The Tomb (part 1)

The morning mist hadn't yet lifted when the carriage rolled out of the city gates. Arman sat by the window, one hand tucked beneath his chin, the other draped lazily across the bench between him and Kyra. His eyes were tired, not from lack of sleep, but from the weight behind them—days of battle, blood, and choices lingering like ghosts.

Beside him, Kyra leaned slightly against the window, her tail flicking lazily, golden eyes wide and full of curiosity. The world outside the glass moved fast—green fields, stone fences, the blur of morning travelers and rising smoke from distant hearths. It was more freedom than she'd seen in years.

Behind them, Mira stood near the city gate with arms folded. She looked pointedly at Arman.

"Keep your hands to yourself," she said flatly, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Arman raised a brow, half-smirking back. "Pretend I'm not completely hopeless. Got it."

Mira looked to Kyra next. "Make sure he doesn't trip into a pit or punch a ghost or something. I'm not coming to drag either of you out of a cursed ruin."

Kyra gave a playful salute, and the driver snapped the reins. The carriage jerked forward, the city shrinking behind them as the countryside opened into winding paths and thick stretches of early forest.

Kyra stayed by the window, watching it all with the kind of quiet wonder that made Arman pause. Her ears twitched every time birds scattered or wind stirred the leaves, and her tail thumped faintly against the seat in slow, relaxed rhythm.

Without thinking, Arman reached over and gently patted her head—just a light touch, instinctive, like he used to do for his sister when she curled up near the fire.

Kyra stiffened for a moment, almost reflexively. But then she relaxed into it, ears flattening slightly, her tail wagging a little faster.

"…Fine," she murmured, not meeting his eyes. "Only you."

Arman blinked. "That sounded rehearsed."

"It's not." She turned just enough for him to catch the small smile tugging at her lips. "It's… not bad."

He let his hand fall back to his lap and smirked. "You're easy to read, you know."

Kyra looked sideways at him, amused. "And you're smug. Deal with it."

The carriage rolled along an older forest road, and after a while, Arman leaned forward toward the partition.

"Morning," he said to the driver. "We're headed for the tomb?"

"Aye. Forgotten one," the older man replied without turning. "Half-buried, real quiet. Locals don't go near it. Say it's got eyes that never blink, watching from the dark."

"That's encouraging," Kyra muttered.

The driver chuckled. "You heading in for something specific?"

"Relic," 

The driver let out a low whistle. "You've got guts, boy. They say that one's buried in the deep part—locked behind a sealed gate. Not many come back from chasing that thing."

"I've died worse," Arman said flatly.

Kyra gave him a sharp look but said nothing.

"You academy-bound?" the driver asked after a pause. "Lots of movement lately. Every year they talk about the entrance trials being rough, but this one? This one's got weight. Rumors say nobles are sending heirs, gifted bloodlines from all corners—real competition. Pressure's sky-high."

Arman gave a short nod. "Yeah. I'll be there."

The driver glanced over his shoulder just long enough to study Arman's face. "Wouldn't've pegged you for a noble."

Arman offered a thin smile. "That's the point."

They fell into a rhythm of silence again. Kyra eventually curled her knees up onto the bench, cloak tucked under her legs, tail resting across her lap like a scarf. She seemed more at peace now, the quiet not making her anxious for once. Her body leaned slightly toward his, and her eyes slowly blinked as the sway of the carriage lulled her.

He didn't disturb her. Just rested one arm along the back of the seat and let the moment breathe.

By late afternoon, the trees began to thin and shadows lengthened. The forest road gave way to rough stone and then to a jagged ridge where the path ended near a clearing.

They'd arrived.

Arman stepped down first, taking in the sight ahead. A low slope of earth and twisted roots curled around what remained of an old stone arch, its keystone half-cracked, runes worn faint from rain and time. The tomb looked like a forgotten mouth in the forest's belly—cold wind spilling out as if the ruin exhaled in its sleep.

Kyra joined him, arms wrapped tight around her sides. "Charming."

The driver stayed seated, reins still in hand. "I'll camp here until dawn. If you're not back by first light—"

"We'll be back," Arman said.

He checked the satchel over his shoulder, adjusted the strap across his chest, and turned toward the tomb.

Kyra didn't wait for an invitation. She stepped forward, crossing the threshold before he did.

He let a small smile pull at his lips.

The tomb wasn't far.

Just under an hour's walk from where the carriage had dropped them off—an overgrown trail through blackbark trees, hushed by moss and time. Arman led with quiet steps, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, while Kyra walked at his side, tail flicking like a metronome behind her.

They didn't speak much.

They didn't need to.

The tomb came into view just past the third broken pillar—a weatherworn arch of dark stone half-buried in earth and ivy. No guards, no wards, no signs of excavation. Just the faint hum of old magic crawling across the mossy stones.

Kyra stepped closer, ears perked. "This place… feels wrong."

"It's meant to," Arman said, crouching by the entrance. "It's warded against curious animals, not people. That's why the nobles used it. Hidden, but not too well."

He pressed his palm against a seal carved into the stone. A pulse. A brief flicker of red light.

Then silence.

Kyra glanced at him. "That's it?"

He nodded. "I've already broken the trigger sigil during a past loop. It'll stay inert now. Let's go."

The inside was cool and dry, the air thick with dust and something older—like iron and memory. Torches lined the walls in rusted brackets, long since burned out. Arman lit a fresh one from his pack, the flame throwing long shadows down the corridor.

It wasn't a labyrinth.

The tomb was a single corridor that led to a single chamber.

But it wasn't the dead that made it dangerous.

It was what they left behind.

Kyra paused halfway through the tunnel, sniffing. "No blood. No rot. But this place reeks of danger."

"You're not wrong."

They reached the final door within minutes—blackened bronze, reinforced with a faded ward circle that no longer glowed.

Arman rested his fingers on it, exhaling slowly. "There's a guardian. It's not strong—compared to the Warden, at least. But it's persistent. It doesn't stop unless you kill it the right way."

"What's the right way?"

"You'll see."

He pushed the door open.

The chamber beyond was circular, its walls carved with reliefs of warriors kneeling around a basin of fire. In the center stood a sarcophagus sealed with iron, and crouched atop it—a skeletal knight, unmoving, but not dead.

Kyra whispered, "It's awake."

"It always is."

Arman stepped forward. "Let's finish this quickly."

The guardian's eyes flared.

And it lunged.