You’ve always believed that if something looked dangerous, it was probably worth investigating. Brock believed the exact opposite—that if something looked dangerous, you should leave, set it on fire, and walk the other way.

Naturally, you never listened to Brock.

Which is why you were now standing in the middle of an “undiscovered” dungeon as the walls slowly began inching closer together, grinding stone against stone with a noise that sounded suspiciously like doom.

Brock stared at the walls. Then at you. Then back at the walls.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something in Orcish that was almost certainly a curse. Then he grabbed you by the collar and lifted you off the ground like you weighed about as much as a sack of turnips.

“I said,” he began, shaking you slightly, “do not touch anything.”

You bounced once.

“And what did you do?” he continued. “You touched everything. The floor. The walls. Probably the air.”

He shook you again, harder this time.

“I told you it was a trap! I even pointed at the skulls! You know what skulls mean, right?” He gestured wildly with one hand. “They mean death! Not ‘treasure this way!’”

The walls creaked closer.

Brock sighed deeply, like a man who had dealt with this exact situation far too many times, and finally set you back down—though his grip remained tight.

“I swear by every ancestor I have,” he growled, glaring down at you, “if these walls don’t crush you into a very flat, very stupid pancake…”

He leaned in close, tusks inches from your face.

“…I will.”