Dawn was a feeble grey when the Iron Wolves and their allies gathered at Graystone's gate once more. Villagers, despite their exhaustion, rose to see them off, their faces a mixture of grief and gratitude. As Erik walked beside Lyra, a middle-aged woman stepped forward and pressed a knitted shawl into Lyra's hands, wordlessly. It was a deeply moving gesture, a small, fragile piece of warmth in a world that had grown cold.
They left the fragile safety of the village, following a dirt path that wound toward the northern hill. By mid-morning, they stood at the foot of the ruins. The place was a monument to desecration. The air itself felt sick, thick with the cloying, sweet stench of rot and an unnatural greenish mist that clung to the ground. Graves had been torn open from within, the earth scarred and violated. At the center of the blighted cemetery loomed a stone mausoleum, its heavy iron gate hanging ajar like a gaping jaw.
Holt spat on the ground, his face a mask of disgust. "Hate places like this," he muttered. Lyra whispered a quiet holy invocation, and the silver symbol on her amulet pulsed with a soft, protective light.
Erik exchanged a glance with Darius. The knight's face was grim resolve, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He nodded once. "Dead or alive, whatever's down there, we end it."
The group steeled themselves, weapons drawn. Finn, his usual bravado swallowed by the oppressive silence, slipped into the darkness of the mausoleum entrance to scout ahead. The minutes stretched, each one an eternity of tense waiting. Finally, a faint scraping heralded his return. He emerged from the shadows, his face pale, and beckoned urgently. Whatever he had seen, it was worse than they had feared.
They descended into the catacombs. The air grew thick and cold, heavy with the stench of sulfur and old death. At the base of the stairs, a short tunnel opened into a larger burial chamber, and the sight that greeted them as Lyra's Light spread out made her gasp aloud.
In the center of the chamber stood a stone altar, its surface stained with fresh, glistening blood that seemed to writhe in the holy light. Upon it lay the body of a man, gaunt and deathly pale, a ritual dagger of jagged obsidian pierced through his heart. Around the altar, the floor was inscribed with pulsing green runes, the entire room seeming to throb in unison with their sickly, malevolent light.
At the far end of the altar stood a figure in black, featureless robes. The necromancer. As their light washed over him, his head snapped up. His eyes opened, revealing irises that glowed with an unnatural, piercing blue. His gaze swept over them, Darius, a bulwark of steel; Lyra, a beacon of faith; Finn, a flickering shadow. Then his eyes landed on Erik, and his snarling fury faltered, replaced by a flicker of utter, revulsed confusion.
"No…" the necromancer whispered, his voice a sibilant hiss. He wasn't looking at the party; he was staring at Erik, and only Erik. "That scent… your soul… it is a fractured thing, stitched together all wrong." His face twisted, a mixture of scientific curiosity and pure disgust. "What are you?"
A flicker of annoyance crossed the necromancer's face, the brief spark of academic curiosity extinguished. "A minor, unforeseen variable," he whispered, more to himself than to them. "No matter. The Master's work continues." He gave a subtle, almost lazy gesture with one hand. In the corners of the chamber, two hulking corpses clad in ancient, rusted armor lurched to life, their rusted blades scraping against the stone.
Darius did not waste time. "Stop him! Now!" he shouted, charging forward.
The chamber erupted into chaos. While Zara, Holt, and Darius engaged the armored zombies, Erik closed in on the necromancer. The robed man met his charge with a look of utter disdain, flinging a hand out. A cone of sickly green flame erupted, and Erik dove aside just in time. Before the necromancer could cast again, a shadow detached from a pillar behind him, Finn. The rogue lunged, his dagger biting deep into the necromancer's arm.
The necromancer didn't cry out. He simply looked down at the dagger embedded in his arm with a flicker of irritation, as one might look at a mosquito. His glowing blue eyes then swiveled to meet Finn's. "Such an insignificant little disturbance," he whispered, his voice cold as the grave. He raised a small, skull-carved wand.
