The group had just finished resting in the first chamber when Seme and Mira began methodically moving through the shadowed space, their boots crunching on centuries-old dust that released faint puffs with each step. The stale air was thick, carrying the dry scent of ancient stone and a hint of something metallic. Shafts of pale light pierced through narrow cracks in the vaulted ceiling, casting ghostly columns that caught drifting motes in slow, lazy spirals. Seme's gaze lingered on faded carvings depicting long-forgotten battles, the figures worn smooth and blurred by time. Mira knelt, fingers brushing away layers of grit to reveal an odd paw-shaped depression in the stone floor, its edges polished by centuries of contact.
Across the chamber, rival squad members sifted through debris. One pried loose a handful of corroded bronze coins, their surfaces dulled but still etched with faint engravings. Another adventurer lifted a gem-encrusted amulet, fractured stones catching the torchlight in jagged, uneven glints. Soft murmurs rippled through the gathered groups as small treasures quietly changed hands, greed and curiosity mingling in their eyes.
Velra's voice cut through the chamber, calling them to move on. They gathered at the far archway, where the passage narrowed sharply and the ceiling dipped low enough to force a slight hunch. The air shifted—heavier now, cooler, and tinged with the tang of rust and damp earth. Velra warned them to watch for traps, her calm but firm tone grounding the rising tension.
The first danger came without warning—a muted click under an A-rank swordsman's boot. The wall ahead erupted—TWANG! SHHHK!—as rusted spears shot across the corridor. A C-rank fighter stumbled back, clutching his arm as blood seeped through a torn sleeve. The smell of iron sharpened in the confined space.
Moments later, a faint whirr stirred in the stone. Two female adventurers stepped forward at the wrong moment—only for Kenshin to vanish in a flash of light. ZZZKT! Lightning crackled as he zipped between them and the wall, grabbing their waists and yanking them clear just before a rain of arrows ripped through the air. Thunk-thunk-thunk! The sound of steel biting stone echoed after them. The women clung to him briefly, cheeks flushed, murmuring breathless thanks as he grinned, all confidence and charm.
The path grew more oppressive, every echo bouncing back warped and uneasy. Another trap sprang with a grinding groan as the floor ahead collapsed, revealing a shallow pit lined with dulled spikes. Two startled adventurers dropped in with twin shouts, hitting bottom with bone-jarring thuds. Ropes were thrown down, curses muttered, and nervous laughter forced its way into the tension.
Progress slowed to a crawl. Boots tested each slab before committing weight, and Mira moved like a phantom, eyes catching the faintest seam or shadow. Seme marked safe ground, guiding smaller squads through tight choke points while Velra scanned behind for stragglers. The ruin seemed to hum faintly, vibrations ghosting through the walls as if the stone itself breathed.
The corridor widened ahead, splitting into two ancient archways. The left path was narrow and dim, the air cool with a musk of damp earth. The right was broader, faint golden crystal light glimmering on its walls, the metallic tang catching in the back of the throat. Mira inhaled, her ears twitching. "Two scents," she murmured. "One of earth and rot… the other of something sharper, almost like burnt stone."
After debate, most squads chose the right. The trio and Mira chose the left—Drathan felt a pull in that direction, an unshakable sense of being called.
The left path tightened into a narrow tunnel, the walls damp and veined with roots that writhed faintly in the torchlight. The ground sloped gently upward until they emerged into a vast, vine-choked space where moss climbed high stone walls and patches of grass grew in dirt-filled cracks. A weathered stone pathway wound toward a towering temple, its facade scarred yet imposing. The air was thick with the scent of greenery and ancient dust. Witty banter flowed between the trio, though Drathan's mind was half-elsewhere, the voice's call growing stronger.
Meanwhile, Velra's group trudged into the right path. The deeper they went, the hotter the air became, carrying the dry sting of scorched rock. By the tunnel's end, they stood at the edge of a chamber dominated by a magma lake, the heat warping the air in shimmering waves. A solitary tower rose from a central platform, connected by a single stone bridge weathered by centuries of heat. Crossing the bridge was nerve-wracking—the ancient stone groaned underfoot, flakes dropping into the molten depths below. Inside, the tower's first floor defied its outer dimensions, a sprawling interior shaped by spatial magic. Cool, polished floors contrasted sharply with the blistering heat outside, and glowing glyphs lined the walls in flowing patterns. Velra ordered a quick camp to be set; fires were unnecessary in the stifling warmth. Members fanned out, exploring alcoves filled with dust-laden relics and sealed doors that hummed faintly with arcane wards. Murmurs rose—guesses about treasure, unease about the magic's origins.
Night fell, and both groups made camp where they were. Fires flickered, stew simmered, and wounded were tended. Mira's hands moved with steady precision as she dressed injuries. Velra made her rounds, gauging morale. The trio's fire was quieter—Kenshin lounging, Drathan spinning the day's events into exaggerated tales, Seme sharpening her blade. Seme stretched her muscles before laying on her sleeping bag at the side of the stone pathway, her mind wandering to the thought of returning to town. She could almost feel the weightless comfort of a soft bed beneath her and the soothing warmth of a real bath washing away the grime and tension of the ruins. Mira's thoughts lingered on the subtle patterns she'd seen etched into the temple's base, wondering if they were warnings or prayers. Velra pondered the risks ahead, noting who she could trust if the factions clashed. Kenshin's mind replayed the rescue from the arrow trap, a private smirk tugging at his lips.
Drathan drifted into uneasy dreams, the voice returning: "Come to me," it whispered, as if the temple's stones themselves were calling.