The chamber lay in ruins.
Black ash drifted where the Dungeon Lord had fallen, settling into the cracks of stone like snow. The altar's roots sagged loose, veins of crimson light pulsing weakly before dimming altogether. For the first time since they had entered, the dungeon's suffocating pressure seemed to ease, as if the air itself had been holding its breath and finally released it.
Kaelen braced her battered sword against the ground, shoulders heaving. Her armor was split in places, bruises spreading like ink across her skin, yet her chin remained high. Beside her, Lyra leaned against a snapped root, blood streaking her cheek but a crooked grin still tugging at her lips.
Emi sat on a broken slab, bow resting against her knee. Her hands still trembled faintly from the unrelenting strain, but she kept her face calm, quiet, watching the others tend to their wounds.
And Altheron—he knelt in the middle of it all, sword planted before him, chest rising and falling like bellows. His tunic clung damp to his skin, sweat mixing with blood, and for a brief, fleeting instant, a faint warmth still lingered beneath the fabric where the sigil had flared. But none of them saw it. None of them could have. It was already gone, swallowed beneath exhaustion and silence.
Only Altheron felt something strange. Not light, not power, but the echo of both—a weight deep in his bones, as though something had stirred and then fallen quiet again.
Lyra broke the silence first, spitting onto the ground with a grin that was more defiance than mirth. "Well… that was a nightmare."
"You don't say," Kaelen muttered, wiping a streak of ichor from her face.
Emi's voice was softer, almost hesitant. "But it's over. The forest… maybe it will heal now."
No one replied immediately. They wanted to believe it, but each of them had spent too long staring into the abyss of the Dungeon Lord's eyes to accept peace so easily.
None of them noticed.
While they caught their breath and bound their wounds, a fissure opened at the altar's base. From its depths seeped a shadow—thin as smoke, silent as a whisper. It curled low across the ground, weaving between shattered roots and broken stone.
It did not linger. It did not strike. It slipped away, vanishing into the cracks of the dungeon.
Through soil and stone it traveled, rising, always rising. It climbed unseen toward the surface, through the deep roots that webbed the land, until it emerged far above.
Beyond the dungeon. Beyond the lake. Beyond the village.
It seeped into a place older than any ruin, older than any kingdom. The heart of Caelburn.
The Millennia Tree.
At its base, the shadow bled into the ancient roots. For a moment the great tree seemed unchanged, its colossal trunk towering into the heavens, leaves glowing faintly with silver light that had blessed the city for generations.
But deep within its roots, corruption stirred.
A crack split the bark at its foundation, so fine it could be mistaken for age. Yet from it, a branch withered, leaves curling inward as if touched by frost. Another followed. And another.
No one in the city noticed. The people beneath its boughs lived and laughed, oblivious to the faint rot creeping into the heart of their sanctuary.
For the adventurers, the dungeon's silence did not last long. The ground trembled faintly, not with violence but with a steady pull, as though urging them away.
"The air's shifting," Kaelen muttered, her eyes narrowing.
Altheron staggered to his feet, sword sheathed at his side. "The dungeon's collapsing."
"No…" Emi shook her head, her voice low but certain. "Not collapsing. Retreating. Like it's… folding back in on itself."
They exchanged uneasy glances. But the pull became stronger, a current of wind swirling toward the far wall where a fissure yawned open. Water gushed upward through the cracks, flooding the chamber in a rising torrent.
Before they could brace, the current surged and swallowed them whole.
Stone vanished. Roots blurred past. They were dragged upward through a spiral of water and light, buffeted and battered until their lungs burned. And then—
They broke the surface.
The adventurers burst out from the lake in a spray of silver water, gasping for air. Moonlight glimmered across the ripples, the dungeon's entrance gone as if it had never been.
For a heartbeat, only silence met them. Then voices rang out from the shore.
"They've returned!"
"It's them—the adventurers!"
"They survived the dungeon!"
The villagers rushed to the water's edge, lanterns bobbing in the night. Their faces shone with awe and relief, some already weeping. Children clapped and pointed, elders pressed trembling hands together in prayer.
Strong arms helped Kaelen onto the bank, her armor dented and broken. Lyra was pulled up next, limping on her twisted ankle yet flashing a grin at the cheering crowd. Emi followed, bow slung across her shoulder, her quiet gaze softening at the sight of the villagers' joy.
Last came Altheron, hauling himself onto the grass with sheer stubborn will. The cheers swelled louder, the villagers calling his name though few had even known it before.
