“Uhhh... what?” I said.

  Not my best moment, but frankly, the conversation had taken a hard left at tentacles and my brain was still back at the intersection.

  The Chamberlain’s face lit up. “You know—the thing! Big fella. Lives in the cistern. Lots of arms, kind of... moody.” Gingerly, he handed Mr. Steamy back to Grib. Then he wiggled his fingers like that explained everything.

  “Oh.” I blinked. “We call it the Dweller.”

  “The Dweller!” His grin stretched wide, showing too many teeth, yet somehow that wasn't the most alarming thing about him. “That’s just delightful. Punchy. Evocative. Really... captures the essence. Love that. Dweller.” He rolled the word around like a sommelier sampling wine. “Last guy called it a ‘squid hole.’ Can you imagine? No imagination. Thick as a baguette, one.”

  Behind him, Lilith drifted forward, silent and effortlessly regal. I’d nearly forgotten she was there. She didn’t say a word, just glided to the table and settled into a chair with the kind of practiced grace that said yes, I could kill you, but let’s have a drink first. A servant appeared moments later, offering her a goblet filled with something deep red and suspicious.

  “Come on,” the Chamberlain said, waving me forward. “Don’t just stand there like I’ve asked you to fill out tax forms. I promise this is friendlier. Well—mostly.” His grin widened. “Depending on your definition of friendly.”

  Grib trailed after me, still holding Mr. Steamy like he might ward off evil spirits or, at the very least, aggressive conversation. The teapot remained ominously silent, which was arguably worse than the earlier huffing and puffing.

  I followed. What else was I supposed to do? Run? Not exactly a viable option. Turning back meant retracing my steps through the horror show upstairs. Forward was the only choice: straight into the conversational minefield with a charming corpse and his quiet vampire friend.

  The hall stretched out ahead: vaulted ceilings, faded murals depicting people who seemed to specialize in judgmental staring. The kind of place that whispered you don’t belong here, every step echoing a little too loudly.

  “So!” The Chamberlain glanced back, grin still hanging on like it knew something I didn’t. “Edgar Allen, right? Very literary. Parents pretentious, or just big fans of sad poets with bird problems?”

  I slowed a step. Not quite a stop, just enough for the static in my brain to start popping. “How do you know my name?”

  More importantly, he’d caught the reference. And baguettes? Who the hell was this guy?

  He turned to face me fully, eyebrows raised like I’d asked whether fire was hot. “Ah.” The grin shifted. Still warm, but less showy now. “You didn’t know.”

  Something in the air tightened. Not colder. Just heavier, like the room was paying attention.

  “Didn’t know what?” My voice was low. Not threatening. Just braced.

  “That you’re like me,” he said, light and easy, like he wasn’t about to flip my entire reality over and check the expiration date.

  My brain hit gravel. “Like you how?”

  “We’re both from Earth, of course.”

  The word hit me like a sucker punch.

  Earth.

  It landed somewhere deep, like it had skipped the brain entirely and gone straight for the chest. Not a memory. Something more physical. Muscle memory for a life I’d stopped letting myself miss.

  Streets. Grocery store music. Bus schedules. Winter boots slamming dry against tile floors. Cartoons I never finished. Whole parts of myself that had been sitting in the dark, waiting for someone to say the magic word.

  “You’re—” I started, lost it, tried again. “You’re from Earth?”

  He opened his arms like he was welcoming me to a reunion I hadn’t signed up for. “Earth! Yes. Big blue marble, spinny little fellow—bit of weather, bit of war, mostly nonsense. Love it.”

  He smiled like we were two guys bumping into each other at a backyard barbecue. “Cincinnati for me. Summers were humid enough to drown you standing still. Winters tried to finish the job. But the chili? Top-tier.” He pantomimed a chef’s kiss. “Ever been?”

  “No. Stuck to Cleveland.” I didn’t know why I said it. Maybe just to plant a flag. To say that I had a place, too.

  He caught something in my face. The grin eased off, just a little. “First thing I missed was rain,” he said. “Not the big dramatic stuff. Just those days when it taps on the windows and makes everything smell different. Pavement, leaves, metal; like the whole world reset itself.”

  I said nothing. But I knew exactly what he meant.

  “Pizza too,” he said. “Real greasy stuff. Foldable. Slides off the plate if you’re not careful. Place I used to go probably hadn’t passed a health inspection since the ’90s, but I still think about that slice.”

