The room was what you’d expect from a dungeon trying to be hospitable and failing. Rough walls—cold stone, pitted with old scars. A low ceiling that seemed to press down just enough to make you notice. No windows. No warmth. And the quiet kind of dark that settles in and waits for you to do the same.

  There was a pile of furs in the corner. Someone’s idea of a bed. Coarse. Mismatched. Stitched together from creatures I didn’t recognize and didn’t care to. Smelled like sweat and old leather, with something faint beneath it. Iron, maybe. Blood, probably.

  I sat for a while. Long enough to feel the chill creep up through the floor. Long enough for the quiet to start breathing in that slow, patient way silence does when it knows it’s got time.

  There was a chest against the wall. The lid creaked when I opened it. Clothes. Not new. Not clean. An assortment of things taken from people who’d gotten careless or unlucky. Tunics with slashes through the fabric, cloaks torn at the edges, bloodstains stiff and dark. Some had holes that went clean through, places where blades had found soft things beneath.

  I picked out a shirt that looked like it might hold together another day. Pulled it on. Rough. Worn thin in places. The kind of fabric that scratched until you stopped noticing. The cloak wasn’t much better, frayed and heavier than it looked, but it settled around my shoulders, and that was enough.

  There wasn’t a reason to linger. Sitting in a room like this, walls too close, quiet too thick. It does things to you. Makes you think. Remember. Nothing useful comes of that.

  I stepped out into the hall.

  Stone stretched ahead and behind, torchlight casting a cold glow that didn’t quite reach the edges. The flames didn’t flicker. No smoke. Just steady, unnatural light burning in iron brackets that had probably been here longer than most kingdoms above ground. The floor was uneven, worn down by footsteps that hadn’t mattered enough to be remembered. The air was damp. Tasted of rock, mold, and something deeper: the faint hum of mana threading through the stone like a heartbeat you couldn’t hear unless you knew how to listen.

  No one had come to find me. Edgar hadn’t offered a tour. No instructions beyond “Work with Krix.” A kobold, supposedly clever. Strategist. Not that it mattered much to me. Orders were familiar. Easier to follow them than to wonder what happened if you didn’t.

  So I walked. Not quickly. Not slow enough to look like I was thinking about it. Just moving forward because that’s what you do. The dungeon stretched on, walls breathing that quiet kind of weight that places like this always carried. Places made of stone and silence, where too many things had died and none of it had been forgotten.

  Creatures passed by. Orcs with shoulders like carved rock, kobolds slipping between shadows. Eyes found me. Some curious. Some measuring. A few with that flicker of hunger, not the kind that eats food. The kind that waits to see if you’re going to bleed.

  I let them look. Didn’t meet their stares, didn’t break pace. No point. Eyes only cut if you flinch.

  But it wasn’t them that stayed in my head.

  It was him.

  Edgar. The lich. The anomaly in a place that was already full of things that shouldn’t be.

  I’d met people who took what they wanted. Men with swords and smiles sharp enough to cut. Creatures that didn’t bother pretending they were anything but monsters. Patterns repeat themselves. You see enough of them, you stop being surprised.

  But Edgar didn’t fit. Not in any pattern I knew.

  Liches aren’t supposed to be kind. They’re supposed to see you as something to use until you stop being useful. Bones with a few breaths left. Tools. Obstacles. Nothing more. But Edgar... he’d asked me questions. Hadn’t looked at me like property. Hadn’t treated me like something to be handled and forgotten.

  At worst he’d looked at me like a curious annoyance. But still a being worth… Respect? And that was the worst part of it.

  Kindness unsettles more than cruelty. You know where you stand with cruelty. Kindness makes you wonder. Makes you think maybe, just maybe, things could be different. And that is dangerous. Hope is the slowest blade there is.

  Goes in easy.

  Twists deep.

  I kept walking. Footsteps soft against the stone, breathing steady. The air grew thicker the further I went, mana pressing heavier with every step, dense, patient, like the walls were paying attention now. Like the dungeon wanted to see where I was headed.

  The halls twisted and stretched in uneven ways. Some parts were rough rock, others laid with old stone slabs that dipped underfoot. Water pooled in places, collecting in cracks where the floor sloped. No moss, no life, just dampness that lingered, seeping into the air. The walls bore faint carvings, worn down to barely-there lines. Maybe they’d meant something once. Maybe they hadn’t.

  A crossroads opened ahead: three paths, each as unhelpful as the next. No marks, no signs. Just stone and silence.

