The outer chambers of Dungeon #89J yawned before them, its stone arches lined with frost and the faint scent of dust that hadn't been disturbed in decades. Party 5 advanced slowly, the crunch of boots against gravel echoing against walls that seemed too narrow, too eager to swallow them whole.
Before they pressed deeper, Trevus lifted a hand.
"Hold. Before we move any further, I want us tethered."
He drew in a deep breath, his palms already faintly aglow. Threads of blue mana spilled from his fingertips, weaving themselves into fine, shimmering filaments that arced through the stale air.
"Simple Magic: Threadlines." His voice was firm, but calm.
The group instinctively gathered closer.
"Line up," Trevus instructed. "One at a time—I'll tune each thread to your mana signature. If this dungeon decides to split us apart, the thread will hold. It doesn't matter how far you are—these lines will guide you back to the person you're tied to. Even if the dungeon shifts the floor under us."
Harlen raised a brow, crossing his arms. "And what if the dungeon shifts the ceiling onto us?"
Camylle shot him a glare. "Then I'll cook you under it and call it a day. Shut up and let Trevus work."
One by one, they stepped forward, their mana drawn into the threads. The colors flared as each connection formed—threads weaving between them like a net of living light.
Trevus's was blue, steady and taut.
Harlen's flared green, vibrant as new leaves.
Camylle's burned orange, warm as her ever-present embers.
Lotha's thread glowed a gentle yellow, pulsing softly like a candle in prayer.
Nira's shimmered a cold purple, almost vanishing into the shadows before flashing sharply again.
Mina's rope-like bond seared red, bright and fierce despite her Null nature.
And finally, Ashe's line burned a cool cyan, faint but layered with subtle distortions—like a mirage flickering over water.
Nira tilted her head, purple eyes narrowing as she flicked her thread with a dagger tip. "Feels… strange. Like a leash."
"More like a lifeline," Trevus countered.
"Same thing, depending on who's holding the rope," Nira muttered, though she didn't cut it.
Harlen grinned, tugging at his green line as though testing reins. "Hah! Almost feels like we're married off to each other. Careful, Camylle—you're tied to me now in more ways than one."
Camylle didn't hesitate—her fist met his shoulder with a thud, the orange thread rippling. "Keep joking and I'll burn the line just to spite you."
Harlen only winced, laughing through the pain.
Trevus ignored them, finishing the last knot of mana and letting the web settle. "Good. Keep these threads in mind. If you lose sight of one another, don't panic. Follow the pull."
The air shifted. Something deeper in the dungeon stirred, like machinery waking from a long sleep. A faint grinding noise trembled through the stone underfoot.
Camylle took point, snapping her fingers. Embers of flame lifted from her palms, blossoming into floating vexes of firelight that hovered above the group. Dozens of orange motes spread like fireflies, clinging to walls, ceilings, and even gliding ahead to scout the path.
"Light up, Bun Lady," Harlen teased, though his eyes were scanning the ceiling nervously.
Camylle ignored him, the vexes casting long shadows over broken pillars and walls.
The dungeon groaned again. Somewhere ahead, a metal hinge shrieked.
Lotha gripped her shield tighter. "That sound… shifting chambers."
Trevus's jaw tightened. "Exactly. Everyone—watch your steps. This dungeon is alive. Every path we take, it'll try to move against us."
The threads between them pulsed faintly, tugging with each step, their colors cutting through the dark like veins of living light as Party 5 pressed deeper into Dungeon #89J.
The Party moved in deliberate rhythm, Trevus and Camylle at the vanguard, the others falling in quiet order behind them. Their boots echoed faintly against cold stone, the sound swallowed by the endless corridors.
Mina squinted at the threads glowing faintly between them, her red filament almost invisible in the dim. "Hey, Trev," she muttered, tugging lightly on it, "why's mine so weak? Looks like it could snap."
Trevus didn't slow his step. "It's not faint—it's resting. Threadlines only shine bright when distance stretches them. The farther apart we get, the stronger the glow. Close together, they fade to a hum." He glanced back briefly, his expression calm but hard. "So if you ever lose sight of me, don't panic. Just follow the threads."
Mina clicked her tongue. "Huh. Guess that makes sense."
He gave a faint nod, then returned his gaze forward. "The dungeon won't shift randomly. Not until we're spotted. Once a Sentry marks us, commands ripple through the chambers. Walls turn. Floors slide. The whole place reshapes itself."
That earned a grim silence.
