First Encounter

Soon they saw that Valakh had already opened the two gates. Dividing into two groups, they approached the ancient stone gates to the north. Valakh, Tamara, and Ted took the gate on the left. The three slave men - Sorken, Jorah and Kesta - went with Azim through the gate on the right. 

Azim, smart enough for once, conjured two more orbs, and even then, the flickering yellow glow only managed to push back the blackness a little, like holding a candle against a storm. Shadows still clung to the stone walls, thick and greasy, like something alive.

The corridor they stepped into wasn't just dark; it was wrong. The air tasted stale, like dust that had been sitting for centuries, and it was cold, a bone-deep cold that seeped into your clothes and settled in your marrow. Debris littered the floor, not just rocks and rubble from the ruin itself, but… other things. Dusty, shapeless lumps that might have been stone, or might have been something else entirely, something that had once been alive and now was just… gone. 

Unlike the rooms they'd passed through before, which were mostly just empty boxes of stone, this corridor felt like a charnel house, haunted by the ghosts of things that had suffered here, things that had died here. This place was hell, alright, but not the fire-and-brimstone kind. This was the cold, quiet kind, the kind that froze you from the inside out.

They moved forward, Azim leading the way, light orbs bobbing nervously in the oppressive dark. The corridor sloped down, like they were descending into the earth's guts. Senses strained, stretched thin and tight, waiting for something to break. Jorah's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the heavy silence. 

He kept his eyes darting into the shadows beyond the light, shadows that seemed to writhe and shift even when nothing was there. He'd faced down brawlers, thugs, even temple guards with whips and chains, and laughed in their faces. But wraiths… wraiths were different. Wraiths were what inheritors, inheritors with their fancy magic, were scared shitless of. And that kind of fear… that kind of fear was contagious. It crawled under your skin and made you want to run screaming, even if there was nowhere to run to.

The only sound was the drip… drip… drip… of water somewhere close, but unseen, echoing in the narrow passage. Each drop was like a tiny hammer blow against the silence, each one making the coldness feel worse, heavier. Beside Jorah, Kesta was muttering prayers under his breath, a low, frantic whisper that was almost swallowed by the oppressive quiet. 

He clutched a jagged piece of rock in his fist, knuckles white, like it was a holy relic, like a rock could save him from this. He was on edge, twitchy as a rabbit in a snare trap. He flinched, a sudden, jerky movement, when a few pebbles skittered across the passage floor, dislodged by… what? The wind? Something else?

"What the fuck are you doing, Kesta!" Jorah hissed, his voice a low growl that was meant to be harsh, to snap Kesta out of it, but came out tight and strained instead. "Get a grip!" Kesta's teeth had been chattering, a faint, nervous clicking sound, and they finally stopped, clamped shut with sheer willpower. He just nodded, eyes wide and staring straight ahead, trying to be brave, trying to be tough, but failing miserably.

Sorken scanned the darkness, too, but his eyes didn't see the crumbling stone, the dust, or the shadows. His mind was a runaway train, hurtling through thoughts of Tamara, images of her face, her smile, and her… betrayal. 

Even here, in this place that smelled of death and fear, even with the cold creeping into his bones, he couldn't shake her loose. His mind kept circling back to her, a moth drawn to a destructive flame. She despises me, the thought echoed in his head, a cold, hard truth that was sharper than any blade. Six years. All lies.

His life, he knew, was likely to end here, in this dark, forgotten place, eaten by shadows and despair. And yet, somehow, the worst part wasn't the fear of death. It was knowing that everything he'd held onto, everything that had kept him going through the hell of the last few weeks, had been a lie. Tamara. His hope. His future. All of it, just… pretense. He didn't want to know the reason, didn't want some long, drawn-out explanation. He knew, deep down, that any explanation would only make it worse, would only twist the knife deeper.

Azim, walking ahead, seemed… detached. Unmoved. While Jorah and Kesta were practically vibrating with fear, while Sorken was drowning in his own despair, Azim was… nonchalant. He walked with a loose, easy stride, his light orbs bobbing around him, his expression almost… bored.

Why do I have to put up with these useless people? Sorken could almost hear Azim thinking it, the arrogance practically radiating off him. Slaves. Just meat. The only reason they're here is to draw out the wraiths, maybe provide a little mana if things get really hairy.

Azim's thoughts, if Sorken could read them, were even colder than the air in the ruin. All this drama about bait and strategy. They don't trust me. That's the real reason for splitting up the groups. Fine. Let them be scared. Let them tremble. I've got this. A faint smirk touched his lips, a flicker of self-satisfaction. At least they gave me the golem. And I've got my spells. I'll be the one who gets through this. I'll be the one who finds the chest. They'll see. They'll all see.

