POV - Edgar

  "I trust you’ve been well since last we spoke?"

  I met Lilith's eyes. "Oh, fantastic. Business is booming. You know how it is, undead to manage, floors to run."

  She laughed. It wasn’t the same as before. Not sharp, not mocking. Just... pleased. Something was different about her. She was being softer. And I wasn’t sure I liked it.

  The air shifted as we moved forward. Not just heavier, denser, like it had been lived in too long and didn’t want to make room for us. The torches burned low, their pale light dragging across the marble floor in long, reluctant streaks.

  It was a very nice floor. Or had been, once. Now the marble was cracked in places, polished in others, and generally doing its best impression of someone aging gracefully while absolutely failing.

  The murals lining the walls were in a similar state. They had once told stories; now, they mostly suggested them. A woman in a gown still smiled from one, but the rest of her had peeled away, leaving her floating eerily in the ruins of whatever grand narrative she’d once been part of. A long feast table stretched across another, plates still gleaming with gold leaf. Except most of the guests had vanished, their outlines barely visible. Either they’d been erased, or they’d simply left. The more I looked at it, the less sure I was which would be worse.

  And then, the eyes.

  Not the ones in the murals, though they weren’t helping. The real ones.

  Skeletal sentries lined the walls, standing so still they might as well have been decorative. Except they weren’t. Because statues don’t watch. Not like that. Their heads shifted as we passed, just enough to track us, not enough to suggest they had thoughts of their own.

  Then, something moved ahead of us.

  At first, I thought it was a shadow pulling itself free from the wall. Then I saw the way it crawled.

  It was hunched, its limbs too long, its body pulled tight in a way that suggested it had once been human but had long since lost interest in standing that way. It moved like someone had crammed the wrong instructions into its bones. Not stiff. Not jerky. Worse.

  Fluid.

  It turned its head toward us. Its breath rattled.

  I clenched my jaw. It didn’t move. Just crouched there, its fingers curled against the stone.

  Waiting.

  It wasn’t alone. More of them lurked in the alcoves, half-sunk into doorways, their bodies pressed into the shadows between the torches’ dim flickering glow. Watching. Listening. Holding still in a way that wasn’t stillness at all.

  And none of them moved. Not until we passed. Not until Lilith passed.

  Because down here, movement wasn’t a right. It was permission.

  And then, from somewhere in the corridor ahead.

  Clink. Clink. Clink.

  Something small and ceramic waddled into view.

  It was a teapot.

  Just moving steadily forward, grumbling to itself in between small, irritable puffs of steam.

  Grib gasped.

  His whole body went stiff, eyes going wide with something that could only be described as religious awe.

  "Talking bucket," he whispered.

  The teapot did not appreciate this.

  "Bucket?" it snapped, voice dry and crackling, like old parchment. "Oh, wonderful. Yes, let’s just strip away all dignity, why don’t we? Never mind the craftsmanship, never mind the history, just another bucket sloshing about in a house full of bowing bones and dust-ridden tyrants. I’ll have you know, I had a name. I had an army…"

  Grib, meanwhile, looked like he’d just fallen in love. The real kind. The stars-in-the-eyes, songs-in-the-heart, I-would-kill-for-you-and-also-polish-your-lid kind of love. Before I could stop him, he lunged.

  I looked over at her, expecting her to, but Lilith didn’t react.

  The teapot let out an indignant squawk and a puff of steam, as if trying to eject itself from the situation by sheer hydraulic pressure. Grib snatched it off the ground and cradled it with the kind of reverence most people reserved for ancient relics or pet store ferrets.

  Eyes shining, he gasped. “Mr. Steamy.” He nodded solemnly. “Good name for bucket.”

  The teapot squirmed in his grip. “Unhand me, you excitable rodent—”

  “Grib, put the teapot down,” I said, already halfway into the sigh I knew was coming.

  He ignored me entirely, of course. Turned instead to Lilith, lifting Mr. Steamy with both hands like an offering at the altar of Extremely Bad Ideas. His ears drooped, hopeful.

  “Cold lady,” he said, “can Grib keep? Just for little while?”

  I braced for the inevitable dismissal, the raised eyebrow, the royal wave of condescension.

  Instead, her expression softened. Barely. But it did.

  “Anything for an esteemed guest,” she said, and smiled.

  Then she looked at the teapot. Not a threat. Not a command. Just a look.

