The path to the cemetery grew quieter with every step.

Nor Badur’s market noise faded behind them. The blue glow of the fruit thinned here, scattered and weak. The air felt heavier. Colder. At the precise moment they felt it, they saw a sign carved into the rock wall.

To the Cemetery.

The letters were cut 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, walking for hours. The corridor ended in a bifurcation, where several paths began again. At this precise point, resting atop a large rock, they saw him.

Humo.

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

As the group passed, his eyes opened. They were clear. Old. Patient.

In a low, rough voice, like stone sliding on stone, he asked, “Where are you going?

Garlak answered, “We are visiting the cemetery.”

Humo spoke slowly. “People usually go to the old ones for treasures. But be careful—if you go there, not all who enter return. Remember: no noise.”

Garlak glanced at Trista.

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

Humo, without acknowledging what they said, continued as if he did not believe them.

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

Without waiting for an answer, he closed his eyes again.

Confused, unsure whether they should explain themselves—or whether Humo already knew why they were there—the group continued along their path along the first bifurcation on the left. None of them spoke until he was out of sight.

When the path split again, they took the second cave, counting from the left, just as Darik had instructed.

At the end of the path stood what appeared to be a stone wall—but it was unlike the rest of the cavern. This one was different. It had been built, carefully assembled, and then sealed by magic.

In front of it, Trista took out one of Darik’s flasks. She scooped a spoonful of dirt from the base of the structure and dropped it into the thick liquid before shaking it gently. The mixture darkened and began to move slightly inside the glass, as if something within it had awakened.

One by one, they spread it over their skin, feeling an unfamiliar sensation take hold. Their bodies did not weaken, but seemed to lose a certain solidity, becoming softer in a way that was difficult to grasp. When Garlak pressed his hand against the stone, there was no resistance—his arm slid forward as if he were pushing through dense water.

Understanding without needing to speak, they stepped forward and passed through the wall. The rock did not break; instead, they moved between it, as though it had briefly forgotten how to be solid.

On the other side, the air changed, and a silence settled around them — one that did not feel natural.

Beyond the wall, the cavern opened into something vast. The cemetery stretched deep into the mountain, an immense expanse carved into solid rock. Darkness still dominated everything, but it no longer felt absolute—the faint glow of the plant they carried from the City of Lights cast a soft, steady light around them, just enough to reveal their immediate surroundings. Beyond its reach, the darkness remained thick and impenetrable.

Along the sides of the cavern, distant blue lights flickered weakly, scattered and far apart, barely adding to what little the group could see.

At first, the ground ahead was bare, a wide stretch of flat stone extending into the distance. No tombs, no structures—just emptiness. But further ahead, shapes began to emerge from the darkness: low stone crypts and formations carved directly into the rock floor, as if the dead had been laid to rest within the mountain itself. 

They began to move forward in silence, following Humo’s warning. Each step was careful, measured against the stillness around them. Nothing stirred. Nothing revealed itself. The cavern seemed empty, abandoned—yet the silence did not feel natural.

It pressed in on them.

There was no movement, no sound, no sign of life—and still, something lingered in the air. A tension, subtle but undeniable, like a presence waiting just beyond perception.

All of them felt it.

They moved cautiously, every sense sharpened, each step placed with care to avoid even the smallest sound, as if the wrong noise might awaken something that had not yet chosen to reveal itself.

After walking for more than an hour, Trista noticed something ahead.

At first, it was barely perceptible—a subtle shift against the darkness. Then it became clearer.

Low shapes moved across the ground. Round bodies, supported by too many legs, advancing with an unnatural coordination. From each of them extended a long neck, ending in something that resembled a single, unblinking eye.

They had not noticed the group.

“Slow,” Emeryn whispered.

The party adjusted their pace, every step placed with care. The silence around them deepened, as if even the cavern itself were holding its breath.

Then Garlak stumbled.

His boot struck a loose stone, and it rolled sharply across the ground.

The sound was small—but in that place, it carried.

One of the creatures reacted immediately. Its body shifted, its long neck lifting as the eye fixed directly on Garlak. Then it began to move toward him—not fast, not slow, but at a steady, deliberate pace.

Willow raised her bow, preparing to fire, but the thought crossed her mind that if they ran, they might avoid the creature—at that precise moment, Trista whispered, 

“Don’t move.”

The group froze, instinct tightening their posture into a silent readiness. Weapons held, breath contained, they waited.

The creature approached.

Garlak did not move.

Step by step, it closed the distance until it reached him. For a brief moment, it paused at his feet, the eye lingering as if studying him.

Then it climbed. In a blink, it was on him, its body moving with sudden speed as its sharp legs slipped into the gaps of his armor. Garlak sucked in a breath as blood began to spill down his side. He did not shout.

When Willow saw the blood running along his leg, and released the arrow.

