The air in the commander’s tent was thick with the scent of burning oil lamps and the sharp tang of dried blood. Malric’s skeletal frame emerged from the shadows, his form illuminated in flickering light. His six clawed hands flexed, his voice a low rasp.

"You've been hiding something from your men. The artifact—tell me, Commander. What purpose does it serve?"

The commander, a man of broad shoulders and a weathered face, drew his blade with a flourish. His stance was practiced but betrayed tension. "A monster like you won't live long enough to find out."

Malric’s empty sockets locked onto him, a cold, mirthless chuckle reverberating from his bony chest. "Bravery won't shield you from death, human."

The commander lunged forward, blade slicing through the air. Malric twisted his body unnaturally, avoiding the blow with ease. The fight had begun.

The commander’s strikes were swift and calculated. His blade glowed faintly with enchantment, each swing leaving a shimmering trail in its wake. Malric dodged and parried with his claws, his additional arms proving invaluable in deflecting the relentless assault.

"Impressive," Malric mused internally as the commander unleashed a flurry of strikes. "But predictable."

The tent became a war zone, furniture splintering as the two clashed. With a surge of power, Malric cast Shadow Grasp, dark tendrils erupting from the ground to ensnare the commander.

The human struggled, his enchanted blade cutting through some of the magical restraints. But the effort drained him. His movements slowed, his breaths became labored.

"You won't win this fight," Malric hissed, his claws closing in.

The commander, desperate, activated a hidden ward. A burst of force threw Malric back, crashing him into a support beam. The skeletal warrior growled, rising again. The ward shimmered, protecting the artifact—a strange, rune-covered orb resting on the table.

"That power," Malric thought, his sockets narrowing on the artifact, "it’s more than a mere trinket."

The ward flickered, its energy weakening under the strain of the commander’s exertion. Malric seized his chance, rushing forward and slamming the commander into the ground. His claws pinned the man’s arms, the skeletal grin on his face chilling.

"Speak, human. The artifact—what is it, and where is the Basilisk’s Fang?"

The commander spat blood, glaring up at him. "You'll get nothing from me, monster."

Malric applied pressure, his claws threatening to pierce flesh. "You value loyalty more than your life? Admirable, but futile. You’ll talk, one way or another."

The man groaned, his resolve cracking. "It's... it's a key," he muttered, the words bitter on his tongue. "A key to an ancient vault. Inside are relics—magic far beyond anything you or I could imagine."

"And the Basilisk’s Fang?"

"They’re hidden," the commander admitted, his voice trembling. "Deep in the cliffs west of here. They’ve been planning this for years. You’ll never reach them in time."

Malric’s grip tightened. "I’ll decide that."

The artifact’s glow intensified, its runes pulsating violently. Malric’s attention snapped to it as the ward faltered.

"What did you do?" Malric demanded.

The commander laughed weakly. "The artifact... it’s unstable. You’ll never take it."

Before Malric could react, the orb unleashed a burst of energy. The tent ignited, flames licking at its edges. Malric released the commander and darted back, avoiding a collapsing support beam.

The commander wasn’t as lucky. Pinned beneath the rubble, he let out a final, agonized scream as the artifact exploded, consuming the tent in a blinding flash.

Malric escaped into the forest, the heat of the blast scorching his bones. He didn’t look back.

The forest was silent in the aftermath of Malric’s departure from the destroyed camp. He moved with methodical precision, his skeletal frame creaking faintly under the strain of his previous injuries. The artifact’s explosion had left jagged cracks in some of his older bone structures, and though his form held, the damage gnawed at his thoughts.

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He paused beneath the canopy of an ancient oak, the dense foliage shielding him from the rising moonlight. Slowly, he ran a clawed hand over the fractures in his ribs, the faint glow of residual magic still pulsing through the goblin shaman’s spine within him.

"Humans cling to power without understanding it," he mused, his hollow voice low. "The Basilisk’s Fang may be no different. Foolish enough to toy with forces they can’t control… yet clever enough to keep me at bay thus far."

His resolve hardened. The information gleaned from the commander’s dying words had been useful: a vault in the cliffs, their hideout guarded and hidden. Now, he just had to find it.

The terrain shifted as Malric made his way toward the cliffs. The lush undergrowth of the forest gradually gave way to rugged, uneven ground. Boulders jutted from the earth like jagged teeth, and the air grew colder. Each step brought him closer to his target, and the faint pull of magic became stronger—a guiding thread he followed with unerring precision.

Signs of the Basilisk’s Fang were scattered along the path: rusted blades abandoned in haste, faint footprints in the dirt, and the lingering stench of human sweat. As Malric knelt to examine a broken spear shaft, he felt the faint hum of magic vibrating in the air.

His senses, amplified by the goblin shaman’s spine, detected protective wards layered over the area. The spells were old but functional, laced with faintly glowing glyphs that blended with the cliffside rocks.

"Paranoia," Malric thought, his skull tilting in what might have been amusement. "They fear more than just pursuit. Perhaps from within their own ranks."

The hideout came into view as Malric ascended a steep incline. The cave mouth, carved into the cliffside, was fortified with crude barricades and guarded by several armed figures. Their torchlight cast flickering shadows against the stone, and the clinking of their armor echoed faintly in the still air.

Malric crouched on a rocky outcrop, his form melting into the darkness. His hollow sockets studied the guards. They were a mix of mercenaries and bandits, their postures weary but vigilant. The faint glimmer of fear lingered in their movements—likely a product of the artifact’s failure.

Beyond the guards, Malric noticed faint glyphs etched into the cave walls, glowing faintly in response to the magical residue in the air. Their purpose was clear: alarms to alert the hideout to any intruder tampering with the entrance.

