The ramp led down into a tight corridor of damp stone and mildew, the air thick and close. The walls bore the scars of both time and goblin defacement—childish scrawlings smeared alongside strange, sinuous murals. I recognized the style immediately. Thassilonian. Ancient. Carved with purpose, then desecrated by hands too crude to understand what they defaced.

Our boots sounded softly on the old floor. Water dripped somewhere ahead, echoing down unseen halls. A faint reddish glow flickered beyond the curve of the tunnel—torchlight, but tinged with something warmer, deeper.

The corridor opened into a circular chamber.

Old support columns ringed the space, each carved with runes dulled by centuries. A statue lay broken in the far corner, shattered by time or violence, I couldn’t tell. The air was hotter here—uncomfortably so. Like breath held too long.

Signs of recent activity littered the chamber. Goblin tracks. Bones. A dead fire pit. Scattered refuse. And something else—prints larger than goblins. Broader. Heavier.

Lucian crouched low near the far door and raised a hand, pointing.

Shalelu’s voice was no louder than a breeze behind me. “Something’s been guarding this passage,” she murmured. “Something bigger than goblins.”

I held up two fingers, then pointed to the side walls, motioning for Lucian and Shalelu to avoid the center of the chamber. No sense in putting ourselves on display—or worse, walking into a trap. The curve of the walls might shield us, give us cover, and maybe even reveal something the goblins had missed. A long shot, but not impossible.

Lucian saw the signal and dipped his head once. He glided along the left wall, all quiet confidence and balance, moving with the silence of a man who’d made shadows his allies. Shalelu mirrored him on the right, bow raised, fingers wrapped loosely around an arrow. Her eyes never stopped moving, scanning every corner, every gap, every doorway like a hawk circling over prey.

I moved between them, my staff angled low, one hand resting near the scrolls at my belt, ready to draw if the air shifted wrong. The warmth we’d felt at the entrance had cooled here, though the pulse of heat from deeper within still reached us in a steady, unsettling rhythm—like a heartbeat muffled by stone.

We crept along the chamber’s curve.

That’s when I saw it.

A seam—faint, but too clean, too deliberate to be natural. Just visible beneath a tattered strip of goblin hide nailed haphazardly to the wall. The surrounding stone was rough, cracked, aged by salt and smoke—but this line was sharp, purposeful. A door. Concealed. Ancient.

Lucian had seen it too. He gave the faintest whistle, barely a breath. Shalelu changed course at once, slipping across the room to join us.

She pressed her ear against the wall, closed her eyes, and waited.

Then she stepped back and shook her head. “Quiet,” she mouthed.

I could feel it again—that tension building behind the quiet, like something unseen was holding its breath. The air had changed. There was something behind this wall. Something forgotten. Sacred. Or profane. Or both.

Whatever had drawn Nualia here… we were close now.

The corridor ahead still beckoned, glowing faintly with that strange red light.

But now we had a choice.

Forward into the known danger… or through the hidden door into the unknown.

I whispered a short prayer to Desna, words falling soft and hopeful beneath my breath. Lady of Stars, of Luck, of hidden roads and silent dreams… if this is your smile, may it guide us true.

Then I nodded toward the concealed seam in the wall.

Lucian moved up first, his fingers trailing along the stone until they found the mechanism—a pressure plate cleverly set, almost invisible. He pressed it with a surgeon’s care and a gambler’s grin.

Click.

The door shifted inward with a low grind of stone against stone, revealing a narrow corridor veiled in pitch darkness.

The air that drifted out was dry, not the usual damp rot that clung to the rest of the goblin ruin. This was something older. Forgotten. Undisturbed. The silence on the other side was heavier than the rest of Thistletop—thick, unmoving.

Shalelu peered inside, bow lowered but not relaxed. “No footprints,” she whispered. “No fresh ones, at least.” Her eyes met mine. “Either this hasn’t been opened in years… or whoever used it was very careful.”

Lucian drew his rapier with a slow, quiet motion and gestured toward the blackened passage. “Well, cousin,” he said with that dry, dangerous humor of his. “Shall we step into the jaws of mystery?”

I stepped forward and raised my staff, murmuring the familiar phrase: Lux in tenebris.

A soft glow bloomed at the tip, casting warm golden light into the corridor beyond. Shadows scattered.

The passage was narrow—barely wide enough for one to pass—and sloped gently downward into the deeper reaches of the ruin. The walls bore carvings nearly erased by time: spirals, eyes, runes, and symbols I recognized with a quiet thrill of dread and curiosity.

Thassilonian.

Ancient.

This place had been hidden long before goblins scurried its surface, maybe even before Sandpoint’s stones were ever laid.

We were walking into something lost.

The air was perfectly still.

And the silence… was complete.

