Nearly three months had passed since Zeek had last ventured into the Heart of Sorrows. Adventurers had come and gone from the halls of the guilds and the tables of the taverns. The labyrinth had become something of a local legend: riches awaited those brave enough to venture into its depths and wily enough to survive its horrors, but no such luck had been found. The labyrinth had seen less and less adventurers, raiders, and pilferers as even fewer lived to tell the tale as the population of its denizens only seemed to grow every time its doors slid open.
Zeek, on the other hand, had become a pariah. He'd never been a man of importance to begin with, at least, not until the labyrinth came into his life. Before it, he was just another wanderer, drifting from town to town, trying to make something of himself. He had been ordinary, unremarkable—a simple man in a world full of simple people. But then, the labyrinth had taken everything from him. His life. His love. His very soul. It had claimed the lives of every guild member that dared to wander its depths alongside him, and that was beginning to be a sticking point.
Now, he was nothing more than a cursed figure in the eyes of the few who still remembered his name. Zeek. To speak it was to invoke the wrath of those whose loved ones had perished because of him. He had brought adventurers—brave, foolish souls—into the labyrinth, hoping to find a way to save Lilliana. But, each time, they were lost to the abyss, their bodies rising again to wander the halls of The Heart of Sorrows as mindless, rotting husks. Each death, another stain on his soul, another name added to the tally of those lost under his banner.
The whispers followed him everywhere. In taverns. In the streets. In the dark alleys where shadows stretched, long and dangerous. His name, once spoken in the guildhall for his experience in the labyrinth, was now spoken with bitterness and contempt. He'd become a cautionary tale for any adventurer too ambitious for his own good.
Zeek, barely having survived one of the deepest dives into the Heart of Sorrow, was nursing some mead as another band of rogues entered the tavern. "Zeek! So glad to see your face out here again!" They seemed more cheerful than he was ready to accept. The six of them sat at the table next to him causing a small scene in the otherwise empty establishment. "Aye, can we get some more ale over here!" The leader of the band, Verris, had seen Zeek on many occasions before his most recent foray.
"So, I heard your last dive didn't…uh, exactly go as planned," Verris said, eyeing Zeek before taking a look at the cooling mead he'd been nursing. "You always drink the sweet stuff, no wonder you don't have what it takes; real men drink ale!" The band burst into laughter before he spoke again. His face hardened, "What did you find that got my boy Luke killed? He was one of the best I could've sent your way, and he wasn't cheap."
Zeek stared into his cup. "If he was your best, I wonder why I made it out and he didn't? He couldn't have been as skilled as promised seeing as he'd fallen prey to a ghoul barely 30 paces from the entrance." Luke, to the best of his knowledge, had died much deeper inside, second to last, in fact, but Zeek didn't have the money to pay for that kind of quality, and he'd barely made it out alive himself.
Verris bristled. "Are you trying to tell me a veteran of war and skirmishes with prior knowledge of the labyrinth, in particular, didn't make it beyond the first couple corridors? Come now Zeek, I think we both know better than that."
"Answer me this, did you find anything of his things in there? Or did you, I don't know, let fear keep you from entering?" While Verris was right, Zeek had taken precautions. When Luke had met his untimely demise, he'd had stolen his pack, his weapons, and his keepsakes, before doubling back and littering them throughout earlier parts of the labyrinth where novice adventurers had normally been able to frequent. By now, all of Luke's belongings, with the exception of his coin pouch, of course, had made it into the hands of far less seasoned adventurers and rogues to be seen throughout the town, adding some credibility to Zeek's claims. Verris's eyes caught on Luke's specially crafted Blackstone hunting bow on the back of a novice ranger passing by; his initials were still engraved on the arch. "I don't assume you think that young archer made it very far in there considering he doesn't even have the good sense to remove the initials."
"You're lucky I have the good sense not to kill you now and call it even," Verris growled. "Make sure my account has the extra purse on it by day's end or your luck may run out by nightfall."
"Here, consider his 'services' covered." Zeek pushed an airy pouch toward Verris sarcastically. "Now don't bother me again with such meager offerings if your men aren't up to the task. This is all you'll get for such a pitiful display. It wouldn't seem too good for business if your men can't even survive a job, and the fresh meat ends up carrying his gear all around town. Nightfall will be here before you know it and I'm sure you've better things to do than pester a client you couldn't provide for." With that, he drained his mead and stood up. "And, by the by, I wouldn't consider threatening the man who outlived your very finest. Doesn't seem like it's good for your health." He patted Verris on the shoulder before brushing past him. "Unless you're offering your own services, I think our business has concluded."
"Now, where to start," Zeek pondered aloud.
It had been four years since his first foray into the labyrinth, four years since he'd abandoned Lilliana in the Black Garden, and every day since had felt like a thousand years. The first time he had entered The Heart of Sorrows, he had been filled with the naïve hope of a man in love. He believed that the labyrinth would bend to his will like so many other labyrinths had, providing riches and glory to the first party to reach the center. He believed that it would show mercy, but the labyrinth knew not mercy's name. All it had ever known was hunger, a deep, gnawing hunger that consumed everything in its path, corrupting whatever was left.
