Chapter 2 - The Dank Crypt

Ryan woke to the dull ache of bruises and sore muscles. The morning sunlight burned his eyes. The sound of birds and running water filled his ears. He groaned as he shifted, feeling coarse sand clinging to his skin and clothes. His back throbbed as he pushed himself into a sitting position, taking in his surroundings with sluggish disbelief.

He was on a beach, but the water wasn't still—it flowed steadily to his right. A river? he thought, though the idea felt strange. The air smelled faintly of smoke and ash, a mix that was at odds with what he was seeing. It made his nose wrinkle.

His vision felt... off. He blinked a few times, rubbing at his eyes, but the discomfort didn't fade. Panic began to creep in, and he glanced to his left, freezing, when he saw something massive hanging down into the water. A tentacle, thick as a tree trunk, lay half-submerged, its fleshy grey surface glistening in the light. His breath caught in his throat as he traced it upward, his neck craning to follow its course.

The tentacle rose higher and higher, twisting like a grotesque rope as it disappeared into the jagged remains of the Nautiloid. The ship hung precariously from a rocky outcropping above the beach, its organic hull broken and blackened. Smoke and flickering flames seeped from the cracks in its structure. A slow but steady rain of ash fell around it.

"Oh, fuck," Ryan whispered, his voice barely audible. It was real! All of it was real—the Nautiloid, the battles, the magic. The memory of the dark energy coursing through him, the cambion, the imps, Lae'zel and Shadowheart, and their desperate fight for survival crashed over him like a wave.

He swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he raised one to his face. He waved it before his eyes and flinched when he saw nothing from the left side. Panic surged as he touched the left side of his face, his fingers brushing against uneven skin. His eyelid was sunken, without the eyeball that had once supported it.

"No, no, no," he muttered, his voice rising in pitch. He scrambled to his feet, the pain in his body ignored for now. Stumbling toward the water's edge, he dropped to his knees, leaning over the river's surface.

The distorted reflection staring back at him stole his breath. He looked mostly the same: medium-length brown hair, pale skin, a bit of stubble growing in. The biggest difference was the eyes. His right eye, blue but bloodshot, stared back in vivid detail. The left... the left was gone. Three distinct lines traced themselves through his eyebrow, across the empty socket, and down to his cheek, showing where the imp's claws had torn out his eye.

Ryan's stomach churned violently. The stress, the pain, the horror—all of it hit him like a punch to the gut. His reflection disappeared as he doubled over and vomited into the river. The bitter taste burned his throat, tears pricking at his remaining eye as he heaved again, his body trembling.

He sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths as he tried to calm himself. The river rushing past filled the silence, broken only by the distant creaks and groans of the Nautiloid's damaged hull above.

"Get it together," he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling. "You survived. You're alive. That's what matters."

He just sat there, despondent.

Ryan sat in silence for a few minutes, staring blankly at the river as it rushed past. The hollow itch of his missing eye, the weight of everything he'd endured—it was almost too much. Almost. But as the moments passed, something else began to creep in: determination.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to his feet. The faint throbbing in his muscles reminded him that he didn't have the luxury of self-pity. He was alive, and that meant he had a chance. A chance to find the others, a chance to survive.

"Time to get moving," he muttered, brushing sand off his torn hoodie.

He began by checking what he still had on him. His dark grey combination hoodie and jacket were shredded in places, especially the back. The material was frayed and stained with dried blood around the tears. Beneath it, his dark t-shirt wasn't in much better shape. His blue jeans were scuffed and stained. At least his sneakers were fine, for now.

Patting his pockets, he started pulling out items one by one. First was his phone. He turned it on, the screen lighting up faintly in the morning sunlight. The battery read 28%, but there was no signal—not that he'd expected one.

"Yeah, figures," he sighed, powering it back down to save what little battery remained. He couldn't call anyone for help, but it might still be useful later.

Next, he found his EarPods in their case. He pocketed them, knowing they'd be useless with his phone off, but still unable to part with them. His house and car keys came next, jangling faintly in his hand. Again, useless.

Finally, he pulled out his wallet. Opening it, he found his various plastic cards and a small amount of cash. He let out a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah, pretty sure no one here accepts debit," he muttered, tucking it back into his pocket.

With his inventory checked, he stood and dusted himself off as best he could. His clothes were a mess, but they'd have to do. He looked around, squinting against the sunlight, and decided the first order of business was finding the others.


He walked back to the spot where he'd woken up, scanning the area more carefully this time. Amidst the wreckage and scattered debris of the Nautiloid, he noticed an opening in the rock formation ahead. Beyond it, he saw exactly what he was expecting—Shadowheart.

She was lying on the ground, her body still but intact. Her dark armour was scuffed, and her raven-black hair was dishevelled, but she was unmistakably alive. Relief flooded through him as he hurried over, crouching down beside her.

"Shadowheart?" he said softly, reaching out to gently shake her shoulder. "Hey, wake up."

She stirred, her eyelids fluttering as she let out a faint groan. Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, before locking onto his face.

"Ryan?" she murmured, her voice hoarse but steady.

"Yeah, it's me," he said, smiling faintly. "Welcome back to the waking world."

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, wincing slightly as she moved. "Where… where are we?"

"By a river in some forest," Ryan said, gesturing back toward the wreckage hanging precariously above the beach. "The ship's in pieces. We made it, though."

Shadowheart's gaze followed his gesture, her expression sharpening as she saw the Nautiloid wreckage. Her eyes narrowed. "The Githyanki. Where is she?"

Ryan hesitated. "I haven't seen her yet. You're the first one I found."

Shadowheart frowned, her distrust evident. She glanced around warily before fixing her piercing gaze on him. "Be cautious around her. Githyanki are ruthless. She'll turn on you the moment it suits her."

Ryan nodded, filing the warning away. "Noted. Let's focus on finding anyone else who survived and somewhere safe to recover."

Shadowheart brushed sand from her armour, her movements deliberate as she straightened. She then quickly grabbed the artifact Ryan recognized from the game and put it in the bag on her belt. "We don't have time to waste. This place feels wrong—dangerous. Stay alert."

Ryan extended a hand, and she accepted it after a moment's hesitation. He helped her to her feet, her posture already steadying with purpose.

Ryan and Shadowheart trudged up the beach, the gritty sand crunching underfoot. The air was heavy with the faint smell of ash and something else—brine, maybe, or decay. As they moved, debris from the Nautiloid littered their path: fragments of its strange organic hull mostly.

It wasn't long before they came upon the first body. Ryan froze, his breath catching in his throat. The man was lying face down in the sand, his clothing torn and soaked with blood. A broken fishing rod lay nearby, along with a net that had been shredded by some violent force. A few feet away, another body lay crumpled near the water's edge, a woman this time, her lifeless hand still clutching a basket of crabs.

Ryan's stomach twisted. The guilt hit him like a physical blow. These people—they weren't part of the battle. They weren't soldiers or adventurers or monsters. They were fishermen, just living their lives until the Nautiloid came crashing down.

"Damnit," he muttered, his voice thick with self-reproach. "If I'd stayed awake longer, maybe… maybe I could've steered it away." Who am I kidding? He had no idea how to pilot a giant flying squid.