  I stood still for a moment, closing my eyes, feeling for the weight beneath the surface. Mana ran through the dungeon like threads in fabric. Most places, it drifted loose and unfocused. But one direction, the left corridor, pulled at me, dense enough to catch at the edge of my senses. Probably the way to Edgar’s boss room. Or at least somewhere important.

  I moved on. Walls shifted between wide chambers and tight corridors, the air stale but dry. Every so often, the silence broke with faint drips echoing from somewhere out of sight. It was easy to imagine the place breathing, slow and patient, waiting to see if I’d keep going. If I’d turn back. Easier to keep my focus on the kobold, Krix. On the job assigned to me. Than think about why Edgar’s gaze had lingered like he saw something I hadn’t meant to show.

  It would have been easier if he’d just been cruel.

  The entrance to the boss room loomed ahead, arched stone twisted into something that might’ve been a doorway, now more of a maw. The walls curved inward like ribs, bones set into alcoves that watched as I passed. Skulls, mostly. Empty sockets staring. Grinning. The kind of architecture that reminded you it had outlived things like warmth or mercy.

  I stepped inside.

  The air pressed close, dense, like the room was holding its breath. Torchlight stretched pale fingers across the floor, shadows pooling in corners that seemed deeper than they should be. Above, the ceiling arched out of sight, darkness swallowing its edges. It wasn’t a place built for comfort. It wasn’t meant to be.

  At the room’s heart stood a table, scarred wood stubbornly intact, refusing to rot out of spite. A map sprawled across it, creased and stained, ink lines stretched thin with age. Roads, villages, scattered notations: marks of someone trying to make sense of a world that didn’t much care for sense.

  Krix balanced on a stool, tail flicking an impatient beat against the wood. His claws tapped the map, eyes darting between scribbled notes like he was picking a fight with the parchment. Muttered curses slipped through his teeth, half frustration, half habit.

  I didn’t announce myself. No need.

  His ears twitched. Head lifted. Scowl already waiting.

  "Elf," he greeted. Flat. Not surprised.

  "You must be Krix," I said, keeping my tone even.

  He snorted. "Sharp elf. Yeah. That me." His gaze flicked back to the map, claws resuming their restless tap. "Edgar send you?"

  "Apparently."

  "Figures." His tail lashed, the stool creaking beneath him. "He thinks stickin’ elf with me fix everything. Like Krix not got enough mess."

  He jabbed the map with a claw. "Look. This? Problem."

  I stepped closer. Ink lines wove roads between villages, rough annotations scattered along routes. Bad place—bandits. No go—weird plants. Another read simply: full of idiots.

  "Food runs," I said.

  "Yeah." He waved at it. "Humans got food. We don’t. Boss say fix it. So—fix it."

  "Only now?" I arched an eyebrow.

  Krix shrugged. "He never said raid before. Say it now." A pause. "So Krix raid."

  Simple logic. Grim. Practical. Hard to argue with really.

  I studied the map. Open roads, distant settlements, nothing easy. "Ambush the supply runs. Less risk than hitting villages."

  "Yeah?" His grin flashed sharp. "Thought of that."

  "And?"

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  "Flat land. No cover." His tail flicked. "Humans see us, humans turn. Orcs slow. Kobolds light; good for stab, bad for haul." His face twisted.

  "Sounds like a coordination problem."

  "Sounds like elf like big words."

  I ignored that. "You need a chokepoint. Force them where they can’t run."

  He blinked. Tilted his head. "Choke... what?"

  "Road they have to take. Walls, cliffs, something tight."

  He scanned the map, claws dragging through faded lines. Tap. "There. Road cut through rocks. High walls. Humans gotta go straight."

  "Block the front, press from behind. No escape."

  His tail stilled. Slow grin spreading. "Elf brain not just for ears."

  "Try to contain your awe."

  "Try not to be ass." He gestured broadly. "Roll rocks down. Wagon stuck. Squad jump out. Humans squish."

  "Efficient."

  "Fun," he corrected.

  The quiet stretched between us, thick with torchlight and the soft scratch of claw on parchment.

  Then—he glanced up again. Eyes sharper. "Why elf help?"

  "Edgar said work with you."

  He squinted. "Elf always do what lich say?"

  "Sometimes." I shrugged. "Not like I’ve got better options."

  He snorted. "Stupid reason."

  "Didn’t say it was smart."

  "Good." He grinned. "Would’ve called you liar."

  We stood in that not-quite-quiet, the room pressing close. Somewhere beyond the walls, water dripped. Steady. Unbothered.

  Then it changed.

