The south gate still smoldered.
Corpses of monsters and men alike lay tangled across the broken barricades. The acrid stench of blood and charred wood filled the air, stinging throats and eyes. Splintered carts, shattered shields, and bent spears littered the ground. The cobblestones, usually bright under the morning sun, were stained dark with gore.
The battle had ended, but silence never felt so heavy.
Adventurers limped among the ruins, dragging the wounded back toward the city. Priests moved from one broken body to another, chanting swift prayers or fumbling to stabilize what life remained. Guards stacked the corpses of monsters into crude piles, burning them before their corruption could fester.
Altheron stood at the edge of the wreckage, his sword still damp with blood. Emi moved beside him, bow strung but lowered, her gaze sweeping the fields beyond. For a moment, they simply breathed, the weight of survival pressing down on their shoulders.
Then came the sound.
A guttural roar from the ruins beyond the wall.
Altheron's head snapped up. A cluster of surviving monsters—stragglers—crept from the treeline, drawn by the smell of death. Their forms twisted in unnatural ways. Wolves with eyes glowing a sickly crimson. Goblins, bloated and veined with black rot. A scaled beast, lizard-like, its hide pocked with oozing sores.
The exhausted defenders faltered at the sight. One adventurer stumbled, barely able to raise his sword.
Altheron's grip tightened on his hilt. He exchanged a look with Emi. She gave a faint nod. Together, they moved.
The first wolf lunged, faster than his tired eyes could follow. Altheron twisted, catching it mid-leap with his blade, but the beast's claws still raked across his arm, tearing through his armor and flesh. Pain seared white-hot, and blood slicked his sleeve. He gritted his teeth, forcing his legs to stay steady as the wolf crumpled.
Another goblin screeched, charging at him with a jagged bone club. He raised his sword too late—its strike smashed against his side, sending a jolt of pain through his ribs. He stumbled, breath ragged, vision blurring.
An arrow hissed past his ear. Emi's shot buried itself in the goblin's throat. The creature choked, collapsing at his feet.
But Emi herself staggered back, gasping. Sweat plastered her hair to her face, her arms trembling as she drew another arrow. She had already loosed so many that her quiver rattled almost empty. When another wolf broke from the pack and pounced toward her, she barely managed to fire. The arrow missed its heart, only grazing its shoulder. The beast kept coming.
"Emi!" Altheron roared, pushing his battered body into motion. He tackled the wolf mid-air, both of them slamming into the dirt. Its fetid breath washed over him as it snapped inches from his face. He strained, shoving his blade into its gut, twisting until the creature went limp.
He rolled off it, chest heaving. Blood dripped from a gash across his brow, blurring one eye. His breaths came in short, painful bursts, and every muscle screamed for rest.
But the lizard-beast remained.
Its tail swept wide, smashing apart what remained of the barricade and throwing adventurers aside like dolls. Altheron forced his legs to move, ignoring the stabbing pain in his ribs. He ducked beneath the tail's swing, blade flashing to carve across its scaled belly. Black ichor spilled, sizzling as it touched the earth.
Still it roared, thrashing wildly. Emi steadied herself, knees shaking, drawing back one last arrow despite the strain tearing through her arm. Her lips whispered something—a prayer, or just a promise—and she loosed.
The arrow struck true. One eye. Then another. The beast reeled, blinded, shrieking.
Altheron surged forward, sword raised in both hands despite the blood streaming down his arm. With a guttural cry, he drove the blade up beneath the beast's jaw, splitting through its skull. The monster convulsed once, then crumpled into the dirt.
The fight was over.
Altheron staggered back, nearly collapsing. Emi caught his arm, breathless, her own body trembling as if her bones might snap under the weight of exhaustion. Their armor was battered, their skin cut and bruised, lungs burning like fire.
The battered adventurers around them looked on with wide eyes. For a moment, awe silenced their fear.
Then someone whispered, almost reverent, "They're still standing…"
But Altheron knew better. This wasn't victory. It was survival. Barely.