“Lucian, take the lead. Shalelu, make sure the door closes behind us. I don’t want anyone sneaking up on us,” I said quietly. “The light on my staff will let us see. Hopefully it doesn’t alert our enemies as well.”

Lucian nodded once, that familiar spark of confidence flickering at the corner of his grin. Without a word, he stepped forward, rapier ready, slipping into the passage like he belonged there. Every step was deliberate, careful—silent as wind moving through broken columns.

I followed close behind, my staff held forward, the soft golden glow casting long shadows that flickered across ancient walls. Shalelu waited until I passed, then reached for the mechanism. With a faint click and a slow grind, the stone slid back into place behind us.

The sound wasn’t loud.

But it was final.

The silence that followed was near total—just the soft scuff of boots on ancient stone, the creak of leather straps, the occasional breath held and released. The glow from my staff illuminated the carvings more clearly now. They were strange. Intricate. Wrong.

Eyes—too many lashes. Teeth—no mouths. Spirals that wound inward, endlessly.

They weren’t just decorations. They were warnings. Symbols of power and binding, sigils of containment and memory. I recognized some from the ruins beneath the cathedral. Others were alien to me—even with all my study, I could only guess at their purpose.

This place had been sealed. Forgotten. And yet it breathed around us.

Lucian stopped suddenly, one hand raised.

I stilled.

Ahead, just at the edge of the light, sat a figure.

Robed. Still. Unmoving.

Not goblin.

It was seated at the far end of what looked to be a vaulted chamber, limbs arranged with a sort of meditative care. Waiting? Watching? No motion. No voice. But I could feel it. A presence. Not asleep, but… expectant.

The air felt thick with magic—not active, not wild, but settled. Dormant. Heavy.

Lucian tilted his head toward me slightly. “Well… we’ve found someone,” he murmured.

Shalelu’s hand hovered near her quiver, her posture tense but silent.

My heart beat louder in my chest, every thud like a countdown.

Something was here. And it had been waiting a long time.

I held my breath as I watched the figure—utterly still, draped in robes that barely stirred. It didn’t feel like sleep. Nor the nervous stillness of a creature playing dead. No, this was something else.

The stillness of patience. Of waiting.

I let the light from my staff expand, reaching deeper into the chamber. Golden illumination rolled across ancient stone and cracked through the dust like dawn through old glass.

The room was circular, the stone beneath our feet smoothed by time and polish, though dust had since reclaimed much of it. Pillars ringed the space, carved in the same haunting Thassilonian motifs—spirals, glyphs, too many eyes. Tapestries hung in faded tatters along the walls, the colors long surrendered to age. Pedestals stood broken, empty, their offerings stolen or rotted away.

But what stopped me cold was the floor.

Seven-pointed stars, repeating again and again in spiraling designs. Some were etched within geometric frames—cages, locks, shackles. The meaning struck a chord. Containment. Binding.

It was the same language I had found beneath the cathedral.

Lucian moved to the side, never taking his eyes off the robed figure. “This isn’t a throne room, cousin,” he whispered. “It’s a prison. Or a tomb.”

I stepped forward, just enough for the full light of my staff to fall across the figure.

Humanoid.

Gaunt.

Skin like paper stretched over old stone, with a strange shimmer beneath the surface—like a statue on the verge of remembering it had once been alive. The robes were intact, remarkably so, and marked with silver-threaded sigils down each sleeve and across the chest. A circlet rested on the brow—not a crown, but ceremonial, arcane.

Its eyes were closed.

It had not moved.

But my instincts screamed—arcane senses flaring like embers stirred to flame. The magic in this place was thick, layered, slumbering.

Dormant didn’t mean dead.

Whatever this was, it had nothing to do with goblins. This wasn’t a warlord. This was something far older.

And Nualia?

Wherever she was, she wasn’t here.

This room… this chamber…

It was Thassilonian.

And it had been waiting a very long time.

Cassian moved slowly into the room, careful not to disturb any of the ancient markings that lined the floor and walls. The symbols—cages, chains, and runes—were part of something older, something more dangerous than anything he had encountered so far. He gestured for Lucian and Shalelu to stay back and watch, trusting their silence and discipline to keep them safe.

He approached the figure cautiously, each step measured, avoiding any misstep that could set off a ward or break a seal. The air in the room was thick—heavy with the weight of something that had been buried for ages.

I stopped just short of the robed figure and took a steadying breath.

"You who have been bound," I said aloud, my voice as steady as I could make it, but the words echoed in the stillness. "Who are you? Do you yet live, or have you passed into the Deadlands?"

The moment my voice cut through the silence, the air around us thickened. It wasn’t a shudder or a tremor—it was more like the entire room had inhaled, a quiet tension filling the space as if the very stones held their breath.

