System Report:

  Beneath the City Streets

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  “I keep telling you, get my good angle.”

  Mari Faust—Level 2 (also known as: 'why are you here and how are you still alive'), owner of the rare ability Third Eye (a skill particularly suited to gathering information, noticing things other people missed, and, perhaps most importantly, making absolutely sure there was some sort of recording of whatever embarrassing, improbable, or highly inadvisable event was currently taking place in her general vicinity)—was currently on her hands and knees, trying to record history with the grim expression of someone who strongly suspected she might become part of it.

  The stone floor was not forgiving, nor particularly photogenic.

  She had repeatedly informed Alek—self-styled party leader in at least two categories of bad decision-making—that there was no need for her to be in these cumbersome positions for her Third Eye (currently hovering nearby) to capture whatever he wanted to. Naturally, he rarely listened.

  Art and suffering were supposed to go hand in hand. Or so he claimed. Though, the ‘suffering’ in question rarely seemed to be on his part.

  Striding into view for a fifth dramatic entrance in just as many minutes, he struck a pose, lifted his chin, and displayed what he firmly believed was his most heroic angle. Alek Dufrain was a man for whom doorways existed primarily as runways.

  Despite having entered the catacombs over an hour ago, their exploration progress was best described as aspiringly glacial. Every hallway, every nook, every oddly-angled bone had to be carefully documented. Not for tactical reasons. But because Alek wanted to make sure his cape flowed just right on camera.

  “Alana, Jodi, get back over here so that we—”

  The hallway ahead of them was empty.

  Had been for some time, in fact.

  Of the four brave souls—Exploration Squad Victory (a name used exclusively by its most vocal member)—who had decided to brave Ashenmoor’s catacombs that morning, only Mari remained.

  “They went ahead,” the girl said, rising from the floor with the quiet air of someone who had made peace with all her bad choices and was now simply trying to reduce the damage. Even her tone was not so much an announcement as a resigned sigh given vocal cords.

  She gestured vaguely down the corridor, where the shadows sat in lumpy anticipation.

  It was the sort of place that made you feel as though you'd fallen into a badly-written gothic novel—damp, dimly lit, and architecturally designed by someone who believed straight lines were the work of dark sorcery. Gas lamps hissed softly in the gloom, giving off a light that could best be described as “peevish.”

  It was exactly the kind of place where the dead might rise with a bone-rattling groan. But Mari, in the presence of Alek, had long since stopped worrying about the undead. At least skeletons had the decency not to ask for their “best angle”.

  And that was in spite of dangerous things coming their way being a very real possibility.

  The priest—a man of too many wrinkles and too few explanations—had mumbled something about “strange sounds beneath Ashenmoor,” and like all doomed quests, it began with a vague concern and someone (Alek) having recently acquired a cloak that swirled very dramatically when walking briskly into danger, and who needed somewhere to wear it.

  Even now, the long-forgotten quest hovered in her periphery:

  The Ashenmoor Catacombs

  The priest seems worried. Explore the old catacombs beneath Ashenmoor to learn why.

  Perception bonus: Beware, the priest seems to be hiding something…

  Alek, naturally, couldn’t have paid it any less attention.

  “Tsk, tsk. Those young ladies clearly don’t understand the first thing about becoming a successful Delver,” he sighed, as though it were a matter of tragic cultural illiteracy. “What’s the point of saving the day if no one’s there to witness your daring, your grace, your inevitable cheekbones-in-motion?”

  He gave a flourish of his cloak—the sort of movement that implied training, mirrors, and possibly a hint of narcissism. The fabric was a dashing aquamarine, of course. Same as his eyes. A man like Alek wouldn’t be caught dead in mismatched accessories.

  With a spin that only barely avoided tripping on uneven stone (though he would have claimed it was deliberate), he turned back the way they came. For a sixth time.

  “From the top now, Mari. And please, dear, try to do my appearance justice this time. Posterity demands it. A crime against beauty is still a crime. Imagine the archives! The headlines! Alek: The Lighting Wasn’t Quite Right—And He Still Triumphed!”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Half-concealed in fog and regret, Mari Faust muttered into the ambient dampness, “The previous five takes already look fine though…”

  She didn’t say it loudly. She didn’t need to. It wasn’t for Alek.

  Technically, her ability was a rare one. Third Eye. It let her record her surroundings, edit footage in real time, and produce data logs that were the envy of mid-tier guilds. But that sort of power was only considered truly useful several layers deeper into the Underfold.

  Up here, in the post-Tutorial wilds, people still thought in terms of swords and shields. Mari, with her camera-eye and damp knees, was just another liability.

  Unless, of course, you were Alek.

  “You ready, dear?” his voice called out cheerfully from around the corner, echoing down the corridor like the ghost of optimism.

  Mari stared at the floor for a long, slow second. It was grimy, moist, and had definitely seen better centuries.

  With the kind of sigh that could have powered a small windmill, she dropped back to her knees, adjusted the System overlay with a flick of her finger, and replied, “Yes, yes. I’ll make sure to swirl the mist just right for you this time.”

