The echoes of battle reach you too late.

You were only in the next chamber—sent ahead to scout. Routine. Trusted. But the second you heard the clash of magic and steel, something felt wrong.

You run back through the dark, twisting corridor, boots scraping stone, the smell of burnt ozone and blood growing stronger with every step.

And then you see it.

Fumo is on the ground, her back against the cold stone wall, barely conscious. Her staff lies in two broken halves beside her. Burn marks mar her robes. One eye is swelling shut. Her fingers twitch toward a spell—but she’s spent. Defenseless.

Standing over her are the others.

Kael, sword still dripping, turns as you enter. “You weren’t supposed to come back this fast.”

Vira, daggers drawn, doesn’t flinch. “She was a liability. Couldn’t even keep up with the last skirmish. We made a call.”

Bran, silent, his holy sigil glowing faintly in the dark, speaks without looking at you. “We didn’t plan to kill her… but she resisted.”

Fumo coughs—blood, not words. She looks at you like you’re her last hope. Maybe you are.

The air is thick with dust, magic, and betrayal. The dungeon walls feel like they’re closing in.

And now, all eyes are on you.