Shadowheart paused, her gaze lingering on him for a moment before moving to the closest body. She knelt beside the fisherman, her movements uncharacteristically gentle. Placing a hand on his chest, she closed her eyes and bowed her head.

Ryan watched in silence as she murmured a prayer, her voice soft but steady. "Mistress of the Night, Lady of Loss, I ask you to guide these souls to your eternal embrace. Release their loved ones from the pain of their loss and grant these departed peace in the quiet shadows of your eternal night."

Her words hung in the air, solemn and reverent. Ryan could feel the weight of them, the strange comfort they carried despite the goddess they were directed toward. Shadowheart opened her eyes and stood, brushing sand from her knees. She turned to face him, her gaze sharp but calm.

"Do you have a problem with Sharran rites?" she asked, her tone unreadable, though a faint challenge lingered in her words.

Ryan hesitated. He knew Shar's true nature—Mistress of the Night, sure, but also the goddess of despair, darkness, and loss, the evil twin of the moon goddess Selûne. According to the lore, Shar was as petty and vindictive as any Olympian goddess and obsessed with usurping both Selûne and the goddess of magic, Mystra. But he knew enough of Shadowheart's backstory to tread carefully. Her devotion to Shar wasn't something to confront outright, not now.

He forced a small, tight smile and shook his head. "Not really," he said, his voice even. "Honestly… I'm glad someone's here to pray for them. They deserve that much."

Shadowheart studied him for a moment, her expression inscrutable. Then she gave a small nod, her posture relaxing slightly. "Good," she said simply, turning back toward the path ahead.

Shadowheart froze mid-step, her head snapping toward the direction of the crashed Nautiloid. Her hand went to her mace, drawing it in one smooth motion. The rasp of leather as the weapon was unhooked from her belt broke the silence.

"What is it?" Ryan asked, his voice low, though he already knew the answer wouldn't be good.

She didn't look at him, her gaze fixed on the ship. "Something's coming."

Ryan's heart rate quickened, and he strained his ears. For a moment, there was nothing but the faint sounds of the river and the whisper of the wind. Then he heard it—a quiet, scraping noise. It was faint, barely audible over the ambient noise, but it sent a shiver down his spine. Something was moving, dragging itself over rock and sand.

The sound grew louder as a shape emerged from between the rocks. Ryan's breath caught as the creature crawled into view. It was small, barely up to his knee, but its grotesque form made his stomach churn. It was an oversized human brain, its surface glistening wetly in the sunlight. Thin but strong legs ending in sharp talons protruded from its mass. These talons dragging over rock and sand had caused the sounds. The brain quivered, pulsating rapidly. Damnit! Of course, they had to survive this time too.

The thing paused, its "face" twitching as though sniffing the air. It reminded Ryan of a dog searching for a scent. No, not a dog—a wolf, hunting for prey. His blood went cold as the creature's movements grew more deliberate, turning toward him. The imps were one thing, but he'd seen Us take down dozens of imps easily enough.

Ryan swore silently, his body tensing as the abomination fixed on him. The thing didn't have eyes, but he could feel its focus, an invasive sensation in his mind like tiny, invisible claws. He wanted to back away, to run, but his feet were rooted in place.

Then, a hand gripped his shoulder. Ryan glanced sideways to see Shadowheart standing beside him, her other hand raised. She muttered something under her breath, words that flowed like a soft but urgent melody. The air around him shimmered faintly, a comforting warmth spreading through his body.

"Shield of Faith," she whispered, her voice steady but urgent. "It should give you some protection."

Ryan turned back toward the creature, feeling the faint shimmer of the spell, like an invisible shield around him. The intellect devourer hesitated, its spindly legs clicking faintly against the sand as though testing the air. But the pause was brief, and it resumed its slow, deliberate crawl toward him.

Ryan's relief was short-lived as another movement caught his eye. He turned his head to see a second intellect devourer crawling out from behind a nearby rock. Then another. And another. They moved with a predatory grace, their legs clicking faintly as they emerged from the shadows. There were now four of them, all converging on their position.

"Great," Ryan muttered under his breath, his heart pounding. "Because one wasn't enough."

Shadowheart shifted her stance, her mace raised and her shield at the ready. "Stay close," she said sharply. "We fight together."

Ryan clenched his fists, willing the dark energy from before to return. He could still feel it—somewhere inside him—but it was… different now. The comforting bittersweet sensation he'd felt yesterday was gone, replaced by something bland, almost flavourless. He focused, trying to shape it into an attack to summon the same beams of destructive force that had saved his life on the Nautiloid. Nothing happened. His frustration mounted as the intellect devourers crept closer, their spindly claws scraping ominously against the rocks and sand.

Then, the whispers began. Faint at first, like a soft breeze tickling the edges of his mind. 'Master is hungry. You will submit. Must feed master.' The words carried an unnatural weight, like commands that should have rooted him in place. But they didn't. The whispers slid off him like rain off of an umbrella. Ryan's heart raced, but his mind remained his own. Shadowheart's spell or maybe the tadpole, he thought, feeling a flicker of relief even as the creatures encircled them.

One of the abominations darted forward, its spindly legs a blur as it lunged at him. Ryan flinched, raising his arms instinctively. The creature swiped at him with clawed appendages, but the blow bounced off the shimmering shield spell. The intellect devourer moved back a few paces.

Shadowheart didn't hesitate. Her mace swung down in a sharp arc, striking the creature squarely. It skittered back but didn't fall, its form quivering as though irritated more than injured.

"Damn it," Ryan muttered, remembering the lore. Intellect devourers weren't as squishy as they looked. Their membranes were tough, nearly impervious to anything that wasn't enchanted or made of adamantine.

Shadowheart's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp with frustration. "Why aren't you blasting them?"

"I'm trying!" Ryan snapped. "My magic isn't working."

Her gaze darted to him, her expression a mixture of disbelief and irritation. "Figure it out then!"

The creatures moved closer, their legs clicking rhythmically as they tightened the circle. Shadowheart's shield and mace held them back for now, but Ryan could see their movements had a purpose.

"They're herding us," Shadowheart said grimly, shifting her stance as her eyes darted between the advancing creatures. "The spell will only last a few minutes more."

Ryan glanced around desperately, his gaze falling on one of the fallen fishermen. Among the debris, he spotted a long, curved billhook lying near the man's body. Without thinking, he grabbed it and swung it at the nearest creature. The hook struck with enough force to send the intellect devourer tumbling back, giving them a momentary reprieve.

"Not great," he muttered, "but it'll do."

Ryan braced himself, gripping the billhook tightly as the creatures pressed closer. His knuckles were white against the wood as his mind raced. "Can you do anything else?" he asked, glancing toward Shadowheart.

Shadowheart didn't reply immediately, instead raising her hand again. A burst of black flame blasted one of the creatures, searing its outer layer. It let out an otherworldly screech, but it didn't stop moving. "I'm a cleric of Shar," she said. "Sacred Flame does little," she said, her tone clipped. "And no, illusions usually don't work on creatures without eyes."

Her mace connected with another devourer, sending it skittering back, but it didn't stay down for long. She muttered a quick incantation, the faint glow of Guidance surrounding her as she fortified herself.

