Kenshin's eyes cracked open to a sliver of morning light threading through the canopy, the beam brushing over his cheek with the faintest warmth. The stiffness in his neck screamed its protest as he shifted, every muscle tight from a night spent wedged in the crook of a tree. Bark dug into his skin, its rough texture clinging to his shirt as he stretched, each motion pulling at the ache in his shoulders. The cool morning air was heavy with the earthy scent of moss, damp leaves, and the faint tang of stone, hinting at the ruins ahead.
Below, the camp was a slow stir of life. Drathan was curled against the red-haired adventurer from last night's watch, her arm draped over him as though it had always been there. Strands of her hair glimmered like molten copper, jeweled with dew, the faint scent of wildflower oil lingering from her skin. Their shared cloak radiated leftover warmth from the fire's embers. Mira knelt by those embers, coaxing flame from ash with careful breaths and deliberate strokes of her flint. Velra stood nearby, hands resting on the haft of her spear as her eyes swept the treeline in calm, patient arcs.
The ruins loomed beyond the thinning trees—a silhouette of jagged spires and broken archways reaching like grasping hands toward the pale gold morning sky. Mist clung stubbornly to their base, curling in thick ribbons around shattered flagstones. Every wall was scarred, carvings nearly erased by the endless patience of wind and rain. And yet, there was a palpable gravity here—a silent weight that pressed on the mind, drawing the eye toward the shadows that yawned between the stone teeth.
Squads gathered, and with them came the subtle friction of unspoken rivalries. Grastus of the Crimson Order leaned against his axe with studied casualness, eyes lingering on the trio with faint disdain. The Veilshard Enclave's masked mage stood alone, head tilted in the way of a predator assessing the weak. Mira's gaze swept across them all, her tail flicking once—enough to betray her watchfulness. Velra's thoughts were quieter, but they anchored in the same truth: this was a dangerous blend of personalities, and deep inside the ruins, arrogance could become as deadly as any blade.
They moved in formation toward the entrance, boots crunching over stone cracked and split by the thick roots that claimed the plaza. Puddles collected in sunken tiles, reflecting fragments of sky and the shifting silhouettes of armed figures. Vines draped across leaning walls like heavy curtains, brushing armor and dampening cloth. The air felt heavy, the kind of stillness that carried the weight of an unseen audience.
Then, a sound—the scrape of metal against stone ahead. All motion stilled. From the shadowed maw of a collapsed corridor, they came: Wraithguards, skeletal shapes wrapped in blackened armor, halberds gripped in fleshless hands. The ghostlight in their eyes burned an icy blue, and with it came a sudden drop in temperature so sharp that breath fogged instantly.
The clash came without warning. Halberd points lanced forward with the speed of striking snakes. Kenshin blurred into motion, arcs of lightning snapping from his gauntlets, illuminating the gloom with stark flashes that etched every shadow in harsh relief. Drathan's void slashes split the air, bending reality into jagged seams that swallowed steel and spat shards. Mira danced between them all, blades carving into weakened joints with surgical precision. Seme met the Wraithguards with brute force, her greatsword smashing into armor with impacts that rang like temple bells.
When the last echo of battle faded, a whisper of cold air lingered. Mira followed it to a narrow corridor hidden between two sagging walls. The gap was just wide enough for two to pass shoulder-to-shoulder. Cool, stale air spilled from it, carrying the faint metallic tang of old wards.
Her fingers traced faint runes along the stone until she found the seam. Velra pressed her palm to the glyphs; they shimmered weakly before collapsing into dust. With a low, grinding sigh, the wall pivoted inward.
Beyond lay a descending staircase, the walls slick with condensation. Ancient symbols marred by time stretched along the stone, barely visible in the light of their torches. Every step echoed hollowly, swallowed by the pressing dark. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became until each breath felt deliberate, weighted.
At the base, the corridor widened into a vaulted chamber lined with statues—warriors locked in eternal guard. Dust motes swirled lazily in thin shafts of light filtering from unseen cracks above. The silence here was not absence but anticipation.
Then the stone groaned.
The statues moved, grinding limbs shifting with a fluidity that defied their form. Seme's blade crashed into a shield, the impact vibrating up her arms. Runes flared briefly, resisting the blow. Kenshin became a streak of light, weaving between them and delivering jarring electric strikes that left spiderweb cracks along their surfaces. Drathan's void ripple swallowed an incoming blade, then spat it back as glittering fragments. Mira slid low, driving her blades into the back of one guardian, while Velra's spear pierced straight through another's chest.
Each guardian's collapse sent a pulse of unseen energy rippling outward, pushing the adventurers back. When the final statue shattered, the brazier at the chamber's heart flared to life in a blossom of amber light, casting shifting shadows along the walls—as though the ruin itself had taken note of their arrival.
Velra's voice broke the stillness. "Everyone sound off. Injuries?"
One by one, the squads reported in—bruises, shallow cuts, but no casualties. Mira moved among them, checking straps, retying bandages, and exchanging brief nods with those who had held the line. Seme leaned on her sword, breathing heavily but grinning at the way the other adventurers' eyes kept flicking toward her in something like respect.
Mira and Seme moved toward the far side of the chamber, where the walls bowed inward around a cracked mural. The air there was cooler, and the dust undisturbed. Mira's fingers brushed over faded paint—scenes of armored figures crossing bridges of bone, shadowed beasts lurking beneath. She crouched, tracing faint grooves in the floor where heavy objects had been dragged centuries ago. Seme bent beside her, peering into the darkness beyond a jagged break in the wall. "Could be another passage," she murmured.
"Or a trap," Mira replied softly, tail flicking once in thought. She noted the subtle slope of the floor toward the break and the way the dust settled heavier along the edges—signs of old movement. They exchanged a glance, the kind that carried the weight of both curiosity and caution.
Some of the more curious fighters wandered toward the chamber's edges, brushing dust off faded murals and chipped carvings. "These figures… they're all holding different weapons," one murmured, tracing a spear etched into the wall.
Drathan, lounging near the brazier, smirked. "Good sign or bad sign, you think?"
"Depends," Velra replied, her gaze never leaving the shifting shadows. "If they're warnings… we'd better start paying attention.