic. For the first time since he carried it, he felt not just movement… but intent.
The lake rippled quietly under the moonlight. And in the stillness, Altheron could not shake the feeling that the egg itself was telling him he was right.