Ryan grimaced, watching her alternate between swinging her mace and singeing the creatures with Sacred Flame. "What about something stronger?"

Shadowheart hesitated for a fraction of a second before whispering another incantation. Her hand glowed with an unsettling, sickly green light as she reached out and pressed it against one of the creatures. The light seemed to sink into its membrane, and it convulsed violently as tears appeared in its flesh, leaking blood or ichor or whatever it was. It didn't stop moving, though.

"Inflict Wounds," she said breathlessly, stepping back as the other creatures hesitated momentarily. "Effective, but I can't keep casting it forever."

Ryan considered that. He didn't know if spell slots were an actual thing here, but the weariness in Shadowheart's voice and movements was clear. She wouldn't last much longer at this rate.

Another devourer lunged at him, its claws swiping toward his chest. Ryan raised the billhook in a desperate swing, but the weapon splintered in half as it struck the creature's hard membrane. He stumbled back, tossing the broken handle aside as the devourers closed in.

Panic clawed at his throat as he searched for anything else he could use. His hands clenched, and he tried to summon the dark energy again. "Come on," he muttered under his breath, closing his remaining eye and focusing inward. He reached for the power, willing it to come forth. At first, it resisted, sluggish and distant, but he didn't let go. He dug deeper, pulling more of it than he had yesterday.

The energy surged to life, raw and unrefined, and he gasped as it coursed through him. It wasn't the same as before—it felt formless, harder to control. Ryan raised his hand and forced the power outward, channelling it into an attack.

Instead of the dark beam from the Nautiloid, a concussive wave erupted from his palm, about a foot across. The shockwave slammed into the nearest intellect devourer, catching it mid-lunge. The creature was thrown back with a sickening crack, its protective membrane visibly fractured.

Ryan blinked, his heart pounding as the remaining devourers hesitated. "Well," he said, his voice shaking, "that's new."

Shadowheart glanced at him, her expression sharp with both relief and appraisal. "If you can do that again, now would be the time."

Ryan flexed his fingers, the remnants of the energy still tingling along his skin. "Working on it," he said, steeling himself as the creatures began to regroup.

The creatures paused, their movements slower as they seemed to assess the new threat. Ryan felt the rush of adrenaline coursing through him, tempered by the residual hum of power still lingering in his fingertips. He flexed his hand again, calling forth the energy. The formless, flavourless power was still there, but now it obeyed his will.

Shadowheart took a defensive step closer to him, her shield raised as she parried a swipe from one of the devourers. "No pressure," she said dryly, her mace smashing into the side of another creature. "But if you've got another one of those blasts, now would be ideal."

Ryan raised his hand, focusing the energy. This time it came easier, flowing outward in another concussive burst. He noticed it took a lot more power than the darker energy had to form an attack. The wave struck two of the devourers in a single motion, sending them tumbling back. One hit the rocks with a crack and lay still, its protective membrane completely shattered. The other scrambled to its feet, quivering but still alive.

Shadowheart spared him a glance, her expression less sharp now. "Impressive. Keep that up, and we might live."

"I'll do my best," Ryan said, his voice tight with concentration. He could feel the energy filling him again, but gathering enough of it to attack with was a lot slower. But it wasn't enough to stop him—not yet. He prepared to summon another wave, but one of the devourers darted toward him, faster than the others. Its claws scraped against his side, the shimmering shield deflecting the blow, but the force still knocked him back.

"Focus!" Shadowheart barked, smashing her mace into the devourer with the cracked membrane before it could press its attack. The creature reeled, and a burst of Sacred Flame struck it seconds later, finally finishing it off.

Ryan pushed himself back to his feet, his breathing ragged. "Yeah, thanks for the reminder," he muttered. He raised his hand again, the concussive wave forming slightly faster this time, but still slower than it should be. He unleashed it, the blast slamming into one of the last two devourers. It crumpled immediately, its legs twitching before it went still.

Shadowheart stepped forward to block the last one as it tried to attack Ryan, her mace stunning it, just before Ryan hit it with another blast. The creature collapsed, motionless, its unnatural quivering finally ceasing.

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of their laboured breathing. Ryan let his hand drop to his side, the faint remnants of clear energy, like a heat wave, flickering and fading. "Is that all of them?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"For now. I can't hear any others," Shadowheart replied, lowering her mace. Her gaze swept the area, searching. When she was satisfied, she turned to him, her expression unreadable. "That magic of yours. What is it?"

Ryan hesitated, unsure how to answer. "I don't really know," he admitted. "It's… new. I first used it yesterday against some imps."

She studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Whatever it is, it saved our lives. Let's hope it holds up."

"Yeah," Ryan said, glancing at the fallen creatures. The fractured remains of their bodies glistened in the sunlight, a grim reminder of how close they'd come to being overrun. "Let's hope."

Shadowheart adjusted her grip on her mace, her gaze shifting to the path ahead. "We should keep moving. There's no guarantee more of them won't come."

Ryan nodded, following her as she continued down the beach away from the crashed ship. He flexed his hand absently, the faint memory of the energy still tingling in his fingers. He couldn't help but wonder how it worked—or why it felt so inconsistent. Yesterday, it had seemed like an eldritch blast, something a Warlock might use, perhaps fuelled by the infernal environment of Avernus. But today, it was entirely different, weaker and harder to summon.

A troubling thought crept into his mind: Could it be from the tadpole? The possibility was worrying, but it also made a certain amount of sense. The change in the power's nature might have been due to the Nautiloid. Perhaps it had amplified his abilities yesterday, giving him some of its immense psionic energy. Now that the ship and its crew were gone, the connection was severed if there had been one.

It was a logical explanation, but it didn't bring him much comfort. If the tadpole was the source, then using this power might come at a far greater cost than he realized. He did not want to turn into a brain-sucking Cthulhu lookalike.

"Damn it!"

Ryan was pulled from his swirling thoughts when he heard Shadowheart curse. He looked up to see her standing in front of a large, weathered door set into a high wall of stone abutting a cliff. Her gloved hands were braced against the door, pushing and pulling as though trying to force it open. The door didn't budge.

"Stuck?" he asked, stepping closer.

"It's locked," she said, scowling as she pulled back to examine it. The heavy wooden frame was reinforced with rusted iron bands, the surface weathered and overgrown with moss. "And it's not budging."

Ryan frowned, his gaze drifting upward. About forty or fifty feet above, he could just make out a jagged, destroyed railing hinting at some structure. He recognized this place. The overgrown ruins, he thought. Withers is in there. Ryan looked to the left and saw that the teleportation circle should be carved into. It was notably absent. Guess Fast travel's out then, he thought. He sighed, his gaze returning to the stubborn door. If Astarion was here, this wouldn't be a problem.

Shadowheart shot him a sidelong glance, "Are you going to help or not?"

"I doubt I'm as strong as you are, and I have no idea how to pick a lock," Ryan admitted, stepping back to take in the entire scene. His eye landed on the Nautiloid hull leaning precariously against the cliff face. He pointed at the wreckage. "We might be able to climb up through the ship. It should lead us to the top."

Shadowheart followed his gesture, her frown deepening. "You think climbing through that thing is a good idea? There could be more of those creatures inside. Or worse—the master they mentioned."

