The path to the cemetery grew quieter with every step.

Nor Badur’s market noise faded behind them. The blue glow of the fruit became thinner here, scattered and weak. The air felt heavier. Colder.

A wooden sign leaned against the rock wall.

To the Cemetery.

The letters were carved deep, as if someone wanted to make sure no one could pretend they hadn’t known where they were going.

They followed the narrow corridor.

Soon they saw him.

Humo

He sat in the middle of the path.

Massive. Still.

A turtle-like figure with a shell cracked by age and covered in moss. His head rested low, eyes half closed. He looked like part of the cavern itself.

They slowed.

His eyes opened.

They were clear. Old. Patient.

“No noise,” he said quietly.

His voice was low, rough like stone sliding on stone.

“No touching what is not yours.”

Garlak glanced at Trista.

“We’re just passing through,” Emeryn said carefully.

Humo studied them.

“The dead are not always asleep,” he added.

Then he closed his eyes again.

That was all.

They walked around him.

None of them spoke until he was out of sight.

The Blocked Gate

The cemetery entrance was sealed behind a mound of fallen stone. The iron doors were visible behind the rocks, but completely blocked.

Trista took out one of Darik’s flasks.

She scooped a spoonful of dirt from the base of the gate and dropped it into the thick liquid. She shook it.

The mixture darkened.

It moved slightly inside the glass.

One by one, they spread it over their skin.

The feeling was strange.

Their bodies felt softer. Not weak — just… less solid.

Garlak pressed his hand against the stones.

Instead of resistance, his arm slid forward like pushing into thick water.

They stepped through.

The rocks did not break.

They passed between them.

On the other side, the air changed.

It was silent in a way that felt wrong.

The Field

The cemetery was not small.

It was a wide cavern filled with mausoleums, stone crypts, and low structures carved into the rock floor.

A faint green mist clung close to the ground.

Something moved ahead.

Low shapes.

Round bodies.

Too many legs.

Long necks ending in something like an eye.

They had not noticed the group yet.

“Slow,” Emeryn whispered.

They began to move carefully.

Garlak’s boot scraped stone.

The sound was small.

But in the silence, it felt loud.

One creature turned.

Its single eye fixed on him.

It began to move.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Certain.

“Don’t move,” Trista whispered.

The creature reached him.

It paused at his feet.

Then suddenly it leapt.

It climbed his body in a blink.

Sharp legs pierced gaps in his armor.

Garlak sucked in a breath as blood spilled down his side.

He did not shout.

Willow fired.

The arrow struck deep into the creature’s center.

For a heartbeat nothing happened.

Then the creature flew backward and hit the ground.

It exploded.

The blast shook the stone.

A cloud of thick green gas burst outward.

Trista raised her shield just in time.

Emeryn rolled away.

The gas burned the air.

In the distance, more shapes turned.

And began moving toward them.

The Swarm

“There are many,” Willow said quietly.

“We move first,” Emeryn replied.

They charged.

Garlak struck the next creature with a heavy swing.

It split apart instantly.

“Back!” Trista warned.

He stepped away just before it exploded.

The shockwave rattled his teeth.

Emeryn struck another with her staff and pivoted away before the blast hit.

Willow kept shooting.

Each arrow precise.

Each kill followed by a violent burst.

The fight became rhythm.

Strike.

Step.

Explosion.

Mist.

A creature lunged at Willow.

He dropped his bow and drew Vael.

The red obsidian blade grew in his hand as he whispered the word.

He drove it upward into the creature’s underside.

It burst apart.

He was already moving when the gas exploded behind him.

More came.

Too many.

Two larger shapes emerged from deeper shadow.

These were different.

Taller.

Thicker.

Humanoid.

They did not move like the others.

They moved with purpose.

One swung a heavy arm at Garlak.

He barely dodged.

The blow cracked stone where he had stood.

He rolled and drove his axe into its leg.

The creature did not explode.

It staggered.

Willow slashed it with Vael.

A dark mark spread from the wound — visible only to him.

He felt its position clearly.

He moved without hesitation and struck again in the same place.

The creature collapsed and shattered like brittle rock.

The second reached Emeryn.

It hit her shoulder and threw her back.

Trista intercepted it, shield first, absorbing the next blow.

Garlak finished it with a brutal downward strike.

Around them, smaller creatures still burst and died.

Gas filled the lower air.

They tightened their formation.

Back to back.

Garlak left.

Emeryn right.

Trista forward.

Willow behind them.

They moved together.

Precise.

Controlled.

The last creature lunged.

Garlak crushed it.

They stepped back.

It exploded harmlessly in open space.

Silence returned.

Only their breathing remained.

The green mist slowly drifted toward the cracks in the walls.

As if called back.

Mausoleum Vandrik

They advanced carefully.

The Vandrik mausoleum stood slightly apart from the others.

Simple.

Well kept.

Old.

Inside, urns filled the first chamber.

Many broke when touched.

The second chamber held seven sarcophagi.

Six along the walls.

One beneath a raised altar.

On the altar rested a stone orb.

Garlak wedged his pack into the doorway as precaution.

He opened one sarcophagus.

A heavy slab dropped instantly from the ceiling.

The entrance sealed.

His pack was crushed into splinters.

He stared at the ruins.

“…I liked that pack.”

They were trapped.

Trista stepped forward.

On the central sarcophagus:

Thalara Vandrik

Below the name were carved six symbols.

Spear. Sword. Root. Flame. River. Crown.

Above them:

Only the one who remembers their origins may pass the Door of Legacy.

They pressed the Spear.

The room trembled.

Water began pouring from the walls.

It rose quickly.

Willow and Trista climbed onto the altar.

Emeryn scanned the symbols.

“Origins,” she murmured. “Foundation.”

She pressed Root.

The stone slab lifted.

The water drained away.

They tested the others carefully.

From the opened sarcophagi they recovered:

A red obsidian razor.

A black metal key with strange dwarven markings.

A sealed letter.

Willow whispered, “Grow.”

The razor lengthened into a dagger.

He nodded once.

“Vael.”

The key felt heavier than it looked.

Alive in a quiet way.

They did not take the orb from the altar.

They had taken enough.

The Escape

On their way back across the field, they saw light ahead.

Lantern light.

Organized.

Voices.

“Who’s there?” someone called.

Emeryn inhaled to answer.

Willow turned the key.

A soft pulse spread around them.

Silence fell.

No sound escaped their bodies.

No footsteps echoed.

They moved past the patrol unseen.

When the effect faded, the patrol was already behind them.

At the gate, they used the potion again.

They flowed through the stone.

Outside, Humo did not open his eyes.

But as they passed, his voice drifted after them.

“You took more than stone.”

They did not stop.

Nor Badur’s blue glow waited ahead.

Day 4 was not finished.

But something had shifted.

And the dead had noticed.