  A laugh nearly slipped out. Not because it was funny. Just because I’d been holding the same thought in my ribs for months and didn’t know it until he said it out loud.

  I could picture it. Late night, plastic table, warm box, steam rising off cheese that’d scald the roof of your mouth. It was stupid, and simple, and it felt like home.

  “Coffee,” he added. “From gas stations. The kind that tastes like burnt carpet and regret. I’d trade a limb for one of those little creamer cups.”

  My throat went tight. Not from grief. From guilt. Because I’d shoved all that stuff into the back of my skull and pretended it didn’t matter. That it was gone. That I’d let it go. But I hadn’t. I’d buried it deep and called it survival.

  And here he was, digging it up with a smile.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  He made it sound like it was okay to miss it. Like we could still want those things and not fall apart.

  But I wasn’t sure I believed that.

  Lilith sipped from her goblet, eyes half-lidded and sharp. She watched the conversation like a blade watches a throat. Nothing about her moved unless it had a reason to.

  The Chamberlain clapped once, crisp and delighted. “Anyway, no use standing around, drowning in nostalgia. Chairs help. Come on.” He gestured toward the long table.

  I sat. Mostly because my legs didn’t trust my brain to keep pretending we weren’t spiraling. Grib shuffled in beside me, Mr. Steamy clutched to his chest like a bomb that might explode if looked at wrong. The teapot didn’t make a sound. That felt like a threat.

  The Chamberlain sprawled across from us with theatrical ease, antlers tapping the chandelier in a rhythm that might’ve been on purpose. He flashed Lilith a grin like they were mid-dinner party. “Lilith,” he said, bright and fond. “Always so quiet. Mysterious. Love that about you.”

  She raised her glass. Said nothing. Her gaze didn’t even flick toward him.

  He rocked back in his chair, started snapping his fingers in time, and hummed, half-singing like it just slipped out, “I’ve got… hungry eyes…”

  Snap. Snap.

  Lilith turned to look at him. Slowly. Like an ancient predator deciding whether this particular fly was worth swallowing whole.

  He froze mid-snap. “No? Well, uhh… hah! Okay!” A breathless little laugh bubbled out, somewhere between charming and deeply concerning. “Can’t all be crowd-pleasers.”

  A servant arrived just in time, setting a porcelain cup in front of me. White. Gold-trimmed. A clean little chip at the lip like it had been used to settle an argument.

  My fingers twitched toward it.

  The Chamberlain’s smile thinned. “That cup’s chipped.”

  The servant stopped cold.

  “It’s fine,” I said. Sharper than I meant to.

  The silence held just long enough to draw attention.

  Then the Chamberlain waved a hand, back to easy. “Of course it is! Adds character. Can’t trust a cup that’s never taken a hit, right?” The grin snapped back into place like it had never left. But it had, and I’d seen the edge underneath.

  Lilith sipped. Watching. Still.

  I didn’t touch the cup.

  “So,” the Chamberlain said, settling in like a man easing into a hammock, “what’s it like? Waking up here? That first moment, shock to the system, huh? Dead, confused... surprise dungeon boss promotion.” His grin tilted. “They really should hand out pamphlets.”

  A laugh—it wasn’t big or loud, but it happened—slipped out before I could stop it. God help me, I related. Too much.

  “Didn’t exactly have time to process,” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face.

  “Yeah.” His gaze softened. “Figured.” A beat. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Losing everything and having to keep moving like it’s normal.”

  It did. It really, really did.

  And that was dangerous. Because I wanted to keep talking. Wanted to sit there, swap stories, remember things that didn’t come with blood and survival metrics.

  But that small voice, the one that kept me alive, whispered don’t trust this.

  And the worst part?

  I didn’t want to listen.

  He was a bit weird, sure. But there was something so… Human about him. Something that reminded me of a home I’d let myself forget existed for months now.

  The Chamberlain leaned back again, antlers thunking against the chandelier. If he noticed, he didn’t care. He was mid-ramble about drive-thru milkshakes and fried pies from gas stations when Lilith finally spoke.

  “Sir,” she said, polite but firm, “didn’t you have something to tell the Bone Kin—” Her gaze flicked toward me, and there was a pause. Not hesitation, calculation. A correction. “—Edgar?”