  “Brilliant!” came the reply, full of sparkles and dramatic irony. Alek, it should be noted, was physically immune to sarcasm. It passed through him harmlessly, like ghosts through a curtain.

  “That’s the spirit that’ll make you a star, dear! Now—three, two, one, and…”

  ***

  “...action!”

  The word echoed down the hallway behind them, accompanied by the faint sound of a cape flourishing and dignity being slowly eroded.

  Alana heard it. She winced.

  It was a haunting call, and it carried through the catacombs like mildew on the wind.

  But no part of Alana felt inclined to turn around and rescue Mari from the fate she and her sister had only just escaped. The girl was tougher than she looked. She could handle Alek on her own.

  Hopefully.

  Instead, Alana turned to more immediate concerns—like the door in front of them.

  It radiated “No Trespasser" energy the way a cursed artifact radiated “Touch Me And Regret It.” The old priest had warned them not to stray this far into the catacombs.

  Unfortunately (for the old priest), that more or less translated to Beware: massive amounts of loot, this way!

  “Made any progress?” Alana asked, voice low.

  “Depends,” said Jodi, without looking up. “On whether you count ‘doing exactly what we were told not to’ as progress.”

  The lock clicked faintly under her touch.

  “Not to stress you or anything but,” Alana glanced back toward the fog-lined corridor where dreams went to die and where Alek was probably perfecting a new pose, “I'd rather not let Lord Pretentious catch up now that we’ve finally given him the slip.”

  “Oh please,” her sister snorted, still fiddling with the mechanism. “He won’t leave that spot for an hour, minimum. The ambiance was everything he’s been looking for: mist, mood lighting, and an audience of increasingly annoyed cockroaches.”

  She glanced up, smirking. “Look at it from the bright side: if the creeps from above do come down looking for us, at least he’ll keep them occupied with monologues.”

  Alana shuddered. Not about Alek, this time.

  Compared to Ashenmoor’s cold-eyed denizens, even the crypts down here were pleasant. “This whole place is cursed,” she muttered. “And so is our luck, getting dumped here for our first Dungeon run. We are better off looting this entire place and leaving before whatever scenario is brewing can finish loading.”

  “Can’t say I disagree,” Jodi replied. “At least not about the looting part.”

  She gave one final twist of her wrist. There was a soft clunk—the kind that sounded both satisfying and mildly accusatory, as if the door itself was ashamed for giving in so easily.

  With a grin, Jodi reached for the handle.

  Inside, the air was still. Not the stillness of peace, but the kind found in rooms that hadn’t been disturbed in a long time.

  The chamber was circular, the walls, floor, and ceiling etched in strange, looping patterns. And lining those walls, tucked into recesses like glass eggs in stone nests, were…baubles?

  Hundreds of them.

  Each one faintly glowing, gently pulsing. Some clear, some cloudy. All humming with the kind of energy that made your molars ache.

  Alana stepped forward slowly, boots scuffing against the ancient floor. “Must say I was expecting something shinier,” she said, her voice a mix of disappointment and suspicion. “Not a bloody nursery for evil ornaments.”

  Jodi peered at the nearest bauble, nose almost pressed to the glass. “Still could be valuable,” she said thoughtfully. “People pay absurd money for cursed trinkets these days. Something about rustic charm.”

  Alana wandered the chamber cautiously, eyes sweeping over the walls. The baubles stared back—silent, still.

  Until they weren’t.

  She turned with a frown. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” her sister asked, eyes locked on the bauble she’d just pulled from its perch.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” she continued, voice low, clearly not fully present for the conversation.

  “Jodi, maybe put that back. I don’t think–”

  Alana didn’t get much further than that.

  It started as a tickle. A fluttering at the edge of perception. Not quite sound. Not quite thought.

  Then came the whispers.

  Faint. Dry. Ancient.

  “...beware…”

  “...She’s coming…”

  “...no more time, no more—”

  Alana took a wary step back from the wall, but before she could call out to Jodi once more, another sound seeped into the chamber.

  A distant slapping. Then another. From the corridor. Something moving.

  Wet, dragging footsteps echoed faintly through the stone.

  “Time to go,” Alana hissed, already at the door.

  “But—”

  Jodi hesitated for the briefest of seconds and then followed.

  ***

  Even after the two young women had hurriedly disappeared down the hallway, the sound of wet slippers, slowly plodding up the tunnel, continued. A rhythmic, slapping gait. The sort that suggested feet, yes—but not entirely human ones. Not anymore.

  And over that, the wheeze.

  Long. Slow. Like lungs full of water trying to remember how to be lungs again.

  Sharp teeth that bit the air, murky eyes that blinked against gas lamps that shone too brightly, and an instinct pulling it forward–toward their eternal call.

  A door, never fully shut in the haste of long fingered thieves, creaked open again upon rusted hinges. Not slammed. Not kicked. Just nudged. Softly.

  The shadows lengthened. The whispers resumed, hissing softly inside the glass.

  “...She’s waking…”

  “...She remembers the sea…”

  “...return us, return us before She—”

  And among them, a recess, perfectly shaped for a glass bauble: empty.

  The symmetry: broken