By afternoon, the survivors gathered at the Adventurer's Guild.
The great hall no longer echoed with laughter or boasts. Instead, it was filled with groans of the wounded and the frantic shouts of healers. Tables were cleared to lay out the injured. Blood pooled in the cracks of the wooden floor. The smell of herbs and iron mingled thick in the air.
Adventurers slumped against the walls, armor dented, weapons chipped. Others argued in hoarse voices, fear sharp in their words.
"It wasn't natural."
"Wolves don't move in packs that size."
"The goblins were twisted. Wrong."
"Something drove them here. Something called them."
Altheron stood quietly with Emi near the edge of the hall, listening as the debate rose.
At last, the Guildmaster emerged from his office. His steel-gray hair was tied back, his cloak torn at the edge, his gauntlets still scuffed with fresh dents. The room fell into silence as his boots struck the floor with steady weight.
He climbed the dais at the front of the hall, gaze sweeping across the battered assembly.
"You fought bravely," he began, his voice carrying like the crack of an axe through wood. "Many of you bled. Many of you lost brothers and sisters. And yet Caelburn stands—because you stood."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some drew strength from his words. Others only stared, hollow-eyed.
The Guildmaster's expression hardened.
"But you know as well as I that this was no wild horde. These creatures were not simply stirred by hunger or chance. They were… driven."
He raised a hand. A parchment was brought to him, stained with blood and dust.
"Scouts confirm what many of you already suspect. A dungeon signature has been detected—beneath the Millennia Tree."
The room erupted.
"No, impossible—"
"That tree's sacred!"
"They'll say it's cursed next, just you wait—"
The Guildmaster slammed a gauntleted fist onto the table. The sound silenced them at once.
"The truth does not bend to your disbelief," he said coldly. "The dungeon stirs beneath the roots. Its corruption bleeds into the land. That is why the monsters came. That is why the horde struck with such force."
Whispers flared again, sharper this time. Some adventurers glanced toward Altheron and Emi, suspicion in their eyes.
"They were the ones near the Tree…"
"Did they trigger it?"
"No proof, but—"
Emi's gaze flicked toward them, sharp as an arrowhead. Altheron ignored the whispers, but his jaw tightened.
The Guildmaster did not speak of blame. He simply dismissed them with a final command: "Rest if you can. Tomorrow we plan. If the Tree falls… Caelburn falls with it."
That night, Altheron could not rest.
The Millennia Tree loomed above the city, once radiant, now sagging under creeping rot. Entire swathes of its canopy had blackened, leaves falling like brittle ash.
The pulse shook through him again—louder, harsher, like a drumbeat from the earth itself.
Then the collapse began.
A groan, deep and terrible, shuddered through the air. The ground trembled. Cracks ripped through the Tree's titanic trunk. Entire boughs split and fell like avalanches, smashing temples, homes, and streets beneath them.
The city erupted in screams.
Bells rang wildly from the spires. Priests cried out in desperation, some raising hands toward the Tree as if prayer alone could stop its fall. Mothers clutched their children, fleeing through the streets as buildings shook apart. Soldiers shouted orders no one could hear above the roar.
Emi grabbed Altheron's arm, dragging him back as splinters the size of spears rained down. A wave of dust and shattered stone rolled over them, choking the air.
The Millennia Tree—the sacred guardian of Caelburn—collapsed. Its trunk split apart with a sound like the sky itself tearing. The ground split wide as roots tore free, revealing a cavernous abyss beneath.
From that chasm came darkness. A living, writhing shadow that poured upward like smoke, carrying with it a stench of death. The pulse became a roar, rattling teeth, echoing in every chest.
Altheron's eyes burned, fixed on the abyss. His sword hand trembled—not from fear, but from the terrible certainty of what this meant.
The dungeon had not only awakened.
It had consumed the Tree—and now it was spilling into the world.
The age of safety in Caelburn was over.
And deep within him, though he did not want to admit it, Altheron knew—this collapse was only the beginning.