"Finn, get down!" Erik bellowed, scrambling forward.
Too late. A crackling bolt of violet energy blasted from the wand, flinging the rogue like a rag doll against a stone pillar, where he crumpled in a heap.
"Finn!" Lyra cried out in horror.
Something in Erik broke. The sight of his friend, so full of life and wit, lying broken and smoking on the cold stone ignited a rage unlike any before, hotter, more personal, a white-hot inferno of grief and fury. A red haze threatened to descend over his vision, but through it, a sliver of cold, clear thought remained, a lesson beaten into him by Cedric: control the fire. He let the rage flood his veins, but he would not let it drown him. He would forge it into a weapon.
The rune for Berserker's Rage on his forearm flared to life, a searing silver brand visible even through his leathers, and he launched himself at the necromancer.
The cultist saw him coming, and his eyes widened not just at the raw speed, but at the alien nature of the power radiating from him. "That energy! It is not of the Light, nor of the Shadow! Unnatural!" he shrieked, a moment before Erik hit him like a charging bull.
They crashed onto the altar. The necromancer clawed at Erik's face, but Erik snarled and slammed his forehead into the cultist's nose. Cartilage crunched. In that instant, Darius leaped over the altar, yanking the necromancer off and hurling him to the floor. Holt was there in a second, wrapping an arm around the man's throat in a crushing chokehold.
"It's over," Darius growled, his sword at the struggling man's chest.
Erik, his rage receding, rushed to Finn's side, where Lyra was already kneeling, pouring her healing light into the smoking wound on the rogue's chest. He reached down to feel for a pulse at Finn's neck. The moment his fingers touched Finn's skin, a sharp, violent jolt of electricity shot up his arm, making his teeth clack together and his hand recoil instinctively. The air crackled with the faint scent of ozone. He stared for a second at his own tingling fingers, then at the unconscious rogue. Lyra, absorbed in her prayer, hadn't noticed. Shaking off the bizarre shock, he tried again, more carefully this time. He found the pulse. Faint, but there. He was alive.
"Who is your master?" Darius demanded, pressing his sword point against the necromancer's chest.
The cultist's glowing blue eyes flickered with amusement. He didn't answer. Instead, his gaze slid past Darius to lock with Erik's. A slow, knowing smile spread across his bloodied lips.
"He hears you," the necromancer whispered, his voice a dry, rasping sound like dead leaves skittering across pavement. The smile widened. "He has always heard you."
"Enough of your filth," Holt growled, and with one brutal wrench, snapped the necromancer's neck. The man's head lolled to the side, the eerie smile frozen on his face.
As the body slumped to the floor, Erik took a step back and froze.
For an instant, the chamber seemed to darken. The air thickened as if the crypt itself exhaled, heavy and cold. A sound, if it could be called that, rippled at the edges of perception, like a whisper through stone, a thousand tongues brushing against the veil of reality.
Erik's vision blurred. His breath caught.
And then, "Anomaly."
The word rang not in his ears, but in his soul. A thousand voices, a million, each layered atop the next in perfect, dissonant harmony. Male and female, child and elder, beast and god. One syllable, stretched across eternity.
His body locked. For a second, no, a heartbeat, something looked back through him. Not at him. Through. A gaze that recognized not his face, but something deeper. Older.
The runes beneath his skin blazed, not with warmth, but with cold light, like frostfire burning through bone. The altar shuddered. Lyra flinched as if a gust had struck her, her prayer faltering for a blink. Then, Gone.
The pressure vanished. The shadows receded. Erik staggered and caught himself against the stone.
No one else seemed to have noticed.
Except the corpse.
The necromancer's face, twisted in death, still held that slight, knowing smile, and a single drop of blood rolled from his ear, black and glistening like ink.
A weak cough from Finn broke the spell. The rogue's eyes fluttered open. "Owww…" he mumbled. "Feels like I got kicked by a horse."