  It wasn’t obvious. Not at first. Just a prickle along my skin: mana shifting, threads pulled taut under the surface.

  Krix’s tail went still. Ears pricked.

  "You feel that?" His voice dropped lower, rough, but no longer casual.

  "Yeah." I scanned the room. "That normal?"

  "Shouldn’t be." He hopped off the stool, claws flexing. "Edgar’s place supposed to stay quiet."

  "Guess someone didn’t get the message."

  The air thickened. Pressure sinking in deep.

  Scrape.

  Faint. Stone dragging on stone.

  "Really hate that sound," Krix muttered.

  "Not my favorite either."

  The doorway darkened: shapes flickering just beyond torchlight. Small. Hunched. Flesh hanging loose, limbs moving with that too-familiar wrongness. Kobolds. But not living ones.

  Krix’s face twisted. "Ah, shit."

  They came fast. Jerky steps, claws scraping stone, jaws hanging open like they were trying to scream but had forgotten how. The air turned sharp with the stink of rot and stale mana.

  I briefly wondered if these were Edgar’s work. But the way scrambled, faster with each step, hunger in their eyes as they looked at us… These weren’t servants. They were enemies.

  Krix didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a dagger from the table and lunged. The blade sank into the first undead kobold’s temple, twisting. Bone cracked, the glow of mana flickered out, and it crumpled to the floor with a wet, lifeless thump.

  "One down," he grunted. "Not supposed to happen, you know."

  The second zombie had turned its attention entirely towards Krix, now unarmed, as it lurched towards him.

  I made my way to the fallen zombie, crouched beside the corpse, dipped my fingers into the pooling ichor oozing from its head. Thick. Black. Mana-saturated. Not ideal, but it would work. "Hate using this stuff..."

  Krix backed away toward the table. "Second one not wait for elf complaints. Find Krix weapon or something."

  The remaining undead lurched forward gaining speed.

  I traced quick, practiced strokes on the floor: curves, slashes, angles sharp enough to cut. Runic forms pulled at the mana in the ichor, binding intention to shape. Instructions. The kind the world didn’t like but obeyed anyway.

  My fingertip flared red-hot as I wrote, the magic burning just beneath the skin. Not enough to scar—just enough to remind me it could.

  Last mark. Pressed my palm to the center. Mana surged.

  The runes flared. Red, then white, light bleeding into the air. Lifted from the floor, circling.

  A single word, repeated five times: Strike.

  Bang. First hit caught the kobold’s chest, crunching bone.

  Bang. Second slammed into its knee, sending it sprawling.

  Bang. Third cracked ribs open, flesh splitting.

  Bang. Fourth shattered its jaw, glow flickering.

  Bang. Fifth caved its torso inward, body folding in on itself before scattering into a wet pile of ruin.

  Smoke still curled from the spent runes, the last threads of mana fraying into the air.

  My hand ached, pins and needles crawling under the skin, familiar enough that it barely registered. Black blood dried sticky along my fingers, dark and flaking where I'd wiped it against the dead kobold’s tunic.

  Krix stood over the mess, tail flicking as he surveyed what was left. His sharp grin hadn’t quite faded. “Elf write letters, things go boom. Not bad.”

  "Better with proper materials," I muttered. "This stuff’s rough. It burns too quick and the mana is unstable."

  “Still made splatter.” He nudged a chunk of something no longer recognizable. “Good splatter.”

  It had been centuries.

  Centuries since anyone had let me get close enough to mana-rich liquid to use my class properly. Sage. Funny how a word could feel like a coat you hadn’t worn in so long you forgot how it sat on your shoulders. It wasn’t bad. Just... like remembering a room you’d once lived in. Someone else’s place. Someone else’s things. The shape of a life that wasn’t yours anymore.

  He snorted. "Thought elves just stood there, lookin’ sad and pointy."

  I ignored that and glanced at the corpses. Their mouths hung open, silent now. Mana flickered weakly in one eye socket before guttering out.

  "So," I said, nudging a limp arm with my boot, "does this happen often? Random undead going feral?"

  Krix’s smirk faded. “Started a while back. Orc almost got Krix.” His tail lashed once, quick.

  There was something off about the air: mana currents threaded and tangled like a loom gone wrong. Pulled from somewhere it shouldn’t be.

  "Undead already gross…" Krix muttered. His gaze drifted toward the doorway, the shadows beyond stretched deeper, torchlight failing at the edges. "Now dangerous too."

  The tension in my shoulders didn’t ease. If anything, it curled in tighter. This place breathed wrong.