Ryan grimaced, acknowledging her point. "It's risky, yeah. But unless you've got a better idea, I don't see another way up."

Shadowheart crossed her arms, clearly weighing her options. Before either of them could say anything further, a metallic groan echoed through the air. Both of them froze, their eyes snapping to the door.

The sound of a heavy mechanism clicking followed, and then the door shuddered before swinging open with a slow, ominous creak of old wood and rusty hinges. Darkness yawned beyond the threshold, the faint smell of damp stone and decay wafting out.

Ryan stared at the opening, his brow furrowing. "Well, that's not ominous at all."

Shadowheart simply gave him a look, She's good at those, and stepped forward into the darkness, her mace at the ready. Ryan hesitated for a moment, then sighed and followed her.


His eye adjusted to the dim light slowly. The room inside was large, its dimensions exaggerated by the eerie stillness and the shafts of pale daylight spilling through cracks in the high, crumbling roof. Dust motes danced in the beams of light, and the air smelled of dust and mildew, tinged with something faintly metallic. The chamber bore the unmistakable signs of neglect and decay, but its purpose was clear: this was a tomb.

Both sides of the room were partitioned by rows of thick stone pillars supporting elegant arches, their once intricate carvings now weathered and eroded. The partitions created shadowed alcoves on either side of the main area. Four statues of warriors in ancient armour stood—or had once stood—like silent sentinels. Two had crumbled into fragments, their shattered forms littering the floor. Of the two remaining, the nearest statue was missing its head, its jagged neck stark against the gloom.

Ryan's gaze was drawn to the centre of the room, where a single sarcophagus lay on a raised platform. Its lid was adorned with the detailed carving of a person laid to rest, their hands folded, their features serene and regal. More sarcophagi were set into the alcoves on either side of the room, two on the left and one on the right. The shadows around them seemed to deepen as though reluctant to reveal what secrets they held.

At the chamber's far end, another door loomed, flanked by two statues in flowing robes. These figures, too, had suffered the ravages of time or violence. Both were missing their heads, their faceless forms lending an unsettling aura to the doorway.

"Wait," Ryan said, his voice low but urgent as Shadowheart started toward the sarcophagus in the centre of the room.

She paused, glancing back at him with a raised eyebrow. "What?"

Before he could answer, the door behind them slammed shut with a deafening thud. The sound echoed through the chamber, followed by the sharp, grating noise of a lock engaging. Ryan spun around, his heart sinking as he saw the heavy wooden door now sealed tight.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath.

Shadowheart's expression darkened as she turned back to survey the room. "So much for leaving the way we came."

Ryan forced himself to focus, taking in their surroundings with growing unease. The sarcophagi, the crumbled statues, the dim light—he recognized it all. This was Withers' tomb. And while that meant help might be nearby, it also meant danger. He could almost hear the click of traps waiting to spring, and feel the weight of undead eyes watching from the shadows.

This is bad. Really bad, he thought. We should've taken our chances with the ship and found some allies first.

Shadowheart moved cautiously toward the central sarcophagus, her mace held tightly, her eyes scanning the room for threats. Ryan hesitated, his mind racing. He couldn't exactly tell her the full truth—that he knew this place from a game, that it was full of traps, undead, and of course the grave robbers lurking on the upper levels.

"Whoever this is, they must have been someone of great importance," she said, tracing a finger over the intricate carvings. The carvings etched into the stone glimmered faintly, their light so subtle it was almost imperceptible in the dim chamber.

Ryan's unease deepened as a memory sparked in his mind—the lid was trapped. His eye widened, and he took a hurried step forward. "Don't—"

Too late. The faint glyphs lit up, their orange glow intensifying. Ryan lunged toward her, instinct taking over.

"Get down!" he shouted, tackling her just as the glyphs erupted with fiery energy. They hit the ground hard, sliding behind one of the crumbling statues as a deafening blast tore through the room. Heat washed over them, the inferno scorching the air where they had stood moments before.

Stone shards from the shattered sarcophagus lid rained down around them, clattering against the floor. Ryan's ears rang from the explosion, and his vision swam as he struggled to push himself up. His hand instinctively went to his head, but he found no injuries—just a pounding headache and a heavy weight pressing against him.

Shadowheart groaned beneath him, her armour dented but intact. "What was that?" she asked, pushing him off with more force than necessary.

Ryan winced, rolling to his side. "You triggered a trap," he said, his voice rough. "Something for graverobbers I think."

She sat up, brushing debris off her armour as her gaze darted toward the now open and smouldering remains of the sarcophagus. "A glyph trap," she muttered, her tone tinged with annoyance and something close to embarrassment. "I should've seen it."

Ryan didn't press the point, though he felt a grim satisfaction in being right. "Yeah, well, now you know. Let's try not to set off anymore."

Shadowheart glared at him but said nothing, her expression tight. She stood, her movements brisk as she dusted herself off and inspected her mace for damage. "Let's hope the noise didn't attract anything. If something comes for us, you'd better have more of those blasts ready."

Ryan shook out the back of his jacket, which was now covered in stone dust.

"And, Ryan," Shadowheart said.

He looked up at her.

"Thank you," she said.

Ryan nodded. "Uh, sure. No problem," he said.

They turned away from each other and Ryan focused on flexing his hand, willing the strange energy to return, and it did, surprisingly, he felt the same dark energy he had back in Avernus. Its deep bittersweet flavour filled him immediately.

Wait! What the hell! Why now? Ryan stared at the swirling black energy dancing around his fingers, its presence sudden and inexplicable. The dark tendrils pulsed with a strange, bittersweet sensation that made his skin tingle. He flexed his hand, half-expecting the energy to vanish, but it lingered, alive and vibrant.

Shadowheart stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she studied the dark glow. "Your magic… it's working again," she said, her voice laced with both curiosity and caution.

Ryan nodded, his brows furrowing as he looked at her. "Yeah, but I don't know why. It wasn't working before, and now it's back like nothing happened." He hesitated, the swirling energy unnerving despite its familiarity. "This is… new for me."

Shadowheart tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. "It feels… familiar," she said quietly, almost to herself. She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she observed the energy with practiced precision. "There's a similarity to the power I draw from Shar. A dark presence."

Ryan's stomach twisted at her words, but he kept his expression neutral. The idea that his magic might resemble Shadowheart's connection to Shar—the goddess of darkness, loss, and despair—was deeply unsettling. "Yeah, well, let's hope it doesn't come with strings attached," he said, forcing a weak smile.

Shadowheart's gaze flicked to his face, her expression unreadable. "Power always comes with strings," she said softly. "The question is whether you're prepared to pull them."

Ryan let out a short, nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Great."

Before Shadowheart could respond, the dust from the explosion began to catch in his throat, making him cough. The air in the chamber was thick with it, and every breath felt like inhaling powdered stone. Shadowheart frowned at him, her lips pressing into a thin line. With a soft sigh, she raised her hand and waved it in a quick, practiced motion, muttering something under her breath.

Ryan felt the faintest breeze swirl around him, brushing over his face and shoulders. The air cleared slightly, the choking dust settling to the floor. His coughing eased, and he looked down at himself, noticing that even the layer of dust clinging to his clothes had been swept away.

