Somewhere deep in a dungeon, an orc was on fire.

  Regrettably, that was not a metaphor. That somewhere was here, and that orc’s name was Ulthar.

  The fourth floor was not like the ones above. It was not a cave, not a ruined city, not stone corridors. It was a sepulcher. A tomb. A place built for the dead, where you could almost hear their voice whispering in the walls and stone arches curved inward like a beast’s ribcage. All burial niches and bones stacked from floor to ceiling.

  It should have been unsettling. But it felt quite cozy, really.

  In fact, after two months here, it felt a bit like home.

  More importantly, for the first time in days, it was quiet. Rare, fragile silence.

  But silence in a dungeon is like a strange cat on your lap—you enjoy it, knowing full well it’s going to end in claws and betrayal.

  I let my skull rest against the back of my throne, allowing myself exactly one moment to appreciate it. Then I pushed myself upright. If I had learned anything, it was that peace never lasted long down here.

  I was already rising when the shouting began, bouncing through the corridors of my new home, the sound ricocheting off the alcoves carved into the walls.

  That was about the time Ulthar arrived, still on fire.

  He came barrelling into the room like a walking technical difficulty, flailing arms spreading the scent of scorched leather and Orcish regret in his wake.

  “BONE KING!” he bellowed. “I AM BURNING.”

  I folded my arms. “Yes, I can see that, Ulthar.”

  Ulthar, in turn, could not see much of anything, given that his eyebrows were currently missing and his entire upper half was dusted with a faintly glowing orange powder—the unmistakable residue of Blisterblossom Spores, one of the dungeon’s more temperamental flora.

  “IT SPREADS WITH AIR—DO NOT FAN THE FLAMES,” Ulthar gasped, before wheezing dramatically and toppling forward onto his knees.

  I leaned slightly to the left. "Maybe," I said, "you should stop flailing like a drunken windmill."

  Ulthar froze, processing this. His remaining brain cells held a quick internal conference. Then, with deep, begrudging effort, he forced himself into stillness. The smoldering subsided slightly.

  Progress.

  I tapped my fingers against the armrest of my throne. "Weren't you supposed to be training with Gorthor on how to not set yourself on fire with those things?"

  Ulthar made a strange, distressed humming noise in the back of his throat, like an overworked kettle about to burst. “Ah. Yes. However. It appears… I have learned incorrectly.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Ulthar shuffled. “In my defense, the demonstration was fast. Gorthor very… efficient.”

  I sighed. Gorthor was my actual head of orc security. Unlike Ulthar, he had an IQ higher than that of a well-trained dog and did not routinely set himself on fire.

  Gorthor had been overseeing weapons training for my less intellectually gifted warriors, which, unfortunately, included the handling of Blisterblossoms—a truly horrendous flower that grew in these deeper levels of the dungeon and, when agitated, exploded. Apparently, the learning curve was steep.

  I gestured vaguely toward the exit. “Go to the cistern. Jump in. Not too deep–I really don’t want to deal with the Dweller again. And for the love of my continued patience, stop playing with the exploding flowers, okay?”

  Ulthar looked vaguely offended at the implication. "It was not playing! It was training!"

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “And how’s that working out for you?”

  Ulthar considered the question, his shoulders slumping deeply. Then, solemnly: “I burn.”

  I waved him off. “Cistern, Ulthar.”

  "YES, BONE KING."

  And with that, he fled, leaving behind only the scent of scorched dignity.

  I let my skull thunk back against the headrest of my throne, the sound rattling faintly through the tomb. The ceiling stretched high above, an endless vault of dark stone, its pillars curling inward like fossilized ribs. The blue torches along the walls flickered uneasily, casting shadows that slithered over the arches. Probably just a trick of the light. Probably.

  My robe shifted against me—soft, familiar now, though I refused to acknowledge how long it had taken me to bother putting something on in the first place. Didn’t need it. I still felt cold and heat and pressure, but didn’t really experience it the same way since I became a Lich. That wasn’t the point. The point was that I’d been naked since I woke up without ever really thinking about it. Even in undeath, there were standards.

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  The smell of burned orc finally started to fade, leaving only the dungeon’s usual cocktail of old bones, damp stone, and the faintest whiff of something I had yet to identify and was increasingly certain I didn’t want to. The quiet settled in again. A rare kind of quiet—the kind that had weight. The kind that felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something.

  I shut my eyes. Just once, it would be nice if it was waiting for someone else.

  Two months. Two entire months.

  Two months of playing dungeon manager to creatures who still thought fire was an interesting and complex new discovery. Two months of rationing food, dealing with kobolds hoarding said food, and breaking up fights between orcs and goblins over who got to sit in the nice corner of the tomb. Two months of reinforcing defenses that adventurers inevitably smashed to pieces anyway.

  I had beaten adventurers. I had faced down a holy knight. I had killed a kobold warlord.