  Then, a noise.

  Heavy footfalls. Fast. Getting closer.

  Krix’s tail shot up, body tensing. “Not more!”

  I turned toward the hallway just as something big barreled around the corner: green skin, broad shoulders, massive club held high.

  “For the Bone Kin—!” the orc roared, voice booming through the stone.

  "...What the hell?" He lowered the club slightly. "What was that noise?" His gaze flicked between the bodies and the charred floor. “What happened here?”

  Krix pointed at me without hesitation. “Elf blew ‘em up.” He looked at me and then at the orc. “Elf, Ulthar. Ulthar, Elf.”

  “A pleasure.”

  Ulthar blinked in response. “Blew… what?”

  Krix pointed to the kobold zombies.

  Ulthar knelt beside one of the corpses. His massive hand prodded what was left of the skull, sending a small puff of ash into the air. "Thought boss fixed this," he muttered. "Undead are supposed to stay put."

  "Apparently not," I said, wiping lingering ichor from my fingertips onto the nearest intact scrap of kobold tunic. It flaked, half-dried, sticking under my nails.

  Ulthar grunted. "Gorthor would've handled this." His frown deepened. "If he was around."

  "Gorthor?" I asked, glancing at Krix.

  "Orc chief," Krix said, tail flicking. "Been gone. No one know where." His gaze drifted toward the corpses. "Now this happen. Not good."

  Ulthar sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. His club rested on the floor, massive and pitted with use. "Boss wanted us to keep an eye out. If this spreads..." He shook his head. "Won’t end well."

  This wasn’t my problem. Not really. I could’ve turned around, gone back to that barely-a-room and counted ceiling cracks until something else dragged me into action. Should’ve, probably.

  But... centuries of slavery teach you a few things. One: people are crueler than you think. Two: hope is a trap. And three—maybe the worst of them—boredom kills slower than steel. And it’s a hell of a lot more painful.

  At least this was interesting.

  "I’ll help," I said before I could think better of it.

  Krix blinked. "Why? Elf don’t owe us."

  "I didn’t say I did." I shrugged. "But if something’s disturbing the mana flows down here, I might be able to sense it." I paused. "Better chance of finding the source before it finds us."

  Ulthar’s brows lifted. "You can do that?"

  “All elves can.”

  He grinned—broad, earnest. It was disarming, in a way. Orcs weren’t supposed to look like that. Weren’t supposed to be anything but snarls and fists. "Appreciate that, elf. Didn’t think you’d offer."

  "Yeah, well," I sighed. "Surprises all around."

  I glanced down at the ruined corpse. Most of the mana keeping it upright had burned out the moment it collapsed, no surprise there. But as I crouched, something else caught at the edge of my senses. Faint. Lurking beneath the surface. Not the standard necromantic tether you’d expect.

  Enchantment.

  Old, maybe. But still clinging like smoke to fabric.

  "Anyone have a bottle?" I asked, still studying the body.

  Ulthar frowned. "Bottle?"

  "For the blood." I nodded at the corpse. "Works better if I can take some with me."

  Krix snorted, rummaging through a satchel that looked like it had been on the losing side of a bar fight. He tossed me a dented metal flask. "Had this. Probably cleaner than floor juice."

  "Probably," I muttered. The flask smelled like old alcohol and dungeon mold. Perfect.

  I tilted the corpse, coaxing the thick, black ichor into the container. It dribbled slow, pouring with a soft sound I tried not to think about. The air pressed close, mana humming just beneath my skin, threads pulling at me in faint directions I couldn’t see yet. And that enchantment... it wasn’t just residual. It had purpose.

  Something intentional. Insidious.

  Krix’s tail flicked. "Feel anything?"

  "Yeah," I said, capping the flask. "The tether that animated them iss gone—but there’s something else. An enchantment beneath that. Or I think it’s an enchantment. Still clinging to the bodies."

  Ulthar’s grin dropped. "That bad?"

  "Wouldn’t call it good."

  He hefted his club. "Then we find who did it. Smash their head in."

  "Simple plan," I muttered. "Though probably effective."

  I wiped my hands on the corpse’s tunic again. Blood dried fast, already tacky against my skin. Not ideal. But it’d work if it had to.

  The mana threads tugged again, faint, but there. Stretching out like a frayed rope leading somewhere I wasn’t sure I wanted to go.

  But when was that ever a choice?

  Suddenly, Ulthar perked up as if he had an idea. “Elf… can you smell magic… somewhere else? Maybe smell Gorthor?”