Castle, Graelish, Gold.

Graelish led the group with firm steps ahead of them.

From time to time, a few ghouls emerged from the shadows, drawn by the scent of living flesh — starving for a piece of Elias or Art.

However, Graelish intervened before the worst could happen, allowing the two to face the creatures and gain the experience needed to grow stronger.

After several hours of marching through twisted roots and rotting vegetation, the group finally reached a place that stood out in the corrupted landscape.

A castle rose ahead, its towers corroded by time and surrounded by a gloomy cemetery.

At its center, a black stone crypt seemed to watch them like a buried eye.

"A lovely decoration for a goth... or a ghoul," Art commented with a crooked smile.

"Here we go again. You just can't help yourself with these stupid remarks, can you?" Elias muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Ah... let it go, man," Art replied, trying to mask his annoyance.

Graelish, observing their dynamic, let out a sinister smile. Elias and Art swallowed hard.

Elias knew that smile was probably just a reaction to their antics, but seeing a ghoul smiling at him was still deeply unsettling — at the very least, disturbing.

Trying not to comment, Elias attempted to shift the mood with a new subject.

"Is this where you live?"

Graelish responded with a smile.

"This is my 'base of operations.' It's where I create ghouls... and rest."

"Rest? But aren't you undead?" Art asked.

Inwardly, Elias felt pleased. Finally, Art had asked a useful — and interesting — question.

"Yes, but I suppose it's a habit. We all have behavioral patterns, and I've developed the habit, I guess, of resting... like a biological clock. I can stay awake if I want to, but I'm used to this cycle."

Biological clock? Did he mean a circadian rhythm? Elias wondered.

Could it be a leftover from when he was human? Is there still something functional left in him? But the dead don't produce hormones... do they? That doesn't really make sense.

"Are ghouls undead?" Elias asked.

Graelish paused for a moment, thoughtful, before answering:

"I think we walk a fine line. We feel hunger, but not thirst or sleep. Our bodies emit miasma, like the undead... so yes, but I think we're something in between."

Maybe that was why they could still see a human side in Graelish.

The residual production of hormones like oxytocin and serotonin — tied to empathy — might be the thin thread keeping him connected to what he once was.

And then, the realization struck like lightning.

What if the reason Graelish still had flesh — why he was a ghoul and not a skeleton — was precisely that? Maintaining traces of human emotion.

Emotions that could be manipulated. Emotions that bound him to the memory of his wife.

If that were true, controlling him through illusions might become possible. A skeleton, or a typical undead, wouldn't have empathy.

Wouldn't react to bonds.

Elias understood everything suddenly — and it gave him a spark of relief.

If not for that remnant of humanity... we'd be doomed.

Unaware of Elias's thoughts, Graelish continued ahead, leading the two toward the castle.

As soon as they stepped onto the grounds, Elias caught the smell.

A putrid and suffocating stench, heavy like a sheet of rotting flesh. He covered his nose with his arm, disgusted.

If I'm really going to continue as a necromancer... I'll have to get used to this?

A chill ran down his spine.

I need to craft a mask. Something to filter out this stench. If not... I won't be able to handle it.

Reaching a dark antechamber, Graelish stopped in front of a partially open stone door.

The surrounding walls were covered with decaying tapestries, hanging between cracked columns.

The floor was cold stone, stained in dark tones of dried blood and moss.

Bones were piled in a corner, mixed with the remains of spent candles, and a rusted chandelier hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly with the breeze slipping through the wall cracks.

"Wait here. I'm going to fetch some items," said Graelish before disappearing down a side corridor.Elias and Art nodded silently, watching him walk away.

For a few seconds, the only sound was the distant echo of Graelish's footsteps and the soft creak of the suspended metal.

Then, Art broke the silence.

"The smell in this place is just... indescribable."

Elias took a deep breath, wrinkling his nose.

"Yeah. I was thinking about finding something to filter it. Maybe a mask."

Art laughed.

"You? Complaining about smells now? I thought you'd be used to rot by now, after everything you've been through."

"There's a difference between seeing death... and smelling it constantly," Elias replied, half-serious.

"Yeah... I guess so," Art murmured, looking around.

He leaned against a column, scanning the room with suspicion.

"This place gives me the creeps. It's like the walls are... listening."

"Yeah, and the worst part is, maybe they are," Elias replied more seriously, staring at one of the moth-eaten tapestries.

"I still don't understand how we can trust a ghoul. I mean, sure, he hasn't tried to kill us, but... that doesn't mean he's on our side."

Elias shrugged.

"Trust is a luxury. For now, he's useful. When he stops being useful, well... then we run."