"Efficient, but fragile," Malric noted. "Humans always overestimate the strength of their wards."

Malric retreated from the vantage point, his mind spinning with possibilities. A direct assault would be foolish; the guards were too numerous to overwhelm in a single strike. Instead, he devised a plan to draw them out and deal with them individually.

Moving silently, Malric positioned himself near a narrow ravine leading to the cave. He summoned the dark tendrils of his Shadow Grasp spell, coiling them around a sharp outcrop of stone. With a quick motion, he snapped the stone loose, sending it tumbling noisily into the ravine below.

The sound shattered the stillness of the night. Voices barked orders, and Malric watched as two guards ventured from the cave to investigate. They were wary, but their steps were too loud, their focus too narrow.

From his hidden position, Malric struck. The first guard didn’t have time to scream as a shadowy tendril coiled around his throat, dragging him into the darkness. The second guard managed a half-formed cry before Malric’s clawed hand silenced him.

With the guards dispatched, Malric examined their bodies quickly. Their armor was crude, their weapons worn. They carried no valuable information, but their absence would sow unease among the remaining sentries.

Malric returned to his vantage point, now with fewer eyes scanning the perimeter. The cave loomed ahead, its flickering torchlight casting distorted shadows against the glyph-etched walls. He could feel the wards humming, a faint vibration against his senses.

"The entrance is mine now. It’s only a matter of how I’ll take it," he thought, the faint glimmer of malice in his empty sockets.

As he melted back into the darkness, the night seemed to hold its breath. The Basilisk’s Fang was close, and Malric was ready to strike.

The glyphs etched into the cave’s entrance shimmered faintly, barely perceptible to the untrained eye. Malric stood motionless in the shadows, his skull tilting slightly as he regarded the intricate web of magic woven into the stone. The runes pulsed with a quiet but relentless rhythm, a heartbeat of power designed to ward off intruders.

He crouched closer, his bony fingers brushing the edge of a faint chalk mark. Human magic, he thought. So fragile in its arrogance, yet deceptively effective. He had encountered wards like these before during his mortal life—protective barriers that promised swift retribution to any who dared tamper with them.

Picking up a small pebble, Malric lobbed it toward the glyphs. The moment it crossed the barrier, a burst of light erupted, sending the stone skittering back. The air hummed with residual energy, and Malric clicked his jaw in irritation.

"A crude alarm, but effective. No doubt the Basilisk’s Fang hides behind such tricks to protect their secrets. But if they trust in this alone, they’ve grown complacent."

Malric straightened, his additional arms flexing as he began to channel his magic. The tendrils of Shadow Grasp surged from the ground at his feet, curling like hungry serpents. He directed them toward the glyphs, letting the dark energy probe the barrier.

The reaction was immediate. A sharp pulse of energy surged back at him, slamming into his chest and rattling his bones. For a moment, his grip faltered, and the tendrils recoiled like a scolded animal.

"Interesting," he mused, brushing off the backlash. "The glyphs are anchored to the stone itself. A direct assault won’t suffice."

Malric shifted his approach. Instead of brute force, he let the tendrils creep along the edges of the glyphs, feeling for weaknesses in the weave. He poured his focus into the task, each movement calculated and deliberate. The glyphs resisted, their light flaring angrily as the tendrils pressed deeper.

The feedback was relentless, sending jolts of magical energy through his form. Were he still alive, the strain might have overwhelmed him, but his undead frame endured. He could feel the tension building in the glyphs, a storm of power on the verge of breaking.

Finally, with a sound like shattering glass, the wards collapsed. The air grew still, the hum of magic silenced. Malric stepped back, observing the faint scorch marks left on the stone.

"So fragile in the end," he said to no one, his voice a dry rasp. But his triumph was short-lived as he noticed the faint tremor beneath his feet. The cave entrance groaned, a few loose rocks tumbling from above.

"Typical," he muttered, stepping quickly inside before the cliffside decided to bury him alive.

The cave was dark, but to Malric’s enhanced senses, the gloom was no hindrance. His skull swiveled as he took in the signs of activity: scattered footprints in the dirt, remnants of torches, and the faint scent of sweat and smoke lingering in the air.

He moved carefully, his steps silent as he navigated the twisting tunnels. His additional arms pressed close to his sides to avoid scraping against the walls, a necessary compromise to maintain stealth.

Ahead, the dim flicker of torchlight grew brighter, and Malric froze. Voices echoed down the tunnel, coarse and careless. He crept closer, his bony frame melding with the shadows, until he reached a bend in the passage.

Peering around the corner, he saw a group of guards gathered in a side chamber, their laughter and jeers filling the air. A makeshift table stood in the center, littered with coins and dice. The guards seemed relaxed, their weapons leaning against the walls.

Malric’s fingers flexed, the temptation to strike surging within him. So vulnerable, he thought, his gaze lingering on their exposed necks and the soft flesh beneath their armor. But he held back, forcing himself to retreat into the darkness.

As he moved away, the guards’ voices followed him, snippets of conversation catching his attention.

"The boss ain’t gonna be happy if the shipment don’t make it on time."

"Relax. It’s just a few crates. No one’s gonna notice if we’re late."

"You wanna tell him that? Be my guest."

Malric smirked, his teeth gleaming faintly in the dim light. The pieces were beginning to fall into place. The Basilisk’s Fang was not as elusive as they seemed. All it took was patience—and a willingness to exploit human carelessness.

Malric slipped deeper into the cave, the voices fading behind him. The path ahead twisted into darkness, but he felt no hesitation.

"Let them hide," he thought. "Let them scheme and whisper in their shadows. I’ll unravel them, one thread at a time."