Camylle exhaled slowly, her palms hovering inches from the stone. A low orange glow pulsed from her, rippling outward in a steady rhythm—mana waves echoing off walls, floors, and hidden spaces.
Echolocative.
Her vexes of flame followed the reverberations, forming a map no parchment could hold.
"Left path's a dead end. Right path curves deeper," she murmured. Her amber eyes were half-closed, her ears twitching faintly, catching things the others could not. Whispers of gears hidden behind walls, the metallic rattle of mechanisms waiting like coiled serpents. Rumor said her hearing rivaled that of the Half-Foot's—and right now, no one dared doubt it.
She raised a hand and the Party followed her right.
That's when Harlen broke the silence, his voice carrying too easily down the corridor.
"So—what do you lot think about recruiting someone new?"
The group blinked, half turning to him.
Trevus's head snapped back over his shoulder, his blue eyes narrowing. He said nothing, but the stare alone promised don't start this now.
Harlen grinned anyway, undeterred. "Think about it. Smith, healer, an extra handler—hell, even just a warm body with decent aim. We've got a solid seven, sure but we need a measly ten members. A dwarf's muscle wouldn't hurt. Or a beastfolk's durability and instincts, can't beat that. Imagine a catfolk in the Party—nimble, sharp, stylish."
He leaned on his sword like it was casual tavern talk instead of a dungeon descent.
"Or… what about an elf?" The reaction was immediate.
"WHAT?!" Camylle's voice cracked like flame against oil. She rounded on him so fast her embers sputtered against the walls. "Are you trying to replace me? I'm already the mage of this party! Why the hell would we need an elf?!"
Harlen raised both hands, laughing nervously. "Whoa, easy, Bun Lady, I wasn't saying—"
"Don't you 'Bun Lady' me right now!" Camylle snapped, embers flaring hotter.
At the same time, Lotha's voice—normally gentle—cut sharper than steel.
"Harlen. Enough." The paladin's green eyes narrowed, her tone carrying weight.
"Elves aren't casual recruits. They're almost extinct. The few who remain sit at the highest thrones of the Staynic Order, or at the head of the IHMA. Do you have any idea what it would mean to even find one willing to join us?"
"It's not just rare—it's political suicide. People have bled wars over less." Her voice echoed against the stone, cold and unwavering.
The corridor fell into a heavy silence. Even the hum of Camylle's mana-waves seemed subdued.
"Tch… alright, alright. Point taken. No elves." Harlen gave a small shrug, though his grin faltered at the edges.
Camylle crossed her arms, still glaring. "Damn right, no elves."
Trevus finally exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before gesturing forward.
"Focus on the way ahead. Talk about recruitment later. For now, eyes sharp. Ears sharper."
The threads between them pulsed faintly again as the Party pressed onward, the air growing colder, the grinding of distant gears promising that the dungeon was already listening.
Mina shuffled her boots against the stone floor, red thread trailing faintly at her side as she glanced between Camylle and Lotha. The tension from earlier still clung like smoke. She chewed her lip once, then spoke.
"…So… elves, huh? I mean… considering how both of you snapped back there—guess they're not just a bedtime story after all."
Her voice echoed faintly down the corridor, softer than her usual bluntness.
Camylle clicked her tongue but kept her eyes forward, vexes gliding through the air above them.
"Forget it. I just don't like the thought of being replaced, that's all. I've been the mage of this Party long before Trevus even became our leader. Hearing elf out of Harlen's mouth sounded like 'you're not enough.'"
Harlen winced but didn't argue.
"Forgive me as well. My outrage earlier… it probably startled everyone. I should have been gentler." Lotha sighed quietly, her yellow thread pulsing like a calm heartbeat in the dark. Her voice was warm again, carrying that steadying tone she always had.
But she didn't stop there. As they walked, her words wove into the silence, turning the dungeon's dark halls into something like a classroom.
"Elves are no myth. They were an ancient race—older than almost every record we have. Their lives span four to five thousand years, and there are claims, written by the earliest scribes of Stayne, that elves already walked the earth before the Rapture—more than ten thousand years ago."
Ashe's brows furrowed, his cyan thread twitching faintly at his wrist. "…Pre-Rapture? So they witnessed the fall of the gods themselves?"
"Some did," Lotha said softly. "But few lived long enough to tell it. Their people dwindled not because of slaughter or conquest, but by disease. A sickness that spared every other race yet cut down elves by the thousands. It was merciless, striking only their kind. For centuries, they withered. Entire bloodlines erased. By the time resistance finally bloomed within their species four centuries ago… most of them were already gone."