The first party had been his friends; companions he had known since childhood. They had fallen so swiftly, their deaths more of a mercy than the foolhardy group deserved. The horrors in store for those that had survived the initial culling were enough to crush whatever hope or sanity they had left. They'd had to watch their dead friends come back to life, only to have to either kill them again and again or be torn apart and disemboweled while looking at the angry faces of those they'd once fought beside.
The second party had been a group of seasoned adventurers and mercenaries, veterans who had seen death in every form. But, despite their experience and skills, the labyrinth had not spared them either. The third party hadn't been spared either, neither was the fourth. Each time, the same result. More deaths. More corpses. More souls bound forever to the Heart of Sorrows. All
those souls, cursed with the same fate. When their bodies rose again, they were not the people they had once been. They were husks. Silent, hollow-eyed things that shuffled endlessly through the labyrinth's corridors. Every time, their faces had once looked at him with the same question.
Why?
Zeek had no answer. None that would suffice. It was his cowardice that had trapped Lilliana, and his selfishness that continued to get them killed.
The villagers in the nearby towns had long since stopped calling him by his name, if they spoke to him at all. When he ventured into town for supplies, he was met with silence, sometimes with scorn. Once, a man had thrown a rotten apple at him. The words had burned more than the sting of the fruit. "You brought death to us. You brought ruin to everyone around you. You killed my son. You should just die in those ruins."
It was all true. Zeek had failed at every turn. Each venture had led to more death, more tragedy, more curses bound to the labyrinth. It had become his legacy. The Labyrinth's Harbinger—they called him. He was no longer a man. He was a symbol of destruction, a living reminder of what happened when you dared to reach beyond your own grasp.
In his most private moments, Zeek wondered if he was a fool for even continuing the quest. How many had to die for Lilliana to remember him? How many more lives would be worth the chance of saving her? The question gnawed at him, but it could never be answered. Not until the end. And even then, he feared there would be no redemption for him.
Lilliana's memory was slipping. His face, his name, everything she had once known of him—had it all been erased by the labyrinth? She was no longer the woman he had loved. The woman who had smiled, whose eyes had sparkled with life. Now, in the darkest depths of The Heart of Sorrows, she was something else. Something unrecognizable. He had seen the signs, the whispers that crawled through his mind, urging him to let go, to turn back. But his heart would not allow it.
Something broke his depressed musing as he continued to walk the streets. They were still bustling this evening as traders were still making do with the wares the adventurers had provided for the day. Stalls lined the walkways and courts scurried through the streets carrying precious goods to and fro. Adventurers of all kinds still flooded the markets and stalls as they left the guildhalls or strolled towards the taverns hoping the traders could provide them with the spending money they most desperately needed to get drunk.
Zeek walked the streets carelessly as he continued to watch the evening festivities. He knew he needed more bodies to get access into the labyrinth, and he'd left all his previous lot there to rot and prey upon whoever illuminated those halls with their lamp light. Of course, mercenaries were always an option, but a group would need trust to survive the trials in the Heart of Sorrows. Perhaps a guild post could be of use, he thought, but the gold he'd earned from his last trip into the depths had left him strapped from life-saving medicine and healing rituals to keep him alive once he was found. Perhaps, he pondered, he could call upon some old friends in the capital from his training days? While the trip to the Capital would take a few months to get to and from, especially with a party large enough to get where he needed them to: The Black Garden, the center-most chamber in the Heart of Sorrows.
The air in the city had the kind of heaviness that only came after tragedy; a weight pressing on the hearts of its people. He could feel it the moment he'd left the market plaza, the subtle shifts in the crowd as they looked away or muttered under their breath. The whispers were always there, hovering like vultures, circling their prey. The rumors were ever present.
He had become a ghost in the city; a specter whose very presence contaminated the air. It had been months since his last return from the Heart of Sorrows, and the deaths of his previous crew still hung about the town. The families of the fallen had no sympathy, and the merchants had little patience for a man whose coin had been spent and whose reputation had been shattered.
His feet carried him through the narrow alleyways toward the familiar sight of the inn, The Grinning Widow. Just as he reached his room, he noticed the distinct smell of rust, a copper tinge on the tip of his tongue. "Blood," he thought, his stomach twisting in dread.
A symbol.
A crude, jagged mark was painted on the door of his room. It was hastily done, as if someone had tried to warn or curse him. The blood that formed the symbol had not yet dried, but it had already turned black, staining the wooden door in a way that made Zeek's chest tighten. The symbol was a perfect circle with a centered line from the top, through the bottom, trailing down to the floor where a pool of the scarlet fluid had started to congeal.