  The teapot froze. A single, mechanical click sounded from within, like a lock engaging somewhere deep in its porcelain soul.

  “...Very well,” it muttered, voice considerably more subdued. “I suppose one must make... allowances.”

  Grib beamed.

  I sighed.

  He tucked Mr. Steamy against his chest like a cherished pet, humming a tuneless little melody that bounced cheerfully off the cold stone. The teapot grumbled, but didn’t fight it—just let out occasional, irritable huffs of steam like a cat reluctantly tolerating a child’s affection.

  Lilith led the way, composed as ever. Her footsteps echoed down the corridor, measured and musical, as if the floor hadn’t noticed it was rotting underneath her. The walls glowed with soft torchlight, warm and inviting in the way a well-set trap might be, right before the teeth close.

  Grib tilted Mr. Steamy upward. “If you spit fire, you’d be dragon bucket.”

  “I am not a bucket,” Mr. Steamy snapped, steam sputtering from his spout. “And if I had arms, I’d swat you.”

  Grib grinned and gently patted him. “Steamy best bucket.”

  A sound like a snort escaped the teapot. Something close to fondness. And against my better judgment... I smiled. Just a little. I didn’t say anything. Would’ve denied it if anyone asked. But for a moment—just long enough to notice—the weight pressing on my bones felt lighter.

  Lilith’s gaze flicked back. She saw something in my face. Her expression stayed smooth, but there was a flicker of something behind it. Amusement? Approval? It passed before I could catch it.

  We moved on.

  Here, the manor felt alive. Too alive. The wood paneling gleamed with fresh polish, and rich crimson carpets muffled our steps like they were trying to hide them. Candlelight flickered along the walls, casting a glow that, at first glance, seemed warm.

  Until you noticed the suits of armor.

  They lined the hallway like silent sentinels. Full plate, polished to a mirror shine, every detail immaculate. Not a speck of dust. Not a scratch. Each one stood in a niche along the walls, unmoving, visors down. Decorative, probably. Hopefully.

  Grib, ever Grib, squinted up at one. “Think there’s people inside?”

  The visor shifted. Just a fraction. A tiny, metallic twitch.

  Grib yelped and jumped back, nearly dropping Mr. Steamy.

  The teapot gave a sharp puff of steam. “Honestly! Must you jostle me like a sack of potatoes?”

  “Sorry, bucket,” Grib whispered, cradling him tighter.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “I am not a bucket,” Mr. Steamy huffed, voice crisp with wounded dignity. “I’ll thank you not to confuse refined craftsmanship with cookware.”

  One of the armor helms turned. Slowly. Deliberately.

  Mr. Steamy’s spout angled ever so slightly toward it. “Right. Let’s keep the chit-chat to a minimum, shall we?”

  Lilith strode between the suits like she belonged—which, of course, she did. Her heels clicked against the polished floor, echoing through a silence that felt... expectant. Like the hall was listening.

  “They always this twitchy?” I asked.

  “They’re disciplined,” she said without looking back.

  “Sure. That’s one word for it.”

  Grib leaned down to Mr. Steamy. “Think they dance?”

  Mr. Steamy gave a scandalized little whistle. “Not unless you enjoy being waltzed into an early grave, my dear boy. And even then, I wouldn’t recommend the partners.”

  Lilith pushed open a set of doors at the end of the hall, revealing another staircase. The shift between floors was subtle. The warmth didn’t follow us down. The torches burned a little lower. The air pressed just a bit heavier. Not enough to notice unless you were paying attention. I was.

  Each step creaked underfoot, the sound echoing like distant bones snapping.

  “Still time to turn back,” Mr. Steamy muttered.

  “Don’t tempt me,” I said.

  Sixth floor.

  The shine gave out on this floor.

  The carpets had thinned to tired strips of threadbare velvet, their colors leeched away like the manor had finally given up on pretending to impress anyone. The walls were streaked with old damp and older secrets. Paintings sagged in warped frames, their subjects smeared into ghostly impressions—faces that had once meant something, now just stains in expensive oil.

  A chandelier hung above us, lopsided and sullen, its crystals cracked and clouded. The light it cast wasn’t so much illumination as a shattered memory of it.

  And then... the things in the dark.

  They crouched in corners. Slumped in alcoves. Folded themselves into too-small spaces like they'd grown bored of their own bones. Not moving. Not blinking. Not breathing loud enough to hear—just there, pressed into the architecture like mold with opinions.

  I froze.