Her voice dipped lower, as though in reverence. "Now, perhaps three thousand elves remain in the world. Almost all dwell within the Citadel of Magis on the Northern Continent, guarded and sheltered. Their mana pools are… staggering. Even compared to Surge Mages, elves command oceans of power. That is their curse and their legacy—an eternity of time to grow, and the mana to bend worlds if they wished."
Camylle's flames hissed softly as her vexes pulsed ahead. She muttered, quieter this time,
"And that's why most of them sit above the clouds, huh? The Staynic Order. The IHMA."
"Exactly," Lotha nodded. "They don't serve guilds, nor kingdoms, nor companies. They serve only balance. When dungeons grow unstable, when magical entities threaten nations, and when wanted men court calamity—elves are there, enforcing the law of magic itself. They are not adventurers. They are enforcers. High arbiters of the IHMA."
The corridor fell quiet again, the weight of her words heavy. Even Harlen didn't find it in him to jest.
Trevus finally spoke, voice clipped but steady. "Then it's settled. No elves."
The group pressed on, threads glimmering faintly, the grinding of distant gears whispering closer—as if the dungeon itself had listened to the tale.
Camylle slowed her pace, her vexes of flame hovering low as the corridor widened. The air here was heavier, colder, a faint draft whispering from ahead. She lifted a hand and gestured for quiet, her amber eyes narrowing.
"No tripwires. No wall-pistons. Nothing obvious," she murmured. "But this path's opening up. Feels like… a shaft, maybe."
Trevus stepped beside her, gaze sharpening as the floor sloped forward. "It's probably," he said.
"A Checkpoint Chamber. Too many halls in this dungeon not to converge somewhere."
The Party pressed on, the corridor walls stretching higher until the ceiling disappeared into shadow. On their left, a yawning gap tore open the stone—an irregular maw punched straight through the wall.
Camylle tilted her head and leaned over, vex-light spilling into the void. The glow caught nothing. Just endless black, air rushing faintly past her cheek.
"Looks like a cave," she muttered, withdrawing her head. "But no bottom. If there is one, it's too deep for light."
"Then don't test it," Trevus said bluntly.
They moved in tighter formation, every step deliberate. The hum of the threads between them pulsed faintly, a reminder of how easily the dungeon could separate them.
Then Camylle stiffened. Her hand snapped outward, vexes dimming.
"Something's moving," she whispered. Her ears twitched, straining. "Below us. Multiple. Heavy."
The faint tremors reached them moments later. A low, rhythmic thudding, like boulders striking in sequence.
At the end of the hall, the corridor spilled into an overlook—a ledge carved along the side of a cavern vast enough to swallow their outpost whole.
They froze.
Below sprawled a colossal chamber, its floor a patchwork of water-pools, broken stone, and pathways that led nowhere. Gaping tunnels yawned from the cavern walls—dozens of mouths leading to unknown halls. Etched into the stone walls themselves glowed Strygan runes, faint but alive, like veins of molten script feeding the place.
But it wasn't the runes that made their breath catch.
It was the Sentries.
Stone golems marched across the cavern floor, each step shaking the ground. They were titans of granite and rune, white eyes blazing beams down onto the stone as if sweeping for prey. One lumbered to a halt, chest shifting as its head rotated side to side, scanning. Another broke the surface of a water-pool with a thunderous splash, clawing its way onto land—the sound of its ascent rattling the ledge beneath Party 5's boots.
Trevus's jaw tightened. "Sentry Golems," he said, his voice low. "Eyes serve as searchlights. They'll report us the moment we're in range."
. "Hold up. What the hell's that?" Harlen's gaze snapped upward, his hand tightening on his sword
Across the cavern, carved halfway into the stone wall, a giant torso jutted out—a golem fused with the rock itself. Only its head and chest protruded, runes carved deep across its frame. Its mouth was open, hollow, the runes thrumming brighter within.
"A turret," Trevus muttered. "That thing'll spit a beam of mana at anything it sees. And those walls… there'll be more of them."
Camylle's vexes floated lower, outlining a jagged staircase that wound down into the cavern. Her lips pressed tight. "If we take that path, we're wide open. The turrets will burn us before we're halfway down."
The silence was taut, the threads between them humming faintly like held breaths.
Then Nira spoke, her tone flat but sharp as a knife. "I can reach it. Shadows'll take me up to the wall. If I time it right, I can lodge a dagger in the rune-core before it notices me."