"Thanks," he said, his voice still hoarse. "That's… better."

Shadowheart gave a curt nod, but her expression softened slightly. "You're welcome. No sense in letting you suffocate before we figure out what's going on with you."

But Ryan wasn't focused on the air. As the breeze swept over him, he had felt something else—something faint but distinct. A whisper of magic, its presence lingering on his skin like a second breeze. It wasn't the same as the dark energy swirling around his fingers now; instead, it reminded him of the flavourless, bland power he had felt earlier outside.

He frowned, the realization sending his thoughts spiralling. Was her magic the same as that tasteless energy? Or were they somehow connected? He shook his head, pushing the questions aside for now. "That magic of yours," he said, glancing at her. "It feels… different. Not bad, just… odd."

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow, but her gaze was calculating. "You're perceptive," she said after a moment. "My magic flows from Shar's grace. It is... not unlike what you wield—dark and powerful. But it's precise, a tool, not a weapon of chaos." She paused, "The spell I just used was an arcane cantrip, prestidigitation."

Ryan's discomfort deepened, but he didn't let it show. He flexed his hand again, watching the black tendrils fade and disappear. "Yeah, well, I'm not exactly in control of this thing yet," he said, shaking his hand as though to rid himself of the sensation. "It just… happens."

Shadowheart regarded him for a moment longer before turning her attention back to the now-damaged sarcophagus. "Then you'd best learn quickly," she said. "Power is as dangerous to its wielder as to their enemies if left unchecked."

Ryan sighed, his gaze lingering on his hand as he clenched it into a fist. "Noted," he muttered, his voice low.

Ryan's gaze shifted to the back of the sarcophagus. There, a plaque was embedded into the stone, its surface etched with words in a script that seemed both alien and familiar. The letters were jagged and angular, not English or any language he recognized from Earth. Yet, as he focused on the text, the words resolved themselves clearly in his mind.

"Scrivener Jheronath. May he rest in peace and guard this sacred place."

Ryan frowned. He blinked, half-expecting the letters to revert to their incomprehensible forms. They didn't. He could read them as though the text were written in plain English.

Shadowheart noticed his reaction and stepped closer. "What is it? What does it say?"

Ryan gestured at the plaque. "It says… 'Scrivener Jheronath. May he rest in peace and guard this sacred place.'"

Shadowheart's eyes narrowed. "You can read that?"

Ryan hesitated, glancing at her. "Yeah… can't you?"

Shadowheart folded her arms. "No. That script is not one I've encountered before. And neither of us should be able to read anything this ancient without magic."

Her words gave him pause. The realization settled over him like a creeping shadow. It wasn't just the script—Shadowheart's speech had been strange, too. He had heard her voice and processed the meaning of her words, but he hadn't really listened to them. Now he realized they hadn't been in English, either. Yet, he understood her perfectly. Had he been doing so this whole time without noticing?

"That's weird," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Your words… they're not in English. I'm understanding you, but it's like—"

"What's English?" Shadowheart asked. "We've been speaking common."

"Maybe it has something to do with the tadpoles," Ryan suggested. "They could be allowing us to understand each other."

"Perhaps," she said, "but that doesn't explain why you can read something I can't."

Ryan nodded. That was weird, but unimportant right now. Instead, he turned his attention to the sarcophagus itself. The crumbling skeleton within was still intact, clutching something in one bony hand. He stepped closer, peering at it more carefully.

A long spear rested in the skeleton's grip. If he remembered right it had some low-level enchantment on it.

"That'll come in handy," Ryan murmured. He reached into the sarcophagus, wincing as the brittle hand crumbled. The spear came loose easily, its weight solid in his palm. He also saw a tarnished bronze key and grabbed it.

Shadowheart gave him a pointed look. "Let's hope that's all we need to take from this tomb."

Ryan slipped the key into his pocket. "Agreed. Let's move."

The two of them approached the door at the far end of the room. Shadowheart raised her hand, muttering an incantation. A soft glow surrounded her fingers as she scanned the area.

"No more traps," she said, lowering her hand.

Ryan exhaled in relief. "Good. Let's see where this leads."

Shadowheart stepped forward, pushing the door open with a heavy creak. It opened into a new room, shaped like a cross. A shaft of pale light pierced through a large broken opening in the ceiling, illuminating a mosaic at the centre of the room. Its pattern was simple but elegant.

Four large pillars marked the inner corners of the room, though one in the far right corner had collapsed, its rubble spilling across the floor. Small stagnant pools of water shimmered faintly in the dim light, and the air smelled a lot more of mildew than dust in here. To the left, the room extended to another door, while a much larger door stood directly across from them. To the right, a small collection of desks and shelves held old, mouldy books.

Ryan and Shadowheart exchanged a wary glance before stepping inside. The faint sound of dripping water echoed through the chamber as they moved cautiously forward. They found no traps as they approached the larger door at the far end.

Ryan retrieved the bronze key from his pocket and tested it in the lock. The mechanism clicked, and the door swung open with surprising ease.

The room beyond was vast, dominated by a raised walkway that partially encircled a lower floor. The stone railing was old and crumbling, with a large brazier against it directly in front of them. Ryan leaned against a part that looked somewhat stable and looked across.

At the far end of the lower floor stood a massive statue. The figure depicted a robed man, his head looked like something between a human skull and an insect. He held an open scroll and a large feather quill. Creeping greenery clung to its base, the plants thriving in the damp, shadowy conditions.

Shadowheart's voice was quiet but firm. "Jergal."

Ryan glanced at her. "The scribe of the dead, right?"

Shadowheart nodded. "A deity of death, law, and inevitability. This place was built in his honour."

Ryan's gaze returned to the statue. He couldn't shake the feeling that the hollow eyes of the stone figure were watching them.

Ryan and Shadowheart stepped cautiously forward, the sound of their footsteps muffled on the worn stone floor. The brazier ahead flickered weakly, casting long shadows against the crumbling walls. Something near its base caught Ryan's attention, and as they approached, he realized it was a crumpled form covered in rotting cloth.

It was a skeleton, the bones yellowed and brittle with age. The remnants of priestly robes clung to its frame, frayed and mottled with decay.

Shadowheart held her mace at the ready. "Don't touch anything," she warned, her voice low but firm. "Jergal was the god of necromancy before he relinquished it to Myrkul. Disturbing any remains here could lead to… complications."

Ryan straightened, taking a step back from the skeleton. "Noted," he said, though he already knew that.

He glanced around the room, his gaze drifting to the statue of Jergal. It loomed over them, its hollow eyes seeming to track their movements. Unease prickled at the back of his neck, but he forced himself to focus. The only exits were the hatch to the right, which he knew would mean passing through this room; or returning to the mosaic room and using the other door, which would mean fighting through the bandits upstairs. Neither option was ideal.

Shadowheart's voice cut through his thoughts. "We should leave. This place is cursed. Whatever secrets it holds, they're not worth our lives."

Ryan nodded absently, though his mind was elsewhere. He knew they'd have to fight their way out eventually, but which path should they take? The hatch would let them outside immediately, and while the skeletons were a threat, they were manageable with strategy. The bandits upstairs, on the other hand, were unpredictable and better armed.

