We left the tavern with the taste of maple and sex still clinging to our tongues and the morning sun already burning the mist off the river.
The three of us moved like a single creature: Rill half a step ahead, tail swaying like a metronome, hips rolling with leftover satisfaction; Lioren gliding beside me, cool fingers brushing my wrist every few strides just to feel the pulse there; me in the middle, dragon-hide coat open to the breeze, the faint scent of last night's widow still ghosting off my skin like expensive perfume.
The city smelled alive: fresh horse dung steaming in the sun, hot sesame oil from a noodle cart, the metallic tang of the river when the wind shifted, and underneath everything the green, resinous bite of pine drifting down from the northern gates where the Original Dungeon waited.
We detoured through the morning market one last time. Spices exploded in the air: saffron the color of fresh blood, star-anise sharp enough to make eyes water, crushed cardamom releasing clouds of sweet dust that coated the back of the throat. A fishmonger gutted a huge silver salmon beside us; cold guts slapped wetly into a bucket, scales flying like scattered coins, the sudden briny slap of the sea cutting through the spice haze. Rill stole a slice of raw fish straight off the block, popped it in her mouth, and moaned theatrically. Lioren laughed and licked a stray drop of lemon juice off Rill's lower lip without thinking. My cock twitched like it had been personally invited.
At the provisioner we loaded up. Dense travel bread still warm from the oven, crust crackling when squeezed, smelling of anise and dark molasses. Smoked trout packed in salt that tasted of the mountain rivers it came from. Hard sausages studded with black pepper that stung the nose just standing near them. A wheel of sharp white cheese wrapped in cloth that left greasy fingerprints. And, because we were idiots with too much gold, three bottles of chilled peach sparkling wine that sweated cold in our hands and tasted like biting into summer itself.
By the time we reached the northern gate the sun was high and merciless. Heat shimmered off the flagstones; sweat gathered at the small of my back and slid down inside the dragon-hide like a secret. Rill's ears were pinned flat against the heat; Lioren's silver hair stuck to her neck in damp ropes that caught the light and threw it back like molten metal.
The gate guards took one look at us (three beautiful disasters in new armor, reeking of money, sex, and barely-contained violence) and waved us through without a word.
Beyond the walls the pine forest waited, cool and dark and smelling of sap, moss, and secrets older than the city behind us. The road narrowed to a dirt track that smelled of crushed needles and sun-warmed earth. Our boots raised little puffs of dust that tasted faintly sweet.
Rill skipped ahead, tail high, then spun back to walk backward, grinning. "Original Dungeon, baby. No respawns, no safety net. Just us, whatever nightmare lives inside, and all the loot we can carry."
Lioren's fingers found mine, cool and steady. "And the story," she added softly, eyes already scanning the shadows between the trees. "The real one. The one that's been waiting for someone to finish it."
I flexed my hand; the fire-opal woke up warm and eager against my palm, like it could already taste what was coming.
The wind shifted, carrying the first faint whiff of something ancient and electric from deep in the forest: ozone, wet stone, and the copper promise of old magic stirring after centuries of sleep.
We breathed it in together, three sets of lungs filling with the same reckless air, and started walking.
The pines closed behind us like a gate.
Somewhere ahead, the Original Dungeon opened one sleepy eye and smiled with too many teeth.
We smiled back, sharper, and kept walking, boots crunching pine needles, gold clinking, hearts loud enough to scare the birds silent for miles.
Let the story begin
The forest swallowed us whole.
The moment we stepped off the trade road the temperature dropped ten degrees and the light turned green-gold, filtered through a ceiling of pine needles so thick it felt like walking underwater. Every breath tasted of cold sap, wet moss, and the faint iron tang of ancient magic seeping from the soil. Sunlight came in thin, slanted blades that sliced across the path and painted moving coins of light on our armor.
The ground was carpeted in centuries of fallen needles (springy, silent, smelling sharp and sweet when crushed under boot). Each footfall released tiny clouds of resin that clung to our calves and made the dragon-hide creak softly, like it was breathing with us. Somewhere high above, wind moved the treetops; the sound was a low, endless roar like distant surf.
Rill's ears swiveled constantly, catching every snap of twig, every drip of condensation from a branch overhead. Her tail was bottle-brushed with excitement; the calico fur caught stray sunbeams and glowed like embered copper. Sweat from the city had dried, leaving salt crystals that glittered on her throat whenever she turned her head.
Lioren walked with her bow half-drawn, the black horn creaking faintly in her grip. Silver hair had escaped its tie again; damp strands stuck to her cheekbones and the curve of her neck, carrying the clean scent of pine soap and her own cool skin. Every few steps she brushed her fingers across a tree trunk, reading the bark like braille, eyes narrowed, listening to something only elves can hear.
I tasted the magic before I saw it: ozone sharp enough to sting the back of my throat, the way the air feels right before lightning. The fire-opal on my staff began to pulse in slow, hungry beats, warm against my palm like a second heart waking up.
The path narrowed until branches clawed at our shoulders, leaving sticky resin streaks on crimson dragon-hide and midnight cloak alike. Needles rained down in soft, constant showers, catching in hair, sliding down collars, smelling like Christmas and old secrets.
Then the trees simply… stopped.
We stepped into a perfect circle clearing no wider than a village square. The ground was black glass (obsidian smooth, reflecting the green sky above like a dark mirror). In the center stood a single archway of living stone, carved with runes that hurt to look at directly. They crawled and shifted when stared at too long, glowing faint violet, smelling of thunderstorms and wet iron.
The air here was colder, heavier, tasting of copper and wintergreen. Every exhaled breath hung visible for a heartbeat before the clearing drank it. Sound warped: our boots on obsidian rang like temple bells; heartbeats echoed back louder than they should.
Rill's tail puffed huge. "Holy shit," she whispered, voice cracking with awe. "It's breathing."
She was right. The archway inhaled (a slow, tidal pull that tugged at clothes, hair, the fine hairs on our arms). Then exhaled, warm and electric, carrying the scent of rain on hot stone and something darker (old blood baked into rock).
Lioren stepped forward first, bow lowered but ready, silver hair floating in the unnatural breeze. Moonlight-pale fingers traced a rune; violet light flared under her touch and the stone sang a single, perfect note that vibrated in teeth and bones.
I felt the fire-opal scream silently, eager, almost painful against my skin.
The archway widened, revealing stairs spiraling down into velvet darkness that smelled of deep time and waiting stories.
Rill cracked her neck, rolled her shoulders, grinned with too many teeth. "First floor's mine to scout."
Lioren nocked an arrow that wasn't there a second ago, the black fletching drinking the light. "I've got overwatch."
I lifted my staff; the opal flared white-hot, casting long shadows that writhed like living things.
"Together," I said, tasting ozone and destiny.
Three sets of boots stepped onto the obsidian in perfect unison. The clearing exhaled one last time, warm across the backs of our necks like approval.
Then the forest closed the door behind us.
The Original Dungeon welcomed its new players with a smile made of stone and starlight, and the first step downward tasted like the beginning of everything.
We descended laughing, because of course we did.
Monsters, puzzles, gods, whatever waited below; none of them were ready for what was coming.