She rolled one of her daggers between her fingers, its edge catching the vex-light. Her purple eyes glinted in the dark, calm, unshaken. "I won't give it even a chance to scream."
Nira's eyes flicked toward Trevus, a silent question hidden in her gaze.
Trevus met it, unblinking. His answer was plain. "Don't try. Just do."
A thin smile curved her lips. "That's all I needed."
She knelt low, pressing her palm flat against the cold stone. Her shadow rippled unnaturally, the blackness softening into an ink-like sheen as if the floor itself had begun to bleed. The mark of Deathspeaker. The others stood still, watching as her body slowly sank into that inky void, the last thing visible her smirk before even that melted away.
The shadows shivered—and then flurried off across the chamber like spilled oil chasing gravity.
The rest of Party 5 remained crouched along the ledge, threads taut, vexes dimmed to their faintest glow. The cavern stretched vast before them, and in its dim reaches the turret loomed—a stone giant fused into the wall, glowing faintly at the runes of its chest.
Then, above it, the shadows churned.
A black ripple unfurled, and Nira's head broke through, purple eyes glinting. She surveyed quickly, calculating, then waited. The turret did not sense her—its gaze fixed on the cavern floor, sweeping pale light below.
Only when a drop of inky shadow fell from her portal did the construct twitch, its head tilting as if some primal instinct warned it. But the reaction came too late.
A dagger flashed, descending with surgical precision. Steel met rune, and with a crunch, the blade pierced the core nestled within its head.
The turret shuddered once. Its glow dimmed to nothing. Stone cracked, and silence returned.
From the ledge, Camylle exhaled sharply. "Damn. Clean."
"Good," Trevus muttered. "That's our opening. Move."
The Party began their descent, boots pressing against the exposed stone staircase spiraling down into the cavern. Vexes followed in close orbit, their faint light just enough to keep footing without drawing unwanted eyes.
Halfway down, the shadows burst open along the stair's edge, and Nira launched herself outward. She landed soundlessly, rolling into step beside them, already sheathing her dagger. Her expression was cool, but her wrist flicked instinctively toward the slim band strapped against her arm—a timepiece linked to the Realm of Shadows.
"Five minutes, twenty-eight seconds left," she murmured.
Harlen smirked, shaking his head. "You always know how to cut it close, Shadowcat."
Nira only raised a brow. "Close is better than messy."
Below, the cavern rumbled again. The lumbering shapes of the Sentry Golems stomped onward, their massive frames casting shadows taller than fortress walls. Their white-lit eyes swept the ground, methodical, unyielding.
Trevus raised a hand, halting the group on the staircase before they stepped too far. "We'll need a plan," he said quietly. His eyes scanned the cavern floor—the scattered pools, the gaping side-halls, the glowing Strygan walls.
"These things don't patrol without reason. Every step, every glance—coordinated. If we charge in, we'll be torn apart before we land a strike."
Camylle's embers hissed impatiently around her fists. "Then what's the plan, Trev?"
Trevus's gaze lingered on the golems, hard as stone.
"We clear them. But smart. One at a time."
The cavern shook again, the booming rhythm of the Sentries echoing through the hollow dark.
Party 5 pressed themselves against a jagged stone wall overlooking the large cavern, the ledge giving them a half-hidden vantage point of the chaos below. The chamber seemed to breathe with the thundering rhythm of the Sentry Golems, every quake making the dust tremble at their boots.
Trevus leaned out just enough, careful not to let the threads or the vex-light betray their position. Harlen quietly unclipped a pair of compact binoculars from his belt and handed them over.
"Make it quick," Harlen muttered.
Trevus adjusted the lens, his eyes narrowing. He cataloged each threat, engraving it into memory like lines on a map.
"Turrets. Nine of them etched into the walls," he whispered. "Same type Nira disabled earlier. Most are clustered along the bottom walls. If we engage the golems in the open, those things will skewer us the moment we're spotted."
He shifted his gaze. Down below, two massive golems lumbered across the cavern floor, their white eyes sweeping in arcs. One paced along the edges, its footsteps methodical, while another stood frozen like a statue, gaze fixed outward. Then the pacing golem stepped into the water with a thunderous splash, sinking slowly beneath the surface.
Minutes later, another shape rose from the depths, dripping stone and moss as it took the exact same path.
"Three of them," Trevus said flatly. "Two active, one on rotation. They switch every twelve minutes." He flicked his pocket watch open, the soft ticking marking his calculations. "Like clockwork."