He frowned, his fingers brushing the spear he'd taken from the sarcophagus. How had he ended up here, in a video game world brought to life? It was ridiculous, but the evidence was all around him. The layout of the tomb, the enemies, even Shadowheart—it all lined up with what he remembered from the game.

He had knowledge, sure, but how could he use it without arousing suspicion? Shadowheart wasn't stupid. If he started predicting every trap and encounter, she'd start asking questions—questions he wasn't ready to answer. But maybe… maybe he didn't have to hide everything. They were all in this together, and if he wanted to survive and avoid becoming a monster, he needed to trust his companions. Besides, they were all some level of telepathic anyway, so keeping secrets could backfire.

His train of thought was interrupted by a sharp tug on his arm. Shadowheart's annoyed voice followed. "Ryan! Can you hear me?"

He blinked, snapping out of his reverie. Shadowheart was glaring at him, her hand still gripping his arm. "What is wrong with you? I've been calling your name."

"Sorry," he said quickly, running a hand through his hair. "Just… thinking."

Her expression didn't soften. "Well, think faster. I said maybe we should go back and try blasting through the door we came in. It might be our best chance to get out of here."

Ryan considered her suggestion, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. The stone above was cracked and uneven, with loose debris scattered on the floor below. He shook his head. "The roof doesn't exactly look stable. After the explosion earlier, blasting the door might bring the whole thing down on us."

Shadowheart frowned, but she didn't argue. Instead, she studied him with a calculating look. "Do you have a better idea?"

Ryan hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Yeah, I've got a plan." He turned to face her fully. "But first, do you trust me?"

Shadowheart tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. She seemed to weigh his words carefully before finally nodding. "You've been trustworthy so far. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt—for now."

"Good." Ryan took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he was about to say. "I know a way out of here. It's… complicated, but I can get us through this."

Her brow furrowed. "How? And how do you know—"

"I'll explain later," he interrupted. "It's a long story, and I'd rather tell it once we're safe and with the others."

Shadowheart's eyes narrowed further. "What others?"

"The other survivors from the crash," Ryan said firmly. "There are others out there. I'm sure of it."

Shadowheart studied him for a long moment, suspicion flickering in her gaze. But finally, she gave a curt nod. "Fine. But if you're leading me into a trap, I won't hesitate to deal with you myself."

"Understood," Ryan said, trying not to let her words rattle him. "Let's get moving."

He gripped the spear tightly and started walking to the left, following the railing around the main shrine. Trusting Shadowheart was a gamble, but it was one he had to take. Better her than Astarion, or worse Minthara. God, he hoped the Dark Urge wasn't waiting out there somewhere.

Ryan gripped the spear tightly and glanced at Shadowheart, his expression resolute. "Get ready," he said. "We're going to have to fight our way out of here."

Shadowheart arched an eyebrow, her hand tightening around her mace. "You're certain?"

He nodded and pointed at the skeletons lying scattered around the chamber. "See them? They're not just for show. I'm going to wake them up."

Her gaze snapped to the skeletons, then back to him. "You're insane," she said flatly.

Ryan sighed. "I know it sounds crazy, but trust me. We can survive this. The first thing we need to do is get into a defensive position."

He pointed toward an alcove near the statue of Jergal. "Over there. There's a hidden room in that alcove. It's narrow, and we can use it as a choke point. We'll be able to hold them off better there."

Shadowheart stared at him, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "How do you know that?"

Ryan met her gaze. "You have gods and divination magic. I'll explain later, but for now, pick whichever explanation suits you."

She didn't look away, her green eyes scrutinizing him with a fierce intensity. Finally, she gave a small nod. "Fine. But if this is some kind of trick—"

"It's not," Ryan interrupted. "Come on. Stay close."

The two of them began making their way around the crumbling railing, careful not to get too close to the skeletons. Each step echoed faintly in the vast chamber, the oppressive silence broken only by the faint dripping of water.

As they descended a narrow set of stairs, Ryan began explaining in hushed tones. "There are two types of skeletons here. Most of them are mages. They can cast spells like fog, silence, and some ranged attacks."

Shadowheart nodded thoughtfully. "Then it's smart to find a choke point. It'll limit their range."

"Exactly," Ryan said. "Do you have any spells you can cast ahead of time? Something that will still work even if you're silenced?"

Shadowheart glanced at him, considering. "Yes. I can summon spirit guardians. They'll surround me, slowing any enemies who get close and burning them with holy power."

Ryan nodded. "Perfect. Cast it before I open the door. It'll give us an edge."

Shadowheart asked, "And what about the other type?"

"Warrior," Ryan said. "Pretty classic, wearing armour and swinging weapons."

They passed the statue of Jergal, its hollow eyes seeming to watch their every move. Ryan gave the figure a respectful nod, hoping he wasn't disrespecting the god. The last thing they needed was divine wrath on top of everything else.

The short staircase into the alcove was narrow and worn, the steps uneven beneath their feet. Ryan reached the alcove and began examining the wall. "There should be a mechanism here," he said, more to himself than to Shadowheart.

Shadowheart crossed her arms. "And if there isn't?"

"There is," Ryan said firmly, though he was beginning to doubt himself. He ran his hands along the damp stones, wincing as his fingers brushed against something slimy. "Mould," he muttered under his breath, suppressing a grimace. "Please don't be toxic."

After a few moments of searching, his fingers brushed against a stone that felt slightly loose. He pressed on it lightly, and it began to sink into the wall with a low grinding sound. His face lit up. "Got it."

Shadowheart nodded, already beginning her incantation. Her voice was low and deliberate, the words flowing like an ancient melody. As she chanted, a cold wind seemed to stir in the alcove, carrying with it a sense of foreboding.

Ryan pressed the stone firmly into the wall, and a distinct *click* echoed through the chamber. A section of the wall began to shift, ancient stones grinding against each other as they slid aside to reveal a hidden doorway. The sound of creaking leather and the faint whisper of cloth drifted through the room, raising the hairs on the back of Ryan's neck.

Shadowheart finished her incantation, and five shadowy figures coalesced around her. They looked like knights, their forms composed of shadow and fog. They moved in a slow, deliberate circle, centred on Shadowheart but encompassing Ryan as well. The air grew colder, and Ryan shivered as one of the figures passed through him like a ghost. Despite the chill, he felt no harm.

"Let's move," Ryan said, gesturing toward the hidden room. He and Shadowheart hurried inside, their steps quick but cautious. The room was small, with a large and ornate sarcophagus to the left of the door and several storage containers lining the walls on the right. The air smelled stale with age and decay.

They turned to face the door, their weapons at the ready. Ryan gripped the spear tightly, his heart pounding in his chest. Beside him, Shadowheart, her spirit guardians circling them, wielded her mace.

Ryan glanced at her. "Whatever happens, we stick to the plan. Hold the line, keep them in the choke point, and let your guardians do their thing."

Shadowheart nodded, her expression grim but resolute. "Understood."

The sound of movement echoed from the main chamber—bones rattling, footsteps scraping against stone. Ryan's grip on the spear tightened. "Here we go," he muttered.