  That... huh. That was interesting. Lilith hadn’t known my name until just now. The Chamberlain had, though, tossed it out like trivia. And Lilith, the one who’d orchestrated this entire meeting, hadn’t been told. So they weren’t exactly sharing everything.

  Good to know.

  The Chamberlain waved her off with that same cheerful hand-flutter. “Yes, yes, getting there. Just... context, Lilith. It’s called setting the stage. Building rapport.” His grin swung back toward me like a spotlight. “You get it, right?”

  “Sure,” I said, because no would’ve taken more effort than I had.

  He clapped once, sharp and decisive, and something in the room shifted. Not the temperature, not the lighting. Just the feeling. The sense that things had started leaning forward to listen.

  “Right,” the Chamberlain said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “Business. That’s what this is. Important stuff.” His gaze settled on me, sharp despite the lingering cheer in his tone. “Your floor—floors? Whatever you’ve got up there—and my home? We join forces. Together, we don’t have to worry about adventurers poking around or the scummy elves lurking deeper in the dungeon. Clean. Simple. We watch each other’s backs.”

  I opened my mouth, ready with something cutting, something to hold him at arm’s length, when he sighed. A sound so tired and true it was impossible to ignore.

  “You think I don’t know what you’re feeling?” His voice softened, the grin fading into something gentler. “I used to be you.”

  That caught me. I didn’t react, exactly, but my brain snagged on the words. You used to be me?

  “First-floor boss,” he continued, tapping his chest. “Long time ago. Woke up in a cave full of bones, no idea what was going on. No manual, no tutorial pop-ups; just me and a bunch of skeletons that, let me tell you, were terrible conversationalists.” He smiled, wry. “Lonely as hell. Every day was surviving the next adventurer party, waiting for the hammer to fall. And it always did.”

  I wanted to say something. To snark. Oh no, you poor ancient dungeon boss, sounds so tragic. But the words stuck. Because... yeah. I knew that feeling. Standing at the edge of annihilation, counting down the hours until the next sword swung your way.

  “No goblins back then,” the Chamberlain added, gaze distant like he was seeing something far away. “No plucky minions. Just me and bones and silence. And let me tell you, when your only company is a skeleton that creaks every time it moves? You start talking to the walls just to hear a voice.” He glanced at me, grin returning but softer.

  I said nothing. Which... was an answer.

  Grib shifted beside me, looking up at me like he wasn’t sure what to do. Mr. Steamy remained quiet, his usual commentary blessedly absent.

  The Chamberlain leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You’ve got people now: orcs, kobolds… That crazy little guy over there.” He pointed towards Grib, still hiding behind Mr. Steamy, then waved almost shyly back at him. “They trust you. Believe in you.” His eyes flicked toward Grib, fondness mingling with something heavier. “That matters. More than you think. When you’re in charge? It’s not about you anymore. It’s about keeping them alive.”

  I clenched my jaw. Yeah. I know. Too well.

  “And that’s why I’m offering this,” he continued. “Not out of charity. Not ‘cause I think you’re cute, though, hey, bone structure? Impeccable.” His grin flicked up again, playful. Then it faded. “It’s because I’ve been where you are. Alone. Overwhelmed. Thinking if you just keep your head down, maybe things’ll work out.” A pause. “They don’t. Not on their own.”

  “I built this,” the Chamberlain said, waving vaguely around the chamber. “Made allies. Connections. Started thinking past tomorrow. That’s how you survive, Edgar. Not by being the toughest guy in the room, but by making sure you’ve got a room to stand in.”

  I swallowed. Something warm and awful twisted in my chest. Part of me, the part that hadn’t stopped running since I woke up as a skeleton, wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe him. Not being alone sounded nice. Not waiting for the next sword or spell to tear everything down sounded nice.

  But—

  He smiled again, gentler now, like he saw it all unfolding in my head. “Look... I know it’s a lot. Believe me. But I’m here offering a hand, Edgar. Not a trap. No strings you don’t tie yourself. Just... don’t make the mistake I did.”

  “What mistake’s that?” I asked, voice rougher than I liked.

  “Thinking you can do it all alone,” he said. Simple. Honest. True.

  And damn him—damn him—I wanted to believe it.

  Time for work for me, when I would much rather be writing book 3 and side stories for all of you. But I'll be thinking about you. You guys make the corporate grind a little easier.

  Thanks again.