The others kept still. The weight of the chamber made even breathing feel too loud.
"First step," Trevus continued, lowering the binoculars. "Kill the turrets. Quietly. If we fight with those things active, we're dead before we can scratch a golem."
He lowered the binoculars, looking at her directly. "You'll take the rest of the turrets. Same method. Clean. But don't overstay—if you reach your six-minute threshold, stop. Rest. I want you back here breathing, not buried in shadow."
Nira smirked faintly, already pressing her palm to the ground. "Six minutes is plenty."
Without waiting, she pressed her hand to the stone, her shadow rippling again like spilled ink. The darkness swallowed her, slipping away into the cavern below like smoke in water.
The rest of the group held their ground, silence thick.
Harlen crouched low, resting his blade flat across his knees. "Alright, Commander," he muttered. "Turrets aside, what about those big bastards? They're five meters tall, bulk like fortress gates, and one good swing could crush us flat. You want us to fight two of them at once?"
Trevus exhaled slowly, sliding the binoculars back into Harlen's hands before lowering himself onto one knee.
"No," he said at last. "We don't fight two. We fight one."
"We use stealth. Precision. We strike where it hurts, or we don't strike at all." He tapped the hilt of his blades with one finger, eyes sharp.
Harlen frowned. "And if they notice?"
"Then we improvise." Trevus's gaze hardened. "But we try stealth first. Nira can't be everywhere. That leaves Ashe."
The illusionist blinked, cyan thread pulsing faintly. "...Me?"
"Yes, you." Trevus's tone was firm. "Your illusions fooled bandits with mana-sight. Even the undead during the Dungeon Incident of #21E didn't sense through it. If it can fool a mage, it can fool a golem."
Ashe swallowed but nodded slowly, pale fingers flexing as if feeling the mana already.
"We'll use you as a blanket of sorts," Trevus continued. "A veil to cover our approach. We move under it, get close to the idle one, and when we're within reach—we hit the core with the first strike. Fast, clean, before it knows we're there."
The plan hung heavy in the air, the chamber's silence punctuated only by the rumbling footsteps of the Sentries below.
Camylle's embers hissed faintly in her palm. "And if it isn't clean?"
Trevus's eyes didn't waver. "Then we fight."
"A simple weave will blur us from their perception. But you'll need to move when I tell you—illusions don't forgive hesitation." Ashe adjusted his gloves, cyan thread glimmering faintly as if in agreement.
Lotha, who had been quietly watching the Sentries' rhythm, finally spoke. "Then who goes?"
Trevus didn't hesitate. "Me. And you."
Lotha blinked once, then nodded firmly, no protest on her lips.
"Ashe cloaks us. We move under cover, straight to the idle one. You and I hit its core before it even registers us."
Harlen's jaw clenched. "And me?"
"You," Trevus said, turning to him, "stay here and lay down a Monster Repelling Barrier. If we fail, we'll retreat here, and you'll buy us breathing room."
Harlen scowled, bristling. "So I just sit here and pin down a nail while you lot get the glory?"
Trevus's voice softened only slightly. "Harlen. That barrier takes time, doesn't it? Time none of us can spare in the middle of a fight. You holding the line could be the difference between us regrouping or being crushed flat. It matters."
Harlen's lips pressed into a line. "…Sure. Whatever you say, Captain."
Camylle snorted, tossing an ember idly from hand to hand. "Don't pout, Hammer Boy. You'll get your turn. It'll be my turn to shine once the stealth option fails."
Harlen glared at her, but said nothing more.
Trevus rose, hand brushing the hilt of his twin sabres at his sides as he looked toward Ashe and Lotha.
"Ready?"
The cyan thread pulsed faintly as Ashe lifted his hand, his voice low but steady.
"Step where I tell you. Breathe when I say breathe. To the golem's eyes, we'll be nothing but air."
Below, the cavern groaned with the tremors of the Sentries, their massive shadows crawling over the stone like moving mountains.
The chamber lay in silence but for the tremor of the Sentry patrols far below. Party 5 held their breath, the threads between them taut as harp-strings.
Harlen crouched by the wall, his hands pressed into the stone as chalky runes glimmered faintly beneath his touch—his Repelling Barrier etched into place. Camylle leaned against the stone with her arms folded, embers curling idly from her fingertips, waiting like a coiled spark. Mina sat cross-legged, her red thread faintly pulsing as her eyes scanned the cavern, restless but alert.