  I didn’t like their eyes. Pale white, reflecting the light that dimmed just before their shadow. They followed us, unblinking, as we passed.

  Grib’s humming cut off.

  Mr. Steamy’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Ghasts,” he said. “Try not to breathe too loud.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I muttered.

  “It means,” Steamy hissed, “if one moves, they all do.”

  Lilith walked ahead as if nothing was wrong, as if this were just another corridor, another lazy evening stroll. The ghasts shifted—barely—but it was enough. A ripple of restrained hunger, a predator’s patience. They didn’t snarl. Didn’t growl. Just breathed. Ragged and slow.

  I kept close. My jaw was clenched tight enough to ache.

  “You keep these things?” I asked, voice low.

  “The Chamberlain does,” Lilith replied, calm as ever. “He... values order.”

  “Order?” I glanced at one of the ghasts. Its head twitched slightly, tracking me. “They don’t look like they’re filling out tax forms.”

  She didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

  A cold chill ran down my spine.

  I used to think I had a lot of undead. Skeleton crews, animated armor, a few restless spirits. Enough to run a dungeon and get a little respect. But this—this was something else.

  Ghasts. Possessed suits of armor. Ghosts. And we weren’t even at the bottom yet.

  Who the hell was this Chamberlain?

  Grib clutched Mr. Steamy like a lifeline. The teapot didn’t complain, only let out a long, slow exhale of steam that almost sounded like prayer.

  The staircase at the end was smaller, plainer. Stone chipped and worn. No rail. Just the kind of steps you take when you don’t expect anyone to come back up.

  The descent pressed against my chest, heavy and cold.

  Seventh floor.

  The manor’s elegance had begun to rot.

  Carpets frayed beneath our feet. Wallpaper peeled in curling strips, hanging like old skin. Paintings twisted in their frames, colors smudged, faces warped into impressions of things that were never human. The walls exhaled warmth in slow, sighing pulses, leaving the air colder with every breath.

  And the hall was not empty.

  Figures shifted in the alcoves. Too still, until they weren’t. One crouched low to the ground, limbs bent the wrong way, claws dragging softly against stone. Another clung to the ceiling, a slick, many-jointed shape that moved like a spider trying to remember it used to be something else. Red eyes blinked in the dark. Watching. Waiting.

  Nothing spoke. Nothing breathed loud. But we weren’t alone. Not even close.

  Grib pressed closer to me, ears flat. “Don’t like it here.”

  Mr. Steamy’s voice dropped to a low, careful murmur. “Good. Sensible instinct.”

  Lilith walked ahead as if the floor weren’t alive with hungry things. Poised. Effortless. Like she didn’t notice the red glints following her every step. Like they wouldn’t dare touch her.

  “You sure this is necessary?” I asked, watching something slither overhead and vanish into the ceiling.

  She didn’t look back. “Would you prefer to turn back?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Desperately.”

  Her smile was thin. “Too late.”

  And just like that, the moment stopped being funny. My sarcasm dried in my mouth. Humor only works until your bones start to believe the fear.

  Then Grib tripped.

  A tile rocked underfoot. He yelped, pitched forward, and went sprawling—arms flailing, one hand clutching the teapot above his head like a sacred relic. Mr. Steamy flew loose, turned once in the air, and somehow landed with a soft thunk in Grib’s hands as he hit the ground flat on his back.

  Grib blinked up at the ceiling. “Saved bucket.”

  Silence. Even the shadows seemed to hesitate.

  A puff of steam escaped the spout, slow and shaky.

  “I was in the big one, you know. And I was never—never dropped by a goblin,” Mr. Steamy said, almost proudly. “Mud. Trenches. Explosions. You couldn’t see your own hands.”

  He paused. His voice caught.

  “But I think… someone dropped me. It was… Kevin. Where’s Kevin? He—he was right there, he… was just here. Right here. He said he’d…”

  A beat.

  “He was my friend. How could he do this to me?”

  His voice broke off, gone thin and small. Steam hissed softly in a long, shaking breath that wasn’t quite memory and wasn’t quite steam.

  Grib cradled him closer, one grubby hand patting the dented side of the teapot. “Shhh,” he whispered. “Quiet, bucket. It’s all okay now.”

  Mr. Steamy didn’t respond.

  I watched them, the pair of them curled together in the middle of a hallway full of monsters.

  “Wonderful,” I muttered. “So the teapot has dementia and we’re surrounded by necromantic horrors.”