  And yet, here I was. Resolving fire-based disputes between orcs and questioning my entire existence.

  And, because fate had a deeply twisted sense of humor—

  That was when Grib arrived. Bounding in like an enthusiastic dog with something horrible in its mouth. Dragging an elf behind him.

  “Surprise!” Grib declared.

  I stared.

  Grib beamed. The elf, bound and looking distinctly unimpressed with his current life choices, remained silent.

  I turned back to my nonexistent gods. "Why."

  Grib shoved the elf forward like he was unveiling a grand prize. “Gift!”

  “Gift?”

  “Yep! Found tall goblin sneaking near tunnels. Not dangerous.”

  I snapped my gaze to him. “Tall what?”

  “Goblin,” Grib said matter-of-factly. “Big ears. Long limbs. Too clean. But sneaky.” He pantomimed each feature as he spoke, little goblin arms flailing about.

  I turned to Krix, my resident kobold strategist and the closest thing I had to a functioning brain cell.

  "Explain it to him, please," I muttered.

  Krix let out a long-suffering sigh. "He is an elf, Grib. Tall, pointy-eared, not one of ours."

  Grib gasped like this was the most shocking revelation of his life. “Tall goblin is not goblin?!”

  "Yes.”

  Grib stared at the elf with newfound awe. “Tall goblin is elf…”

  I decided not to correct him.

  I turned to the elf. "Alright, pointy-ears, you’ve made it farther into my dungeon than most people manage without dying. Care to explain why?"

  The elf did not, in fact, care to explain why.

  I tapped my fingers against the armrest. "You were with three others. Adventurers."

  Nothing.

  Grib piped up instead. “Slime like him.”

  I blinked. "I’m sorry. What?"

  Grib nodded sagely. “Slime like him.” He gestured to the tiny, wobbly blue creature currently jiggling on his shoulder. “See?”

  The slime made a smug little gurgle.

  I turned back to the elf. "Great. You're officially slime-approved. Doesn't mean you get to leave."

  Still nothing.

  I exhaled through my teeth. “Standard guild contract, or something more interesting?”

  Silence.

  I frowned. This was… unusual. Usually, adventurers fell into two categories: the ones who charged in screaming and died, and the ones who charged in screaming and then ran away. This was my first time dealing with one that just stood there.

  I sat back. "Your friends didn’t have much going for them. Just the usual—mercs, sellswords, some poor idiots hoping to hit it big. That about right?"

  More silence.

  I squinted at him. He wasn’t scared. Not in the normal way.

  There was no pleading, no struggle, no frantic attempts to escape. No anger, either. Just a slow, steady kind of quiet, like he’d already decided the best way to survive this was to do absolutely nothing at all.

  Grib squinted at him. “Elf broken?” He turned to Krix. “He look broken.”

  Krix studied Isen with mild disinterest. “No, he’s just refusing to speak.”

  Grib frowned. “Why?”

  Krix shrugged. “Dignity, maybe.”

  Grib tilted his head. “Maybe he shy?”

  Krix gave him a flat look. “He’s not shy, Grib.”

  Grib considered this, then nodded sagely. “Maybe he thinking real hard.”

  I sighed. “Or maybe he’s just being difficult.”

  Grib scratched his chin, then grinned at Isen. “Thinking real hard and being difficult.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

  Isen didn’t react.

  Which, honestly, was becoming an impressive commitment to the bit.

  I leaned forward slightly. "Alright, fine. Let’s start small. What do I even call you?"

  A pause.

  Then, at last—

  “…Isen.”

  One word. Even. Careful. Like he was handing it over one piece at a time, just enough to keep things from getting worse.

  I nodded. “Well, Isen, congratulations. You’re officially a prisoner. Try not to enjoy it too much.”

  Silence.

  I turned to Krix. “Do we even have a jail?”

  Krix blinked. “A what?”

  “A jail. A room to keep prisoners in.”

  Krix frowned. “Why keep prisoners?”

  “So they don’t escape and murder people.”

  Grib perked up. “Oh! Like shiny room?”

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “For treasures,” Grib said proudly. “Elf not treasure?”

  Krix sighed. “We got storage rooms. Empty ones.”

  I exhaled. “Good enough.”

  Krix and Grib hauled Isen toward his new, deeply unglamorous cell.

  As they left, I turned back to my throne, letting my head thunk back against the stone.

  Two months ago, I didn’t have prisoners. I didn’t do prisoners. People came into the dungeon, people tried to kill me, and I either let them go or turned them into decorations.

  Now? Now I was keeping elves in storage like leftovers.

  “Just what I needed,” I muttered. “Another mouth to feed.”

  A pause.

  Then, from somewhere in the distance—

  “BONE KING! CISTERN NOT ENOUGH. I AM STILL BURNING.”

  Sigh.

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