"The corruption is fading!" one of the hunters cried, pointing toward the treeline. Already the mists that had plagued the forest for weeks were thinning. The air smelled sweeter, cleaner. The distant sound of birdsong echoed faintly through the night.
The people of the village erupted into celebration. Drums were brought out, torches lit, food hurriedly prepared. That night, beneath the stars, the weary adventurers were honored as heroes.
The village square came alive with firelight.
Torches burned high, their flames snapping in the cool night air. Tables were dragged out from homes and lined with whatever food could be spared—roasted game seasoned with wild herbs, steaming loaves of bread, baskets of forest berries, and mugs of frothing ale.
Children dashed between the tables, carrying platters twice their size, while the elders hummed songs that the flutes and drums soon picked up. The square, once weighed down with fear, now pulsed with relief.
Kaelen raised her mug, wincing at the ache in her ribs but smiling all the same. "I'll drink to that bastard being gone."
"To the gods-damned Dungeon Lord," Lyra added, slamming her cup against Kaelen's. She leaned back, one ankle still bound tight, yet her voice carried with the ease of someone who had survived worse.
Emi's smile was quieter, reserved, but her eyes softened as she watched the villagers dance. Children wove garlands of wildflowers, draping them over weapons and shoulders as if blessing the four. A little boy tugged at her bowstring with fascination, and she gently guided his hand away, smiling as he scampered off laughing.
Altheron sat further back, a plate before him untouched. The cheers and music washed over him like waves, yet his mind remained elsewhere. His chest still carried a faint ache, deep and persistent, as if something slept beneath the skin.
Kaelen noticed, leaning toward him. "You should eat, Altheron. You'll need your strength."
He gave a small nod, forcing a bite of bread past his lips. It tasted like ash.
Lyra clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to rattle his bones. "Cheer up, hero. You carved down a nightmare. If that doesn't earn a smile, I don't know what will."
"I'm just… tired," he muttered, though the word rang hollow.
Because deep inside, he wasn't tired. He was unsettled. His body had moved with power that wasn't his own, strength that had answered unbidden. Each memory of his blade cleaving shadow felt wrong, as though his hands had belonged to someone else.
Emi's gaze lingered on him a heartbeat longer, her eyes steady, unreadable. But she said nothing.
As the night deepened, songs gave way to quiet conversations, laughter softening into the comfort of shared relief. Villagers dozed by the fires, children curled in their mothers' arms, hunters sprawled with mugs forgotten at their sides.
The adventurers sat together apart from the rest, the flames painting their faces in shifting gold.
Kaelen stretched her legs, groaning at the stiffness in her armor. "It feels strange. To fight something like that… and then sit here as if nothing's changed."
"Something has changed," Lyra said. She tilted her mug toward the forest, where the mist had thinned even further. "Listen. No whispers. No shadows moving in the dark. For the first time in weeks, the woods are breathing again."
Emi closed her eyes, listening. The distant chirp of crickets, the rustle of leaves in the night wind. It was fragile, faint, but it was life. She smiled faintly. "The forest will heal."
Altheron said nothing. His thoughts were not on the forest, but on the faint burning beneath his chest. On the way his body had surged with unnatural strength, as if the dungeon's darkness had lent him its own fury.
He lowered his gaze to his hands. They looked the same—scarred, calloused—but he could not shake the feeling that they belonged to someone else.
Far from the fires of celebration, the Millennia Tree stood in silence. Its trunk, vast as a mountain, glimmered faintly under the moonlight. Yet where its roots met the earth, shadows seeped like veins of ink. Branches once proud and silver began to sag, their light dimming.
And then—something stirred.
A voice rose, low and broken, carried on the groan of ancient wood. It was not heard with ears, but pressed directly into the heart.
"Now begins the end of thy tree…
Thy boughs shall wither, thy roots shall rot…
And in thy death, a dungeon shall be born."
The wind rushed across the plain, bending grass and rattling rooftops. It swept through Caelburn, into the village square, curling around the fires where laughter still rang.
It brushed Altheron where he sat apart, staring into the flames. For an instant, the wind carried words only he could hear—echoes heavy with dread.
"Chosen one…
Wilt thou save this tree…
Or watch as it falls to darkness?"
Altheron stiffened, his hand flying to his chest. The night around him seemed to hush, the laughter of villagers distant, unreal. He searched the shadows, but found only firelight and song.
When the wind passed, silence returned.
He let out a slow, unsteady breath, his gaze drifting once more to the towering shape of the Millennia Tree rising faintly on the horizon.
Something told him their battle was far from over.