They kept moving, deeper into the gloom, the only light coming from Azim's orbs, throwing their shadows long and distorted ahead of them. Thump… thump… thump… Each step echoed unnervingly in the narrow corridor, the sound of their heavy boots on the stone floor amplified in the silence. Burly, practical boots, temple-issue, meant for rough terrain, meant for… this. But each step, each thump, felt heavy, laden with dread. Sometimes, a boot would scrape against a loose pebble, or grind against a sharp edge of stone, and the sudden crunch or scrape would make them all flinch, jumpy as startled deer.

Each step felt like a step closer to something awful, something unknown and hungry. Each step was a risk, a gamble in the dark. Each step was full of peril.

Then, it happened. Without warning, without even a rustle of air, an unearthly shriek tore through the silence, a sound that was both animalistic and… wrong. It wasn't human, wasn't natural. It was like fingernails scraping on bone, amplified a thousand times, a sound that clawed at your eardrums and made your teeth ache. Three wraiths materialized before them, not appearing gradually, but snapping into existence, like shadows suddenly taking shape, solidifying out of the gloom.

Valakh's descriptions, even his warnings, had been… insufficient. These things were horrible. Their bodies weren't flesh and blood, not really. They were… rotten. Like meat left out in the sun too long, gray and decaying, hanging off angular bones that shouldn't bend that way. A stench hit them, a wave of putrid air that made Sorken gag, a smell of decay and corruption that filled the corridor, choking the air. And their faces… faces wasn't the right word. Skulls. Skull-like masks of bone, and in the empty sockets, red flames burned, not flickering like normal fire, but steady, malevolent, hungry.

The wraiths descended, not walking, not running, but flowing, like smoke given a terrible, skeletal shape. Their limbs moved in jerky, unnatural ways, joints bending wrong, elbows and knees twisting at impossible angles. Claws shot out, long and sharp as razors, not quite bone, not quite metal, something in between, something dead. 

They raked viciously across Jorah and Kesta's arms, tearing through their clothes, through their skin. Jorah roared, a sound of pain and fury, and Kesta screamed, a high, thin sound of pure terror. Blood splattered, bright red against the gray dust and crumbling stone, painting the pillars with sudden, horrifying streaks.

Sorken watched, frozen, as Jorah and Kesta, yelling and flailing, were suddenly swarmed by the shadowy beasts. He looked wildly towards Azim, a desperate plea in his eyes. Help them! Do something! Azim stood back, near the corner of the corridor, watching. Just watching. His face… it wasn't fear, wasn't shock. It was… curiosity. Detached. Like he was at the theater, watching a particularly gruesome play, munching popcorn.

"No! Get it off me!" Kesta screamed again, his voice cracking, high and shrill with panic. The wraith that had attacked him had pinned him, its weight pressing him down, its shadowy form solid and heavy as stone. Its skull-like head loomed over him, jaws unhinging, stretching impossibly wide, wider than any living thing should be able to manage. 

Fetid drool, thick and black as oil, dripped from its maw, splashing onto Kesta's face, burning his skin like acid. The wraith's teeth, not teeth at all, but shards of bone, needle-sharp and glistening with something wet and vile, inched closer to Kesta's throat.

Jorah, muscles straining, grappled with the wraith that was tearing at him, his arms flailing, fists hammering at the shadowy form. He was strong, Jorah, stronger than most men Sorken had ever known, but the wraith… it was like hitting smoke. His blows passed through the shadowy substance, doing no visible damage. "I swear you'll pay for this, you bastards!" 

Jorah roared, spitting blood and curses at Azim, his eyes blazing with betrayal and fury. But Azim just stood there, watching, his golem still clutched uselessly in his hand, not lifting a finger to help.

The third wraith, the one that had been hovering, turned towards Sorken. It moved erratically, its limbs jerking and twitching like a broken puppet. Then, it flowed towards him, gliding over the dusty floor without a sound. 

Sorken scrambled back, stumbling, tripping over loose stones, desperate to put distance between himself and that thing. "Someone help me!" he cried out, his voice cracking, a desperate, broken sound. Tamara! Azim! Anyone!

He saw, with a sickening lurch of his stomach, that the wraiths weren't even looking at Azim. They were focused solely on him, Jorah, and Kesta. Like Azim wasn't even there. Like he was invisible to them. How… how is that possible? Why wasn't Azim being attacked? Why was he the target?

He turned back, just in time to see the wraith looming over him, its gray, decaying flesh hanging off its angular bones like strips of old cloth. Its claw, long and sharp and dead, shot out, faster than Sorken could react, and clamped around his ankle. Pain, cold and sharp as ice, shot up his leg, paralyzing him instantly. His muscles locked, frozen, useless. He was trapped. He could only watch, helpless, as the horrifying creature reeled him in, dragging him closer, closer, closer.

Frigid breath, cadaverous and foul, hit Sorken's face, stealing the air from his lungs, and filling his nostrils with the stench of the grave. The wraith opened its maw, stretching it wide, impossibly wide, and Sorken stared into the blackness within, the gaping emptiness lined with shards of bone that served as teeth, needle-sharp and glistening with a wet, unholy sheen. This was it. His end. Here. In the dark. Alone. Betrayed.