And then there were the three who would move.
Trevus and Lotha crouched low, pressed close to Ashe, who alone stood upright, his pale gloves aglow with a trembling cyan sheen. He inhaled, steadying himself, and let the words of another tongue slip free.
"O-okay… Illusionär, wirf über dich einen Schleier für drei…" His voice quivered at the start but steadied as the syllables deepened."Täusche die Augen, täusche das Herz…""Verdrehe die Wahrheit bis zur Lüge."
The sound echoed softly through the chamber, strange and old—each syllable bending the air, warping it as though reality itself strained to listen.
Light fractured, and suddenly, a shimmering dome unfurled around them—The Tenfold Veil. A cloak of bending sight, rippling like water in moonlight. Its reach stretched no further than two and a half meters, but within it the three seemed to fade, their edges dissolving into air.
"Stay close," Ashe murmured, his voice weary but proud. "The veil's thin. Stray, and you'll fall out of it."
Trevus tilted his head, brow furrowing. "You speak in Barbren?"
A small, humorless chuckle slipped from Ashe's lips.
"The ancients called it the Tongue of Binding. All formal enchantments were once sung in Barbren. The spell refuses to weave cleanly without it."
He rubbed his mouth with a gloved hand, spitting faintly to the side. "Although the tongue… leaves a taste."
"You know, Ashe, you might want to speak in Centra instead. It's easier on the tongue, simpler to read, and far more elegant than that old Barbren dialect." Trevus folded his arms, his voice steady but carrying the weight of a suggestion rather than a command.
Lotha gave a soft nod, her expression warming with faint nostalgia. "He's right. Back in my training years as a priestess, we spoke Centra almost exclusively. Even among the clergy, Barbren felt… stiff, too ancient for everyday use. Centra flowed better—like a prayer meant to be heard."
Ashe tilted his head, thoughtful, weighing their words in silence before replying.
"... I'll keep it in mind."
Lotha smiled faintly, lifting a hand to brush against the veil's edge. Her palm hovered over the shimmering symbols that crawled across its surface—living letters of a language long buried. She traced them lightly, reading their flow with a priestess' ease.
"You weave well, Ashe," she said softly. "The complexity in this veil rivals a warding spell. You could be a barrier specialist, if you chose."
Ashe's jaw tightened, eyes rolling in mock exasperation. "Nag me later, priestess. Right now, I'd rather not be crushed under a golem."
Trevus gave a quiet huff, somewhere between a laugh and a grunt, before turning his gaze back to the cavern.
And then it happened.
On the far side of the chamber, one of the lumbering sentries reached the edge of the dark waters. With a grinding groan, it stepped into the pool and sank beneath the black. Moments later, the water stilled, leaving only the echo of its departure.
Trevus flicked open his pocket watch, counting silently. Twelve minutes. Their window.
"Now," he whispered.
They moved. Slow, deliberate. The veil swayed with them like a living mirage. Beneath their feet the stone shuddered with each idle breath of the colossal golem ahead.
The Idle Golem loomed against the cavern wall, a mountain of carved stone runes and grinding joints. Its stone head turned with ponderous weight, eyes casting beams of white light across the cavern floor. The three froze as the gaze swept toward them—the pale glare washing directly across their forms.
But it passed on.
The golem did not stir.
Ashe smirked faintly, whispering through clenched teeth. "Of course it doesn't see us. I'm an illusionist, remember?"
They crept closer. Step by step. The sound of stone grinding against stone filled the chamber. Trevus's eyes locked on the giant's frame, searching for the vulnerable glow of a core.
But what he saw instead made his stomach tighten.
"Not the head," Lotha whispered, voice sharp with realization. "Its core isn't in the head at all."
Trevus nodded grimly. His hand pressed against the hilt at his side. "It's one of those golems."
The weak point was not singular. Not simple.
Before them, the Idle Golem glowed with three cores.
—One embedded in its left shoulder, pulsing faintly like a vein of molten stone.—Another glowing bright at the center of its chest, carved deep into the runic lattice.—The last hidden low, at the right calf, faint and harder to see.
Three hearts. Three deaths required.
Lotha's lips pressed tight. "This… will be difficult."
Trevus narrowed his eyes, his voice a low growl in the veil. "Then we don't hesitate. One chance. We strike fast, we strike hard, and we bring it down before the others notice."
And with the heavy breaths of the ancient golem grinding through the chamber air, the chapter ended on the edge of the strike.