The arrow pierced the creature with such force that it tore free from Garlak’s leg, flying several meters before crashing against the stone floor. Garlak staggered, pain running through his body, while the others stood momentarily stunned by what had just happened.

Then the creature began to move.

Not as before—this was different. Its body twisted unnaturally, its legs curling inward as if collapsing into itself.

And then it exploded.

A cloud of thick green gas burst outward, spreading rapidly across the ground. Garlak managed to stumble back just in time, retreating a few steps to avoid the spreading cloud.

After the explosion, five more creatures began moving toward the group, drawn by the blast—or perhaps by the spreading gas.

Willow nocked another arrow and fired. The shot struck one of the creatures cleanly, and he noticed immediately that its movement slowed, its coordination faltering. He made a quick decision—leave it for later.

He fired again as the others advanced, but this time the arrow missed, skimming past the creature and disappearing into the darkness. Without hesitation, he stepped back behind the group, repositioning to keep distance while maintaining a clear line of fire.

As the creatures closed in, Garlak reacted—this time not waiting.

With a heavy swing of his axe, he struck one of them mid-approach. The blow split the creature in two instantly.

“Garlak—!” Trista shouted.

Too late.

The creature convulsed and exploded, releasing another violent burst of thick green gas. The blast hit Garlak at close range. He staggered, the wound in his leg reopening as blood ran freely, the gas leaving him disoriented and struggling to stay upright.

In the distance, two larger figures appeared.

Humanoid.

They moved slowly—but with intent.

There was no time to think about retreat. Garlak was in no condition to move, and even if he were, carrying him was impossible. He was massive—dead weight under these conditions.

They would have to hold their ground.

Four of the smaller creatures still remained.

Emeryn stepped forward and struck one with his staff, pivoting away just as it burst behind him, the gas barely missing his back. Willow fired again, this time hitting one near Trista, staggering it long enough for Trista to step in and finish it with a precise swing of her morningstar.

Behind them, the creature Willow had slowed earlier twitched—and then exploded on its own. The blast forced both Trista and Emeryn to shift their footing, but they recovered quickly and together eliminated the last of the small creatures, combining their strikes to avoid another close-range detonation.

The ground was now marked by spreading clouds of toxic gas.

Coughing, adjusting their positions, they moved to form a defensive line—placing themselves between Garlak and the approaching humanoids.

Backs turned briefly toward him, but never fully unguarded.

Willow fired at the nearest humanoid. The arrow struck true—but they were already too close. Too close for the bow. Then, he let it fall behind his shoulder in a single motion and drew one of his daggers.

The two humanoids reached them.

The first one lunged toward Trista, but she held her ground, deflecting the initial strike with her shield before stepping in, driving her morningstar into its side. Emeryn followed immediately, striking low with his staff to break its balance, opening the space for Willow to slip past its guard and drive his dagger into its back.

The creature collapsed.

The second moved faster.

It went for Emeryn—and again, the group reacted as one. Trista intercepted, locking it in place for a brief second. That was enough.

Willow struck first—low and precise. Emeryn followed with a focused blow to the head. Trista ended it with a final crushing strike.

The humanoid fell.

Silence returned—but not the same silence as before.

Behind them, Garlak was still breathing.

Barely.

When the fight was over, Trista moved quickly to Garlak’s side, pressing her hands against the wound to stop the bleeding. Her movements were firm and practiced, steady despite the lingering tension in the air. Willow knelt beside them, applying basic first aid to support the healing, tightening bindings and cleaning what he could before the damage worsened.

It took time, but Garlak’s breathing steadied. The bleeding slowed. Eventually, with effort, he managed to stand.

They did not speak much after that.

When they resumed their path, they moved with greater caution. They now knew they could kill the creatures—but that did not make them safe. Fighting them meant noise, and noise meant risk. It was better to avoid them whenever possible than to draw more of them… or something worse.

They walked for what felt like a long stretch—long enough for the echoes of the battle to fade from their bodies, though not from their minds.

Eventually, the terrain began to change.

The flat stone gave way to structure.

They had reached the mausoleum fields.

The cavern here was different. Constructions rose from the ground—some elaborate and carefully carved, others simpler but still deliberate in their design. All of them were intact, preserved in form, yet marked by abandonment. No signs of recent presence. No light beyond the faint blue glow that barely touched their surfaces.

They moved between them slowly.

It did not take long before they found it.

The Varik mausoleum.

After a brief exchange of glances, they decided to enter. From the outside, it showed no visible traps, no immediate signs of danger.

Inside, they found a space divided into two chambers.

Inside, they found a space divided into two chambers. They quickly inspected both, searching for any signs of danger or hidden traps. Finding none, they chose the first chamber to rest. The first room was filled with clay amphorae, stacked and arranged along the walls. Each one held ashes and fragments of the dead—nothing of apparent value. Many of them crumbled at the slightest touch, breaking apart as if time itself had weakened them beyond repair.

