The Memory Shard pulsed in Mira's palm as we retreated from the worm's chamber, its soft blue light casting strange shadows on the dungeon walls. We'd found a small side room—once a storage closet, now empty except for dust and the bones of something small and long-dead. Dorn stood guard at the entrance, his massive frame blocking most of the light.
Vance paced. Mira sat in a corner, the shard never leaving her hand. Elara huddled against the wall, still shaking from the worm. I leaned against the opposite wall, watching them all.
"We need more," Vance said abruptly. "One shard isn't enough. The first fifty parties advance—that means we need to be sure. We need at least two, maybe three."
"The rules said one," Mira murmured.
"The rules said the first fifty parties to retrieve a shard. But there are three thousand candidates. Six hundred parties. You think only fifty will find one? No. The fast ones will grab one and run. The smart ones will grab multiple and wait." Vance stopped pacing, his jaw tight. "We need to be smart."
Dorn scratched his head. "So we find more shards?"
"Yes."
"How?"
Vance opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at me.
I sighed. "The dungeon is alive. Plants grow where water flows. Water flows downhill. The deepest chambers will have the most life, the most magic, the most... shards."
"You can track that?" Elara's voice was small, hopeful.
"I can try."
---
We moved deeper.
The corridors grew darker, the air heavier. Old torch sconces lined the walls, long empty. Mira took point, her silent footsteps barely disturbing the dust. Vance followed, flames ready at his fingertips. Dorn brought up the rear, Elara tucked close to his massive frame. I walked in the middle, my awareness spread thin, touching every root, every fungus, every patch of sickly moss.
The dungeon was wrong here.
Not the clean, artificial wrong of the upper levels—designed traps, placed monsters. This was deeper. Older. The plants weren't just growing; they were suffering. Their life force leaked into the stone, corrupted by something I couldn't sense directly but could feel in every fiber of my being.
"Stop," I whispered.
Everyone froze.
"Something's ahead. Not a monster. Something else."
Vance's flames brightened. "What kind of something?"
I shook my head, frustrated. "I don't know. The plants are... dying. But not from age or hunger. From fear."
Mira's hand drifted to her sword. "Plants can't feel fear."
"These can."
We moved forward more slowly, every step measured. The corridor opened into a larger chamber—another guard room, like the first, but this one wasn't empty.
Bodies lay scattered across the floor. Five of them. Candidates.
Dorn stepped forward, but I grabbed his arm. "Wait."
I reached out with my awareness, touching the roots beneath the bodies. They were still active—not dead, not dormant, but waiting. The moment Dorn's foot crossed a certain line, they would react.
"Tripwire," I breathed. "The roots are a tripwire. Something knows we're here."
Vance's face went pale. "Something? What something?"
A sound echoed from the darkness beyond the chamber. Soft. Rhythmic. Breathing.
Then a voice, low and amused.
"Smart little plant mage. Most of them just step right in."
A figure emerged from the shadows. Tall. Lean. Dressed in dark leathers that seemed to drink the light. A mask covered the lower half of his face, leaving only eyes—pale grey, cold, hungry.
He wasn't a candidate.
He wasn't even human.
Mira's sword was in her hand faster than I could track. "Dark-kin," she hissed. "Demon-touched."
The figure laughed. "Demon-touched? How quaint. I prefer collector." He gestured at the bodies. "These ones had such pretty shards. Two of them. My employer will be pleased."
"Your employer?" Vance's flames roared higher. "You're working for someone? Inside the Academy's dungeon?"
"The Academy doesn't own the dark, little flame. There are always cracks. Always doors left unlocked." The collector's eyes fixed on me. "That one, though. He's interesting. The plants talk to him. I can feel it." He took a step forward. "Come with me, plant-mage. My employer would pay well for someone who speaks to the dark growths."
Dorn moved before I could respond, his massive fist swinging at the collector's head.
He hit nothing but air.
The collector was behind him in an instant, a blade appearing in his hand—black, curved, dripping with something that smoked when it hit the stone.
"Slow," he murmured. "So slow."
Mira attacked. The collector blocked, twisted, and sent her flying into the wall. Vance's flames engulfed him—and passed through, as if he were made of shadow.
"Fire can't hurt me, boy. I've bathed in deeper flames than yours."
Elara screamed. Dorn charged again, reckless, furious. The collector dodged, his blade slicing across Dorn's arm. The big man stumbled, his face going pale as the wound began to blacken.
Poison. Or worse.
I had seconds.
I dropped to my knees and pressed my palms to the stone. I didn't reach for the plants—they were too corrupted, too afraid. I reached for the dungeon itself. The ancient stone. The deep roots of the mountain. The life that had been here long before the Academy built its walls.
*"Help us," * I begged. *"Please. He's hurting your children. He's poisoning your soil. Help us stop him." *
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then the dungeon answered.
Roots erupted from every surface—not corrupted, not afraid, but angry. They wrapped around the collector's legs, his arms, his throat. He screamed, his blade clattering to the stone as the roots lifted him into the air.
"What—IMPOSSIBLE—the dungeon can't—"
The roots squeezed. Something cracked. The collector went limp.
Silence.
Mira pushed herself up from the wall, blood streaming from a cut on her forehead. Vance's flames died. Dorn sat heavily, clutching his blackening arm. Elara crawled to him, her hands glowing with healing light that flickered and nearly failed.
I stayed on my knees, my core screaming, my vision swimming. The dungeon's answer had cost me—more than I had to give.
But we were alive.
The collector's body hung in the roots, still and broken. And at his belt, tied in a small pouch, were two Memory Shards.
Vance looked at me. Really looked. Not with arrogance, not with fear, but with something I couldn't name.
"You," he said slowly, "are the strangest person I have ever met."
I managed a weak smile. "I get that a lot."
Dorn laughed, then groaned as Elara's healing touched his wound. Mira retrieved the shards, her eyes never leaving me.
Party 147 had three shards now. More than enough to advance.
But as we limped back toward the dungeon's entrance, I couldn't shake the collector's words.
"There are always cracks. Always doors left unlocked."
Someone had sent him. Someone wanted Memory Shards—or candidates—badly enough to breach the Academy's most sacred trial.
The monsters weren't just in the dungeon.
Some of them were outside, waiting.
---