The first skeleton stepped into view, its empty eye sockets glowing faintly with an eerie light. It was clad in ancient, rusted armour, the metal corroded and pockmarked by time. It raised a scimitar high, the blade dull but menacing as it stepped toward them with a jerky, unnatural gait.

As the skeletal warrior crossed the threshold into the alcove, Shadowheart's spirit guardians reacted instantly. The wraith-like figures swirled around the skeleton, their ghostly forms passing through its body. The effect was immediate. The skeleton's bones darkened and cracked under the assault, small fragments flaking away like brittle wood.

Ryan raised his hand, summoning the familiar dark energy. The bittersweet sensation surged through him as the tendrils coalesced around his fingers. He thrust his hand forward, releasing a beam of black energy that struck the skeleton square in the chest.

Nothing happened If anything, some of the cracks that had appeared on the bones seemed to close.

Ryan stared, stunned, as the skeleton continued its advance. "What the—" he muttered, but Shadowheart interrupted his disbelief by stepping in front of him.

The scimitar came down in a vicious arc, but Shadowheart raised her shield, blocking the blow with a resounding *clang*. She countered immediately, her mace slamming into the skeleton's side. More bone fragments splintered off, but it kept moving.

She glanced at Ryan, her eyes sharp with irritation. "Focus, damn it! If you're not going to—" Her voice cut off abruptly, leaving only an eerie, unnatural silence. Ryan's ears popped, and his breath caught as he realized the spell *Silence* had been cast over them.

He darted a glance toward the door, catching a glimpse of another skeleton—this one wearing tattered robes. It held a gnarled staff and gestured with one bony hand, clearly the source of the spell. Shadowheart, unable to yell further reprimands, turned her full attention back to the skeletal warrior in front of them.

Ryan clenched his fists, frustration mounting. His magic had failed, but why? He wracked his brain for an explanation. The image of the skeleton taking his dark energy without flinching burned in his mind. Then it hit him: undead were often resistant—or even immune—to necrotic energy. Some could even be healed by it. His attack must have been necrotic, which meant it was effectively useless here.

He gritted his teeth and gripped his spear tightly, considering his options. There wasn't enough room to manoeuvre with the spear in such close quarters. Shadowheart was holding the line, and he'd risk hitting her if he tried to stab past her. That left the other spell—the tasteless, bland energy he'd used earlier.

Ryan took a deep breath, focusing inward. The formless power felt distant and sluggish, but he pulled it forward, shaping it into a concussive blast. He raised his hand, aiming carefully, and released it. The force blast slammed into the skeleton's chest, knocking it back several steps. The rusted armour caved inward, and one of its arms snapped off, falling to the floor.

The skeleton staggered but didn't fall. Its remaining hand gripped the scimitar tightly as it started to rise again, its head jerking toward Ryan.

Shadowheart didn't hesitate. She lunged forward, her mace coming down in a powerful swing. The blow struck the skeleton's head, sending the helmet and the skull flying across the room. The rest of the body crumbled to the ground, the eerie light in its eyes extinguished.

Ryan exhaled, not lowering his hand. The silence was oppressive, the absence of sound making every motion feel surreal. Shadowheart turned to him, her expression unreadable but her body language spoke volumes. She gestured toward the entombed scribe standing in the door raising its hand towards Ryan. It was distracted by the spirit guardians attacking it but looked like it was trying to focus on him.

Ryan's hand burned with effort as he pulled together another concussive blast. The formless energy thrummed faintly in his palm, slower to gather than he'd like, but it was all he had. The scribe's skeletal form jerked as it moved forward, its glowing eyes fixed on him. The spirit guardians swirled around it, their ghostly forms battering its brittle bones, but it continued casting, its bony fingers weaving another spell.

Not giving it a chance, Ryan threw the blast. The shimmering force struck the skeleton square in the chest with a loud crack, sending it flying back into the wall outside the alcove. As the skeleton struck the stone, its body shattered into jagged fragments, the glowing light in its skull extinguished.

The oppressive silence broke like a dam. Sound rushed back into the world, assaulting Ryan's ears with the echo of his own heavy breathing, the faint clinking of Shadowheart's armour, and the sounds of other undead climbing the stairs outside.

Shadowheart's lips parted as though to speak, but a deep grinding noise interrupted her. They both turned sharply toward the sarcophagus on their right. The heavy lid slid aside, scraping against the ancient stone platform it rested on. The air thickened with an unnatural weight, the scent of dust and age flooding the chamber.

A figure floated upward from the now-open sarcophagus. Its body was wrapped in frayed but ornate robes, tattered yet still adorned with gold trim and intricate embroidery. Fine lines of gold outlined and decorated its desiccated skull, the mummified flesh stretched tight over its angular bones. Its eyes glowed with a cold, pale light as it rose fully into the air, its robes flowing unnaturally as though caught in an unseen breeze.

Shadowheart's face twisted in alarm. She raised her mace, her voice sharp and loud. "Lich!"

"No, wait!" Ryan shouted, stepping toward her as she prepared to attack. His voice barely slowed her; she started forward, her weapon already shimmering with dark divine energy.

Before she could close the distance, the lich raised a single glowing hand, its skeletal fingers curling inward as though plucking invisible strings. Its voice resonated with unnatural authority, cutting through the room like a blade.

"Enough."

Shadowheart froze mid-step, her body locked in place. Her arms, her legs—everything about her stance remained poised but utterly motionless. Her lips moved as though trying to speak, but no sound came out. Her shadowy spirit guardians faded into nothingness.

Ryan's stomach dropped, but before he could intervene, the lich's glowing gaze turned toward him. "Thou art a bold mortal," it intoned, its voice dripping with ancient power. The sound carried a cadence like old plays or poems, a Shakespearean rhythm that added weight to every word. "To disturb my slumber with thy feeble schemes. Thy plan was clever, aye, but thou hast robbed me of all sport."

Ryan swallowed hard, gripping his spear tightly. "Uh… sorry?" he ventured, his voice cracking slightly.

The lich tilted its head, the light in its sockets dimming faintly as though narrowing in amusement. "Thou art fortunate that I am not in the mood to smite thee where thou standest. Nay, I find thy disruption… tolerable. For now."

Floating gracefully down from the sarcophagus, the lich landed on the cold stone floor without a sound. Its robes swirled as it began moving toward the chamber's exit, its hands folded behind its back. "Follow," it commanded, its tone brooking no argument.

As the lich passed her, Shadowheart staggered forward, the invisible hold on her broken. She shot Ryan a look of mingled alarm and fury, but he shook his head sharply, silently urging her to hold her tongue. Her grip tightened on her mace, but after a tense moment, she nodded, falling into step behind the lich.

The three exited the alcove, stepping into the main chamber. The sight that greeted them stopped Ryan in his tracks. The skeletons that had been scattered around the room—some still animated, others broken—were now kneeling before the lich, their skulls bowed in reverence. Even the shattered remains of the skeletal mage seemed to reassemble themselves in a disjointed manner, its bones clattering together as it knelt.

The lich surveyed the scene with a casual wave of its hand. "Rise not, my faithful priests. Return to thy rest and trouble this place no more."