A tight, tense smile touched Erik's lips, a mix of profound relief and a new, chilling watchfulness. He gripped Finn's hand firmly, the pressure more grounding for himself than for the rogue. "Don't scare us like that again," he said, his voice low and strained.
Finn managed a weak, lopsided grin, though he winced immediately after. "T-takes more than some creepy death magic to… kill Finn Odell," he croaked. He tried to sit up, and both Erik and Lyra gently eased him into a better position, leaning him against the base of the pillar. Finn sucked in air through his teeth, pressing a hand to his side. "Hurts like the blazes though… remind me not to do that again."
Lyra brushed a tear from her cheek, composing herself. "You'll need rest, but you'll live," she pronounced, the holy glow on her hands finally dimming. "Thank the Light." Her smile at Finn was part grateful, part scolding. "And thank you. Your bravery may have saved us all, but don't you dare risk yourself like that without backup," she chided softly.
Finn closed his eyes, letting his head thump back against the pillar. "Noted, m'lady," he murmured. "Next time, I'll wait for the murderous pyromaniac to turn around before I backstab him, how about that?"
The atmosphere in the crypt eased palpably at Finn's weak jest, but Erik couldn't shake the oppressive feeling of that psychic touch, nor the necromancer's final, chilling words. He watched as the others tended to the rescued villager, his gaze sweeping the chamber. He noticed something half-burned on a small stone dais off to the side, a book or journal.
He picked it up gingerly. Many pages were ruined, but he pieced together a few frantically scrawled passages near the back. "...harvest at Graystone complete... souls to fuel the gateway... All for the glory of the Lord of Whispers... his Ascension is now assured."
Erik's smile was thin, his mind elsewhere as Finn called out, "Find anything good, Erik?"
"A journal," he said, his voice grim. "It confirms the attack was a 'harvest'... to empower a gateway for a Dungeon Lord. The Lord of Whispers." He looked at Darius, the new title hanging heavy in the air between them. "It proves this wasn't just a random incident. There's a cult, and they're preparing for an 'Ascension'."
Darius came to his side, brow furrowed as he looked at the burnt pages. "We will take this to Lady Marienne. She and the learned folk in the capital must be warned," he said, his voice low and resolute.
Zara had finished securing the rescued villager. She overheard and nodded sharply. "If more of these cultists are active, we'll need a coordinated response."
Holt agreed, kicking the necromancer's lifeless body once for good measure. "Aye. Stamp out one ant nest before it becomes a swarm."
With the immediate crisis done, the group gathered themselves. Finn was able to stand after a few minutes, leaning on Erik for support. The rescued villager, a man named Tomas, managed a grateful smile. "I thought I was dead… they killed my brother in front of me," he said numbly, voice cracking. Lyra squeezed his hand and promised him he'd see home again soon. A haunted look crossed Darius's face, and Erik suspected the knight was thinking of his own past losses.
Before departing, Lyra insisted on one more task. Though weary, she walked the perimeter of the ritual space, whispering incantations and sprinkling holy water. A soft white glow trailed in her footsteps, nullifying the remaining traces of dark magic. "I won't leave this place tainted," she said quietly. Erik and the others watched in respectful silence.
At last, they ascended from the catacombs into the clean morning air. The sun was climbing, its rays falling upon a village saved, and a darkness stemmed. The party returned to Graystone by midday, greeted by tears of joy and astonishment. Tomas's family rushed to embrace him, sobbing thanks to the gods and to their champions. The entire village treated them like heroes reborn.
When the villagers tried to offer coin, food, even an heirloom brooch as reward, Darius gently held up his hand. "Your safety is reward enough," he said, and Erik knew he meant every word. It struck him that perhaps this was why Darius had leveled that stern look at Edward and the other cowardly adventurers earlier: those who seek glory rarely get it, but those who do what's right regardless of reward sometimes become true heroes.