My staff’s light flickered in response, as if the room’s magic itself was reacting—not hostile, not yet—but attuned, stirred from its ancient slumber. The runes on the walls pulsed faintly, and the stone beneath my feet seemed to shift, just slightly.

Then, slowly, imperceptibly, the figure moved.

Its head tilted, ever so slightly, a motion so small it seemed a trick of the light, until I saw its eyelids part.

Where eyes should have been, there were only glowing points of amber flame—flickering, dying stars set in hollow sockets. They burned with a quiet intensity, the faint light casting eerie shadows across the stone.

The voice came not from its lips, but from everywhere.

From the walls.

The floor.

From behind my ears, it echoed, as though the very space around me had spoken.

"I am bound," the voice rumbled, ancient and heavy, like a glacier creaking under the weight of time. "I have been forgotten."

Its mouth barely moved—lips cracking in a dry, shuddering motion, as though they had not spoken in a thousand years.

"And now…" The voice grew louder, more insistent. "I am spoken to by one who bears the mark of the Starborn. Why?"

Behind me, I could feel Lucian stiffen, his hand tightening on the hilt of his rapier. Shalelu remained utterly still, her fingers twitching near her bow, but her expression unreadable.

The figure did not rise, did not attack.

It simply watched.

But I could feel it.

Deep in my marrow.

If it chose, it could rise.

Cassian bowed deeply to the creature, his head dipping low, his tone measured. “We came seeking another who threatened our home and happened upon you by chance. I am Cassian Valerian, of Taldor. Would you honor me with your name, my lord?”

The air in the room seemed to exhale slightly, the oppressive weight lessening just enough to be noticeable. Lucian let out a breath Cassian hadn’t realized he was holding, and Shalelu’s bowstring creaked softly as she allowed a fraction of the tension to slip from her grip.

The robed figure inclined its head by a degree, a motion so slow and deliberate it felt as if the stones themselves had moved. When it spoke, the voice resonated from every corner, touching the walls and floor as much as their ears.

“Cassian Valerian of Taldor,” the voice intoned. There was no mockery in the words, nor reverence—only weight. “Polite. Measured. Not like the others who crawl these halls, seeking power without purpose.”

The amber flames in its eyes flickered once, twice.

“I was called Morthos-An,” it said, each word carved from time. “In the age when Runelords still strode across stone and sky. I served not by blade or spell, but by will. By oath. I am the last of the Watchers. The last Warden of the Star-Prison.”

Morthos-An paused, the stillness returning. Yet Cassian could feel something—like a ripple in the air, a memory stirring the dust of forgotten centuries.

“This place was not meant for you,” it said. “Nor the one you chase. She has passed through here, yes. Her steps reeked of purpose. And… of ruin.”

Lucian took a single cautious step forward, his voice low. “Is she what… woke you?”

The Watcher turned its head slightly, the amber flames casting a brief, flickering glow in Lucian’s direction. “No,” it said. “She brushed the edge of the ward and fled. She is not foolish enough to break what she does not understand.”

Then Morthos-An’s gaze returned to Cassian, the flames in its hollow sockets steady and unblinking.

“But you… you carry the light of thought. Of wonder. The mark of the curious. You have touched the old places and not been consumed.”

It paused, as if considering, and then spoke again, its tone as grave as the stones beneath their feet.

“Ask, if you will. But ask wisely. I do not lie. But I have… forgotten how to be kind.”

For a long moment, I let the silence stretch. The weight of the room was as palpable as the magic humming in its stones, as the words I held back.

This question deserved more than thoughtlessness. It deserved precision.

Straightening my shoulders, I met Morthos-An’s glowing gaze and finally spoke.

“How can we save our home and still save the soul of the young woman who seeks its destruction?”

The air seemed to shift in response. Not cooler, not warmer—just different. The shadows along the walls leaned forward, the carved stars seemed to turn, and the torches burned with a steadiness that felt unnatural.

Morthos-An’s flame-filled eyes flickered once. Slowly.

“A question of mercy,” the Warden murmured, his voice low, his tone heavy. “From a man of intellect. Rare. Dangerous.”

The words hung in the air, their weight measured, their meaning stretched. When the Warden spoke again, his voice carried the echo of centuries.

“The girl… was not born to this fate. She was broken. Bent, not by will, but by the gods who failed her and the men who used her.”

The amber flames shifted, but Morthos-An’s stillness never wavered. “She was touched by the divine and abandoned. That absence became a wound.”

A pause followed, long enough for me to feel the chill of its truth, not on my skin, but behind my eyes. The air seemed to grow heavier still.

“And into that wound, something crawled.”

The words rippled through me, quiet as breath, cold as stone. It was not fear I felt, but the creeping edge of understanding.

