Malric moved swiftly under the cover of darkness, the overseer’s words still echoing in his mind. The quarry to the north promised answers, but it also brought uncertainty. The artifact’s power intrigued him, yet its connection to the Basilisk’s Fang reeked of danger.

The land changed as he traveled, the dense forests giving way to rocky terrain. A faint mist clung to the ground, dampening sound and muffling the world around him. For hours, he stalked through the shadows, his senses heightened by the faint traces of magic lingering in the air.

He paused atop a ridge overlooking the quarry. Below, torchlight flickered in the darkness, revealing a sprawling encampment built into the pit. Crude wooden structures surrounded a central excavation site, where workers toiled under the watchful eyes of armed guards.

“This must be it,” Malric murmured. His skeletal fingers flexed involuntarily, his claws scraping against the rock. “The Basilisk’s prize awaits below.”

Malric settled into the shadows, studying the encampment with a predator’s patience. The guards were numerous, patrolling the perimeter and stationed at key points around the excavation. The workers moved with weariness, their faces gaunt and their bodies frail—slaves, likely, or desperate men who had no choice but to obey.

In the center of the camp, a large tent stood apart from the rest. Its ornate design and the faint magical glow emanating from within marked it as the likely location of the artifact.

Malric’s gaze shifted to the guards nearest the tent. They were better equipped than the others, their armor reinforced and their weapons polished.

“A challenge,” he thought, a flicker of grim amusement crossing his mind. “But not insurmountable."

As he observed, movement near the quarry’s edge caught his attention. A wagon approached the camp, its wheels creaking under the weight of its cargo. A group of cloaked figures escorted it, their strides purposeful and their demeanor tense.

“More secrets,” Malric muttered, his hollow eyes narrowing. He shifted closer, his skeletal frame blending seamlessly with the rocky terrain.

The wagon halted near the central tent, and the guards parted to let the cloaked figures pass. One of them stepped forward, speaking to a tall man who emerged from the tent. Their conversation was inaudible, but their body language spoke volumes—whatever was in that wagon, it was important.

Malric’s fingers twitched with anticipation. He needed to act, but recklessness would be his undoing.

Malric descended into the quarry with practiced precision, his movements silent and deliberate. The guards were vigilant, but their human senses were no match for his undead cunning.

He crept closer to the wagon, his shadowy form melting into the darkness. From his vantage point, he could see the cargo—several locked crates marked with arcane sigils. The faint hum of magic emanated from them, setting his teeth on edge.

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Before he could examine them further, the tall man from the tent reappeared, barking orders at the guards. The crates were unloaded and carried into the tent, where the glow of magic intensified.

Malric retreated to a safe distance, his mind racing. The artifact was within reach, but the encampment’s defenses posed a significant challenge.

As he crouched in the shadows, Malric weighed his options. A frontal assault was suicide, but subtlety carried its own risks. He could use his Shadow Grasp to sow chaos among the guards, but the spell’s limitations meant he’d need to act quickly.

“Patience,” he reminded himself, his hollow voice barely audible. “I’ll take them apart piece by piece if I must.”

His gaze returned to the central tent, where the artifact’s power pulsed like a heartbeat. The Basilisk’s Fang was close—closer than ever. But so too was the danger of discovery.

For now, he would wait, watching and planning. The night was his ally, and the shadows would guide him to his prize.

Malric settled into the darkness, his undead form blending seamlessly with the rocky terrain. Below, the camp bustled with activity, unaware of the predator lurking just beyond their reach.

“I’ve come too far to fail now,” he thought, his resolve hardening. “The Basilisk’s secrets will be mine, and their strength will be my own.”

The stars above bore silent witness as Malric prepared for the next step in his deadly game.

The camp stirred with restless activity as Malric observed from his vantage point. The guards patrolled in pairs, their paths predictable but cautious. The workers shuffled about, their eyes hollow and spirits broken. The central tent, glowing faintly with magic, seemed to draw all attention toward it.

Malric’s bony fingers traced the sharp edge of his claw. The quiet hum of the shaman’s spine resonated within him, the residual magic urging him forward.

“I’ll take what I need,” he thought, his hollow eyes scanning the camp. “No more. No less. Precision, not carnage.”

He descended carefully, slipping between shadows like an extension of the night. His focus sharpened as he moved, his unnatural stillness aiding his silent approach.

A lone guard paused near the edge of the camp, leaning against a makeshift barricade. His torch flickered weakly in the night, the flame’s light barely piercing the surrounding darkness.

Malric moved closer, his form blending seamlessly with the jagged rocks. He could hear the man muttering under his breath—complaints about the late hour, the chill in the air, and the overseer’s demands.

With calculated precision, Malric stepped into the torchlight. His skeletal frame loomed behind the man, his claws poised to strike. But instead of attacking, he clamped a bony hand over the guard’s mouth, muffling his startled cry.

“I have questions,” Malric whispered, his voice a rasping hiss. “You’ll answer them if you value your life.”

The man struggled briefly, his terror palpable, but Malric’s inhuman strength left no room for defiance.

“Where do the crates go?” Malric pressed, his tone cold and unyielding. “What lies within them?”

“Artifacts!” the man stammered through clenched teeth. “Magical... things. They send them to the main hideout in the cliffs—far west of here!”

“Who oversees this operation?”

“The commander... he’s in the tent! Please, I don’t know more!”

Satisfied, Malric tightened his grip momentarily before releasing the man’s unconscious form to the ground. He dragged the limp body into the shadows, ensuring it would not be easily found.

Malric turned his attention to the heart of the camp. The information he had gleaned was useful, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to understand the artifact’s nature—and the commander who guarded it.

A pair of guards moved toward the tent, their steps steady and purposeful. Malric extended a clawed hand, the magic coursing through the goblin shaman’s spine flaring to life.

The earth trembled faintly as dark tendrils erupted from the ground, ensnaring the guards’ legs. They stumbled, their cries muffled by the oppressive weight of the shadows. Malric gritted his teeth as he maintained the spell, the effort draining but rewarding.

The guards flailed helplessly, their weapons clattering to the ground. Malric stepped into the light, his skeletal form an imposing figure against the darkness.

“Useful,” he muttered as the tendrils faded. The guards collapsed in a heap, unconscious but alive. He felt the residual strain of the spell tugging at him, a reminder of its limitations.

The central tent loomed ahead, its magical glow intensifying as Malric approached. He crouched near the entrance, listening intently to the voices within.

“I don’t care about the risks,” a gruff voice growled. “The Fang demands results, and we’ll deliver. No delays.”

“What about the artifact?” another voice asked, quieter but no less tense. “It’s unstable. If we push too hard—”

“That’s not your concern,” the commander interrupted. “Focus on the excavation. Leave the rest to me.”

Malric slipped inside, his movements silent. The interior of the tent was cluttered with maps, documents, and strange devices humming with magic. At its center, a crystalline object rested on a pedestal, its surface pulsating with an eerie light.

The commander stood with his back to Malric, oblivious to the intruder. Malric’s hollow eyes fixed on the artifact, its power both enticing and foreboding.

“This,” he thought, “is what they’re hiding.”