  “You’re my guest, Bone King. Nothing in these halls will harm you. Or I will end it.” Her gaze flicked back, catching me again. No comment. No smirk. Just that knowing look.

  The next staircase waited, a dark mouth swallowing light. No door. Just the weight of down.

  I hesitated. Grib didn’t. Neither did Lilith.

  So I followed.

  Eighth floor.

  Everything changed.

  The warmth died completely. The air thickened, feeling like wet ash. The walls, once marble and wood, gleamed black, veined with pale lines of decay that pulsed faintly. Torches lined the corridor, burning with cold blue flames that didn’t flicker. Just... burned. Steady. Watching.

  The floor gleamed like polished obsidian, reflecting us in stretched, warped shapes. My silhouette lagged half a step behind. Not comforting.

  The hall stretched ahead, longer than it should be. Pillars arched overhead like the ribs of something massive. Every step echoed, and every echo sounded a beat too slow.

  And at the end. Doors.

  Massive. Ornate. Not just closed, sealed. Carvings sprawled across their surface, twisting if you looked too long. They weren’t meant to be seen. They were meant to be forgotten.

  Grib swallowed. “Don’t like this.”

  “Neither do I,” I said.

  Mr. Steamy’s voice was barely a whisper. “This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong.”

  Lilith stopped before the doors, placing a hand against the wood. “We’ve arrived.”

  I opened my mouth—to say something, anything—but then—

  The doors shuddered.

  And a spirit slipped through them.

  It shouldn’t have. Spirits don’t pass through seals like that. But this one... did.

  It was humanoid, vague and flickering, but its face twisted in panic. Mouth opening and closing. Soundless. Hands clawed at the air, reaching for us. For help. Or warning. Or—

  It locked eyes with me, pain burning through that flickering gaze.

  And then it just... dissipated.

  Gone. Like smoke. Like it had never been.

  Silence.

  Grib clutched Mr. Steamy close. Even the teapot was silent.

  Lilith lowered her hand from the door, face smooth. Composed. Like that hadn’t just happened. Like that was normal.

  I stared at where the spirit had been.

  “What the hell,” I whispered.

  No one answered.

  The doors groaned open, darkness spilling out like ink across the gleaming floor. Cold air rolled toward us, dense, heavy with the scent of wet stone and something older, something wrong. My stomach twisted. Every instinct clawed at my spine, screaming don’t go in, don’t look, turn around—

  I looked anyway.

  He stepped out of the shadows.

  Antlers scraped the archway—gnarled and slick with wet bark, shedding like something long dead still trying to grow. His beard hung in ropes, tangled with moss, thick as rot. The face beneath? Half-man, half-beast, all wrong. Skin stretched tight like old leather over broken stone. Sagging in places. Rotting in others. Like the world had tried to forget him and failed halfway through. And his eyes—

  They burned.

  With memory. With knowing. The kind of gaze that didn't stop at your skin. It peeled. Dug. Sat down in your bones and asked uncomfortable questions about the last time you lied to yourself.

  Grib held Mr. Steamy like a shield. The teapot let out a sharp, scared whistle.

  The figure stopped, eyes sweeping over us. Paused. Tilted his head. The pressure in the air coiled tighter—breath catching, tension stretched to a knife’s edge—

  If this was the Chamberlain, between his floors and now this… I’d never seen something so terrifying.

  I felt the mana well up inside me.

  And I instinctually came to a single conclusion: Fuck this.

  Fireba–

  Then he sighed. Scratched at his beard. “Wow. Finally. Took you long enough.”

  Silence.

  He gave a half-shrug, antlers creaking. “Not judging, just—y’know—been standing here for ages. I was starting to think you got lost or... I don’t know. Quit.”

  He paused for a moment, seeing Mr. Steamy and Grib. He leaned down. “May I?”

  I’d never seen Grib stunned before. Until now. His usual enthusiasm dimmed in the figure’s presence; he simply nodded.

  The Chamberlain reached out and gently picked up Mr. Steamy, examining his reflection in the teapot’s shining surface. “God, I look like hell.”

  Another sigh. “Anyway—hi.” He smiled. Too many teeth. Somehow still... friendly.

  “Come in, come in!” His voice was bright, conversational. “It’s been forever since I’ve had someone new to talk to. What’s the sepulcher like these days? You guys still have that thing in the cistern up there? All tentacly and shit?”