“There is a presence bound within this island,” Morthos-An continued. “An echo. A fragment of wrath. Ancient. Malformed. It speaks not in words, but in hunger. And it found in her what it needed most: a vessel with purpose and pain.”

The flames in his eyes burned brighter for a heartbeat, and I felt the weight of his gaze settle fully on me. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t judgment. It was simply the pressure of being seen, of being weighed in a scale built for souls.

“To stop her path, you must sever that link.”

“To save her soul, you must offer her a greater purpose than destruction. One that survives disappointment. And pain.”

I held my breath, each word sinking into the stillness of the chamber.

“But know this, Starborn,” Morthos-An said, his tone heavier still. “She walks willingly. The wrath she carries has shape now. A name. A prayer. Saving her will not be done with kindness alone.”

The flames dimmed slightly. The voice fell to a whisper.

“She must be defeated before she can be reclaimed.”

When the words faded, the silence returned, dense as stone.

The answer had been given.

For a long moment, I let the silence stretch. The weight of the room was as palpable as the magic humming in its stones, as the words I held back.

This question deserved more than thoughtlessness. It deserved precision.

Straightening my shoulders, I met Morthos-An’s glowing gaze and finally spoke.

“How can we save our home and still save the soul of the young woman who seeks its destruction?”

The air seemed to shift in response. Not cooler, not warmer—just different. The shadows along the walls leaned forward, the carved stars seemed to turn, and the torches burned with a steadiness that felt unnatural.

Morthos-An’s flame-filled eyes flickered once. Slowly.

“A question of mercy,” the Warden murmured, his voice low, his tone heavy. “From a man of intellect. Rare. Dangerous.”

The words hung in the air, their weight measured, their meaning stretched. When the Warden spoke again, his voice carried the echo of centuries.

“The girl… was not born to this fate. She was broken. Bent, not by will, but by the gods who failed her and the men who used her.”

The amber flames shifted, but Morthos-An’s stillness never wavered. “She was touched by the divine and abandoned. That absence became a wound.”

A pause followed, long enough for me to feel the chill of its truth, not on my skin, but behind my eyes. The air seemed to grow heavier still.

“And into that wound, something crawled.”

The words rippled through me, quiet as breath, cold as stone. It was not fear I felt, but the creeping edge of understanding.

“There is a presence bound within this island,” Morthos-An continued. “An echo. A fragment of wrath. Ancient. Malformed. It speaks not in words, but in hunger. And it found in her what it needed most: a vessel with purpose and pain.”

The flames in his eyes burned brighter for a heartbeat, and I felt the weight of his gaze settle fully on me. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t judgment. It was simply the pressure of being seen, of being weighed in a scale built for souls.

“To stop her path, you must sever that link.”

“To save her soul, you must offer her a greater purpose than destruction. One that survives disappointment. And pain.”

I held my breath, each word sinking into the stillness of the chamber.

“But know this, Starborn,” Morthos-An said, his tone heavier still. “She walks willingly. The wrath she carries has shape now. A name. A prayer. Saving her will not be done with kindness alone.”

The flames dimmed slightly. The voice fell to a whisper.

“She must be defeated before she can be reclaimed.”

When the words faded, the silence returned, dense as stone.

The answer had been given.

Shalelu’s voice, when she spoke, was soft. “You believe we can do that?”

Lucian didn’t answer. He just looked at me.

Because it wasn’t just a question anymore.

It was a choice.

I turned back to Morthos-An, bowing low, my words deliberate. “My gratitude, Lord Warden. We will go and disturb your rest no longer.”

I stepped away carefully, retreating toward the passage we had come through. Shalelu and Lucian fell in behind me, and we left the chamber’s oppressive stillness behind, the secret door whispering closed once more.

In the narrow passage, I finally answered Shalelu’s question. “I don’t know.”

The words felt heavy, but I didn’t stop. “I don’t relish the thought of killing a young woman who has been broken by something evil that took advantage of her pain. I will if I must, but I’d rather not if there’s another way.”

The faint light of my staff flickered across the stones as we moved. “The Warden said she walks willingly,” I continued. “My grandfather once told me that some people fall… others are pushed. Nualia might be both. If she’s been pushed to this, then we owe her the chance to climb back.”

Shalelu’s face was tight with thought, but she didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she said quietly, “Then we find her. And we end this—however we must.”

Lucian’s hand briefly rested on my shoulder—a quiet reassurance, no words needed.

When we stepped back into the upper ruin, the air felt lighter—freer somehow. But the storm had not yet broken. Nualia was still ahead, somewhere deeper in the labyrinth of Thistletop’s chambers. And beyond her, the fragment of wrath, waiting for us.

I tightened my grip on the staff and looked to my companions. “Let’s finish this.”