Art smiled, humorless.

"Great plan."

The dialogue between Elias and Art was abruptly cut off by the dragging sound of heavy footsteps.

Graelish was returning down the dark corridor, carrying a dark wooden chest reinforced with rusted iron bands.

He set it down carefully on the antechamber floor, which groaned under the weight.

"I have a few items that will help you," he said, with a sinister half-smile.

When he opened the chest, a faint, cold, and damp mist escaped from the lid — as if the contents were still breathing.

Inside were two unusually shaped masks, two short, curved swords, a few potions in frosted glass vials, leather-bound books, light armor, various supplies... and a small fortune in gold coins.

"Gold? Seriously? That seems kind of useless now," Art commented, raising an eyebrow.

Without a word, Elias knelt and quickly stashed a good number of coins in his pouch.

Art watched the move with a mix of surprise and cunning. Without hesitation, he took the rest.Graelish merely smiled.

"In human societies, gold is still one of the most powerful currencies. When you leave here, you'll need it."

"When we leave?" Art emphasized, suspicious.

"Yes," Graelish replied naturally. "You need motivation, right? This gold... it's the promise that if you survive, you can retire. Live in peace. Every hero needs a nest egg at the end of the road."

Elias said nothing, but he understood perfectly.

As someone who had once been exploited, he felt in his skin the logic of effort and reward.

He knew what it was like to live just for the next task, the next command.

The difference between blind obedience and freedom, sometimes, was just the illusion of choice — or a bag of heavy gold.

Inside the chest, the masks stood out. Elias studied them carefully, and Art quickly asked:

"And this? What are these... masks for?"

Graelish crouched and picked one up gently.The mask had an elongated structure, with a curved, pointed beak, resembling the skull of a crow.

The material looked like darkened, dried leather, adorned with metal rivets and small runes engraved along the edges.

The round lenses at the eyes were of darkened glass and emitted a faint scent of mint mixed with something bitter and strange — an essence alien to life.

At first glance, it looked like something out of a medieval painting — like the masks used by plague doctors. But on touch, it pulsed slightly, as if it were alive.

"You emit an aura — the subtle glow of life," Graelish explained. "These masks will help hide that.

Camouflaging among the dead isn't easy... but with this, it'll be possible."

"And the awful smell?" Art asked cautiously.

"Filtered. The inside of the mask contains myrrh essence, enchanted charcoal, and shadow moss.

You won't smell the miasma... at least, not directly."

Elias picked up the mask with a mix of fascination and unease.

Wearing it, Elias immediately noticed his field of vision narrowing.

The round lenses reduced his peripheral perception, as if he were peering through dark tunnels.

It was an uncomfortable limitation, but necessary — being able to breathe without nausea in that place was already a luxury.

With his eyes focused on the chest before him, he noticed a sword that seemed to catch his attention.

Drawn by some instinct, he chose the most imposing blade. It was a long sword, robust in appearance, yet with a subtle elegance that conveyed a fierce presence.

The hilt, dark-toned and firm to the touch, fit perfectly in his hand, as if molded especially for him.

At the pommel, a raw red gem pulsed with a subtle inner glow — not a ruby, but something older, as if it had a life of its own.

The crossguard displayed sinuous patterns, like intertwined serpents in a deadly dance.

The blade, with a metallic shine akin to tempered steel, held hues of gray and wine, as if it had absorbed blood over the years.

Each curve of the blade evoked the image of a snake about to strike — ready to kill in silence.A beautiful yet deadly weapon that could easily be mistaken for a ceremonial artifact.

Art, beside him, watched with discreet interest. His eyes soon turned to the other longsword — less ornate, but with a simplicity that spoke of efficiency.

The grip, wrapped in darkened leather, was worn in places where experienced fingers had once held it.

The blade, straight and thin, possessed a distinctive lightness, with an almost white silver color, like polished ivory.

Etched along the edge, an almost invisible script seemed to sing when moved, slicing through the air with supernatural grace.

It was a sword made for precise cuts, swift as thought, lethal as a verdict.

While Elias's blade carried weight and presence, Art's was a duelist's weapon — one that demanded speed, agility... and total control.

Art smiled, twirling the hilt effortlessly. "Light as a feather," he said, with a satisfied grin.

Elias glanced sideways, a faint smile on his lips. "You're fat, mate."

Art was silent for a moment, processing the comment. The surprise was brief, soon replaced by a weary sigh.

"…" Art shook his head, swallowing the curse words he was about to utter.

He didn't know whether to laugh or get mad, so he just moved on without saying another word.