After resting and sharing a small meal, they moved toward the second chamber, Garlak at the head of the group.

Inside, the space was stark and silent. Seven sarcophagi stood within—six aligned along the sides, and one positioned beneath a stone altar at the far end of the chamber.

Upon the altar rested the orb, the object they had come for.

Once inside, Garlak removed his pack and wedged it carefully in the doorway. If the entrance tried to close, it wouldn’t seal completely. They would not be trapped inside.

Once inside, Garlak removed his pack and wedged it carefully in the doorway. If the entrance tried to close, it wouldn’t seal completely.

After a brief discussion on what to do—whether to take the orb and leave or inspect the sarcophagi—Garlak made the decision himself. He stepped toward one of them and triggered its mechanism.

They had not seen it before.

The reaction was immediate.

A slab of stone dropped from above, sealing the entrance with violent force. The impact shattered Garlak’s pack where it had been wedged, reducing it to fragments, as if it had never been there at all.

In that instant, fear took hold of the group—not only because they were now trapped, but because a second realization followed close behind. The potions they had used to pass through the sealed barrier… had been in Garlak’s pack.

For a brief moment, the thought settled heavily among them—that their only way back had been lost along with it.

Then, almost at once, they understood that Trista still had them.

Now, only trapped inside the mausoleum, they turned their focus to the only thing left to do—search for a way out.

They began to examine the chamber more carefully, this time with urgency guiding their movements, checking the walls, the floor, and the structures around them for anything that might reveal a mechanism or hidden passage. It did not take long before their attention was drawn to the central sarcophagus beneath the altar, which, unlike the others, bore a name carved into the stone—Talara Valdri—along with a series of symbols etched with deliberate precision.

A spear, a sword, a root, a flame, a river, and a crown.

Above the symbols, an inscription had been carved into the stone: Only the one who remembers their origins may pass the Door of Legacy.

The markings were not decorative; they carried intent, suggesting that whatever this place was, it had been designed with purpose beyond simply holding the dead.

They pressed the symbol of the spear. The room trembled as a deep vibration ran through the stone, followed by the sudden sound of water forcing its way through the walls. It began to pour in rapidly, rising across the floor with alarming speed.

Willow and Trista moved quickly, climbing onto the altar as the water continued to rise around them. Emeryn, however, remained focused, her eyes scanning the symbols carved into the sarcophagus, searching for meaning rather than reacting to the panic building in the room.

“Origins…” she murmured, almost to herself. “Foundation.”

Without hesitation, she pressed the symbol of the root.

At once, the mechanism shifted—the heavy stone slab blocking the entrance began to lift, and just as quickly as it had come, the water started to drain away, pulled back into the walls as the chamber slowly returned to stillness.

Garlak moved toward the doorway without hesitation. What remained of his pack lay scattered across the ground—torn, crushed, reduced to little more than fragments, as if it had been ground into the stone itself.

He stopped there for a moment, looking down at what was left.

Frustration finally broke through the tension he had been holding since the fight. He muttered under his breath, complaining about the mission, about Darik, about being sent into this cursed place only to lose nearly everything he had carried with him.

His voice carried more than anger. It carried exhaustion.

Determined not to leave empty-handed, Garlak turned back into the chamber and began opening the remaining sarcophagi one by one. Most held nothing of value—only dust, or remnants of bodies that crumbled into powder at the slightest touch, as if time had long since claimed them.

Only the sarcophagus of Talara Valdri was different.

Inside, they found objects that had not yielded to decay: a barber’s razor, a key, and a letter, all of them carrying a faint trace of something unnatural—something preserved beyond time.

The key, upon closer inspection, revealed its nature. It was not only capable of opening any door, but also of creating a field of silence—an area within which no sound could be made, and none could escape.

Willow picked up the razor. As he turned it in his hand, he noticed a single word etched along the blade.

Awaken.

The moment he read it, the metal responded.

In a blink, the blade elongated and curved, reshaping itself into a dagger, as if the steel itself were alive and had only been waiting to be called.

With their findings secured, they took the orb they had come for and began their journey back toward the City of Lights.

On their way back, they encountered several creatures, but this time they avoided them with little difficulty, moving carefully and making sure not to draw attention. What had once felt like an unknown threat was now something they understood well enough to bypass.

When they reached the entrance, they quickly prepared the potion and passed through the sealed barrier with little trouble, the stone yielding just as it had before.

Further along the path, they crossed Humo once again. The great turtle-like figure remained where they had first seen him, still and unmoving. This time, he paid them little attention, as if their presence no longer held any importance.

By the time they reached the City of Lights, exhaustion had begun to settle into their bodies. They made their way to the tavern Sopa de Escamas, where they had left their transport. There, they allowed themselves a moment of rest—eating, recovering, and finally letting the tension of the journey begin to fade.