The first intruders stepped through the dungeon entrance without a word. Black robes brushed across the stone floor, each step quiet and controlled.
Masks hid every face. No patterns, no colors, only matte black plates cut to erase identity. Fifty of them filed in, moving with practiced rhythm. No one lingered. No one looked around in curiosity. They moved like people who had rehearsed this kind of entry more times than they could count - these were seasoned dungeon combatants.
The air shifted as their two leaders entered.
The man came first. Even beneath the robe, the fabric pulled across his frame, shaped by shoulders built from hard training. His hood cast a sharp line across his mask, which covered everything but a steady line of breath through the mouth vents. He stopped just past the threshold, planted his boots, and began to survey the entrance room to the dungeon, also known as the safe zone.