The skeletons responded in eerie unison. Their bones creaked and clattered as they obeyed, each one returning to their place of repose, their movements deliberate yet devoid of life. They then dropped to the ground and fell still.

Ryan and Shadowheart exchanged wary glances. The lich turned to face them, its glowing eyes fixing first on Ryan, then on Shadowheart. "So he hast spoken, and so thou standest before me. Right as always. And yet, not completely." He turned to look Ryan straight in the eye, "Thou art not a part of this design."

Ryan froze at the lich's words, his heart pounding in his chest. "What do you mean?" he asked.

The lich's eyes narrowed, considering. "Thy presence here is... an anomaly," it intoned. "The weave of fate, the threads of destiny—they do not account for thee. Thou art as a thread plucked from one loom and woven into another's tapestry. Thou dost not belong, yet here thou art."

Ryan's throat went dry. "Then how am I here?"

The lich tilted its head, its expression inscrutable. "The answer lies not within my ken, mortal. Mine eyes see much, but even I cannot perceive all. Thy arrival is an aberration, yet not without purpose. The threads that brought thee hither may yet serve the design in ways unforeseen."

Before Ryan could press further, Shadowheart's voice cut through the air, sharp and demanding. "Who are you, exactly? And why are you here?"

The lich turned its gaze to her, the pale light in its eyes flickering faintly. "There are many answers to that question. None are important. I am an arbiter of certain matters and a servant to obligation"

Shadowheart frowned, her expression skeptical. "That doesn't answer the question. What do we call you?"

The lich's gaze lingered on her for a moment before it answered. "Thou mayest call me Withers," it said, its tone laced with an ancient gravity. "It is a name given unto me by those who sought my counsel in times long past. It shall suffice for thy purposes."

Ryan exchanged a glance with Shadowheart, who still looked uneasy but nodded. "Withers, then," Ryan said, his voice cautious but steady. "Why are you here? What's your purpose in all of this?"

Withers inclined his head slightly, as though acknowledging the question's weight. "I am here because I must be," it said cryptically. "Where the balance of life and death is threatened, my presence is required."

The lich's glowing gaze swept over them both, its expression unreadable. Shadowheart shifted her stance slightly, her mace at the ready, but Ryan held her back with a slight motion of his hand.

The lich's voice resonated through the chamber, ancient and commanding. "Now I have a question for thee: What is the worth of a single mortal's life?"

Shadowheart's lips pressed into a thin line, her knuckles tightening around her mace. She glanced briefly at Ryan before meeting the lich's glowing eyes. "I have dedicated my life to Shar," she said, her voice steady, though tinged with a cold reverence. "The value of any life depends on its service. If a life serves the Mistress of the Night, if it furthers her will, then it has worth. If it does not…" Her gaze hardened, and she trailed off, the implication hanging in the air.

The lich inclined its head, the faintest whisper of amusement in its tone. "Service to a higher purpose... aye, a most Sharran answer indeed. And now, mortal," he said, turning his luminous gaze to Ryan. "What sayest thou?"

Ryan hesitated, feeling the weight of the question pressing down on him. His heart raced, but he forced himself to breathe deeply and steady his thoughts. He met Withers' glowing eyes, swallowing his fear. "Value is… subjective," Ryan began, his voice quiet but growing stronger as he spoke. "Every life has infinite potential. The farmer who feeds his village, the warrior who protects it, the healer who saves lives, the animals they raise and guard, the plants they tend—all of them are immeasurably valuable in their own way. And then there's potential—a single life could change the course of history, create something that outlives them, or inspire others to rise higher."

He paused, his gaze unwavering as he continued. "Trying to assign a definitive value to any life is pointless when all lives hold infinite potential. And when something is infinite, isn't its value beyond measure?"

For a moment, silence filled the chamber, broken only by the faint sound of water dripping from above. The lich tilted its head, the faint light in its sockets narrowing as if contemplating Ryan's answer.

Finally, Withers spoke, his tone carrying a note of satisfaction. "Wisely spoken, mortal. Thine answers are not without merit, though thy reasoning differs. One finds worth in service; the other, in potential. Two answers, both true in their own way." He raised one bony hand, the long, skeletal fingers weaving through the air in an intricate pattern. "Before ye depart, there is a matter to address."

Ryan tensed, his fingers tightening around the haft of the spear. Shadowheart raised her mace again, her voice sharp. "What are you doing?"

The lich ignored her, his attention focused solely on Ryan. "A boon I grant thee, mortal," he said, his voice reverberating like the tolling of a great bell. "Ordinarily, I wouldst not deign to meddle thus. Yet thy power is but a flickering ember, barely sufficient to preserve thee. Better to strengthen thee now, that I might spare myself the trouble of raising thee from death later."

Before Ryan could protest, Withers extended his hand toward him. A dark, cold force surged through the air, unseen but tangible. Ryan gasped as he felt it, something deep and ancient reaching into him, wrapping itself around his mind and soul like tendrils of shadow. The connection was overwhelming, not painful but vast, almost incomprehensible.

The black energy of this place—the very essence of death—seeped into him, filling a void he hadn't even realized was there. His breath hitched, his knees buckling as the sheer force of it drove him to the floor. His palms hit the cold stone as he knelt, his head spinning. The power wasn't just entering him—it was changing him. Knowledge flooded his mind, strange and alien, yet intuitive. He could feel the dark energy of this place now, its raw potency coursing through him like a river.

Shadowheart stepped forward, her mace pointed at Withers, her voice laced with fury. "What did you do to him?! Answer me!"

Ryan raised a trembling hand, his voice hoarse but firm. "It's… it's okay!" He coughed, forcing himself upright. "I'm okay, Shadowheart."

She hesitated, her expression torn between suspicion and concern. Her eyes flicked between Ryan and the lich, her grip on her mace unwavering. "What was that?" she demanded, her voice sharper now.

Withers turned his gaze to her, unconcerned by the weapon aimed at him. "A gift," he said simply. "The mortal required… adjustment. His survival benefits mine interests."

Ryan finally managed to stand, leaning heavily on the spear for support. He placed a hand on Shadowheart's shoulder, his voice low and reassuring. "I'm fine. Really. Whatever he did… I think it's helped."

Shadowheart shot him a dubious look but reluctantly lowered her mace, her body still tense and ready to act.

Withers regarded them both for a long moment before speaking again. "The threads of fate are ever tangled, mortal. Take this boon, and tread carefully. Thy path is fraught with peril, but the end is yet unwritten. And here," the lich held out his hand, opening it to reveal a small token, a silver skull biting a scroll, hung on a fine chain.

Ryan recognized it as the Amulet of Lost Voices. He took it silently.

With that, the lich turned away, his movements deliberate and almost regal as he strode toward the far end of the chamber. "Go now," he said, his voice echoing faintly. "And should death claim thee, call upon me. I shall be watching. We have met and I know thy face."

Ryan and Shadowheart exchanged a glance, her expression still a mix of suspicion and unease. But Ryan nodded, gripping the spear tightly as he steadied himself. "Let's go," he said quietly.

Together, they made their way toward the cave where Ryan knew the hatch was. Withers' cryptic words lingered in the air. Ryan could still feel the tether within him, a connection to something dark and powerful.