"Fuck me," Zeek whispered. He pulled his knife out of its sheath and crept into the room. None of his things had been disturbed, but with that symbol on the door, it wouldn't be long now. He gathered his pack, the few rations he had left, and his hunting bow, the rest he could go without. What was that symbol? Who inked it? Where had all that blood come from? Those questions would have to wait. He slipped on a black cloak and donned the cowl. "I'm not staying here to figure this out," he thought, slipping out the room. Witnesses be damned! This town was small enough already and his reputation as a pariah had been cemented after his last expeditions; this would put a target on his back for the guild and any officials looking to make a name for themselves by capturing a spy or heretic crazy enough to decorate an inn's door with human blood. Where there's blood, there's bodies; only the lucky few find a single corpse when that symbol shows up.
Zeek strode out the inn doors and into the crisp night air. The streets were empty, taverns eerily silent, and the market's vendors must have left in a hurry. He turned his gaze back to the symbol, allowing it to linger for a long moment. The weight of their hatred pressing down on him was crushing. Whatever this was, he must have been marked for some time. Something was festering, something dark, something that could no longer be ignored, and he found himself at the center of it. His thoughts were wild and anxious, "It's too dark. I was only in my room for a couple breaths, what's going on?" Before he could breathe, a pair of hands dug into his shoulders and slammed him against the cobblestone road. He rolled to his back instinctively; this man's eyes were bloodshot, bulging out of their sockets as if they were about to leave them entirely. Drool poured from the man's twisted, snarling jaws as he opened wide, his mouth aimed intently at Zeek's throat. Dazed, he moved his head just far enough out of reach so as not to have his trachea removed, but the force behind this lunatic's weight was immense and his strength bordered on inhuman.
"I'm not about to die tonight," Zeek hissed.
"If only I'd be so lucky." Verris lunged into view, the runes on his mace glowing ominously as it collided with the man's head. The body swung over Zeek, the head oddly dented by the mace that hungrily saturated itself with the blood now pouring over it, creating a hardened, radiating outer shell. The body spasmed, slowing down to a twitch after a few seconds.
"It's no surprise Luke passed so early in a party with you."
"I'm in no mood for small talk Verris, you got your coin, and we've no further business," Zeek spat, hauling himself to his feet.
"Aye, you did say that. But seeing as I saved your life, and you seem to be in a bit of a bind, I find myself with your life in my debt, but no coin in my hand." A smug look crossed Verris's face, "Not to mention, Regalia is hungry." He tilted his head at his mace, now glowing bright red and pulsating in the skull of its most recent victim. That mace had always been a monstrosity, but seeing it drain and consume blood as it grew…made it almost awe-inspiring, if not macabre.
"I don't have time for this," Zeek started to walk away before being gripped by Verris's hand. It felt like an iron snake was coiling around his wrist.
"What's the rush Zeek? There's no secrets amongst friends, right? Don't tell me, you're in a spot of trouble?" Verris teased out a light chuckle before settling his eyes on Zeek's. His look was intense, hunger in his eyes; a harsh grasp of the desperation he sensed.
The growing unease that had settled upon Zeek was palpable at this point, and, despite himself, he wasn't in any place to refuse help or fight someone who so clearly has the upper hand. He allowed his shoulders to drop, and Verris released him, his eyes locked on Zeek's knife with a hungry grin.
"An omen," muttered Zeek.
"Pray tell, what's this 'omen' you're going on about?"
"My door at the inn had a moon, halved by a line going down to the floor, all in blood." Zeek watched Verris carefully as the last words reached him. He didn't seem to respond, but, at least to Zeek, something seemed to flash across his eyes before his boorish demeanor returned.
"Seems you may need some muscle after all. I assume you'll be leaving town on account of this 'omen' of yours and the fact that no one wants you here to begin with." Verris paused to allow himself an arrogant smirk. "You'll need more than a couple rations and a bow to get anywhere alive if this new religion of yours is going to continue these parlor tricks," he said, pointing to the slumped body now withering under the voracious appetite of the Regalia. "I'll call it even if you can cough up thirty gold pieces right now: the rest of Luke's mercenary fee. I'll even tag along to see where this goes. You'll likely need all the help you can get; I'm sure I'll make much more coin off you alive rather than dead." Verris's smirk contorted into a menacing sneer. "Otherwise, I could just end it now, case closed. I'm sure there's some kind of inquisition or witch trial for random doors covered in lamb's blood these days. Your choice."
"I'd assumed it would've been one of your guys from the start," said Zeek warily.
"Only the tail. I like to collect my debts…ALL of them."
Zeek pulled out a small bag, coins jingling inside, and tossed it at Verris. "Have your coin," he spat, "now where did this one come from?" He pointed to the corpse still resting under Regalia's weight.
"Not quite sure. Once your tail didn't come back, I had half a mind to kill you myself. It appeared your luck had all but dried up. Luckily, mind you, I'm not quick to anger. Turns out this corpse-crazed man caught Vallen unawares…his loss." Verris finally drew the weighty mace from the man's crushed skull leaving a disgusting vacancy in its place. The mace didn't drip blood, instead, solidifying it into a glowing shell encasing the weapon with a faint red glow. "We'd best be off," he said with a wave, "when there's one body, there's plenty more."