The village of Greenmire lay nestled near the edge of a dark forest, a quaint collection of humble homes with thatched roofs and crooked fences. The fields beyond the village were dotted with small crops, tended by weary farmers whose sun-etched faces bore the marks of a simple, struggling life. Life in Greenmire was usually quiet, the people content to toil and trade, their lives anchored in predictable rhythms. But lately, an air of unease had settled over the village. Whispers traveled like wildfire about the sudden appearance of a dungeon in the catacombs, bringing a sense of foreboding that hung heavy over the villagers.

This tension was only compounded by the presence of a group of adventurers who had taken up residence at the local inn. They were loud, disruptive, and most of all, dangerous. The villagers avoided the inn if they could, though their curious eyes couldn't help but glance through the windows, watching the strangers who spoke of dark places and greater ambitions.

At the center of the commotion sat Jorn, the group’s leader. His armor, bearing the scars of countless battles, was heavy and imposing, as was his presence. He laughed loudly, a deep, harsh sound, and slapped the table with his gloved hand, the battered steel scraping against the wood. His sword lay by his side, a testament to his authority, and he radiated arrogance. His eyes frequently darted around the room, daring anyone to cross him, and when he spoke, it was with a brash, condescending tone.

Beside him sat Henry, a lean man with a sharp gaze. He was the group’s ranger, adept at tracking and survival. But there was something cold in his eyes—a disdainful edge that made the villagers wary. He would watch the locals pass by, his lips curling into a smirk as he judged them silently, often muttering cruel observations about their weakness to Jorn. Henry’s leather armor was a patchwork of animal pelts and scales, each telling its own story of a hunt that ended in death.

On the other side of the table, Geoff, the wizard, toyed with his staff, his fingers moving across its carved surface as if testing some unseen magic. His eyes glinted with sadistic pleasure as he watched the barmaid approach, clearly enjoying the power he held over her. Geoff's intelligence made him prideful, and he often enjoyed demonstrating his superiority, using minor spells to startle the villagers—or to bully them for his own amusement.

Lain, the rogue, was seated next to Geoff, her eyes always moving, always calculating. She carried herself with a sneaky demeanor, the kind that made people hold their coin purses closer whenever she was near. Her most prized possession was not her dagger, but rather the leash she held—the one connected to their kobold slave, Finch. Lain enjoyed the power this leash gave her, taking particular delight in jerking it harshly just to hear Finch’s muffled yelp of pain.

The adventurers were in a good mood, the discovery of the dungeon promising riches and glory. They sat at the table in the inn, drinking and boasting loudly, their voices cutting through the otherwise subdued atmosphere of the room.

“These villagers,” Jorn scoffed, gesturing with his mug, “I swear, they look at us like we’re monsters. Maybe they’re just not used to seeing anyone who’s actually done something with their lives.”

Henry snorted in agreement, “They’re just afraid. Probably think the dungeon’s some kind of omen. Peasants always fear what they don’t understand.” He spat on the floor, making a nearby villager wince and shuffle away.

A young barmaid approached their table, her hands trembling as she set a fresh pitcher of ale down in front of Jorn. He looked her over with a lecherous grin, his eyes lingering in a way that made her want to shrink away. “What’s your name, girl?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock sweetness.

“E-Emily, sir,” she stammered, staring at the floor.

“Well, Emily,” Jorn said, tossing a coin onto the floor. “Why don’t you show us how quickly you can pick that up, hm?”

Emily hesitated, her eyes darting from the coin to Jorn’s face, her cheeks flushed with humiliation. Jorn’s smile widened, his gaze hardening, and she bent down slowly to pick up the coin, her face burning as the adventurers laughed.

Jorn reached out and grabbed the barmaid’s ass, giving it a good squeeze and slipping his fingers between her legs. Emily gave a startled shriek as she pulled away and quickly retreated from the table. Other patrons gave the adventurers hateful looks, but no one dared to say anything.

Across the room, a small boy peeked in through the door, curiosity getting the better of him. Geoff noticed and smirked, lifting a hand. With a flick of his wrist, a spark of fire leaped from his fingers, zipping toward the boy. The child yelped and ducked away, the door slamming shut behind him as the adventurers laughed even harder.

At Lain’s feet sat Finch, the kobold slave. She was a pitiful sight—her small, scaly body covered in bruises, her eyes downcast, her spirit crushed beneath the weight of the adventurers’ cruelty. Her claws were chipped, her scales dull from lack of proper care. She moved with a permanent hunch, the short leash around her neck a constant reminder of her place.

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Lain gave the leash a sudden yank, pulling Finch forward until she was nearly sprawled across the floor. “Sit up straight, you wretch,” she hissed, “make yourself useful and refill my cup.” Finch scrambled to obey, her hands shaking as she poured ale into Lain’s mug, spilling some in her haste. Lain’s eyes narrowed, and she slapped her hard across the face, making Finch stumble back. “Pathetic,” she muttered, shaking her head.

Finch’s thoughts drifted as she regained her balance, her eyes focusing on a knot in the wooden floorboards. “I am nothing,” she reminded herself, “They own me. If I try to escape, I will die.” A part of her wished for death—an end to the pain, to the fear. But another part clung to life, even if it meant suffering. She was too afraid to hope for freedom.

The adventurers’ conversation eventually turned to the reason they were in Greenmire—the dungeon that had recently appeared in the catacombs near the village.

“I hear the villagers are scared out of their wits,” Henry said with a grin, leaning back in his chair. “They say it’s cursed, that no one who enters ever returns.”

“Perfect,” Geoff replied, his eyes lighting up. “That means there’s bound to be powerful magic down there—artifacts, tomes, maybe even something that’ll let me incinerate an entire army.” He smiled, his eyes faraway, lost in his ambition.

Jorn snorted. “I’ll kill whatever is down there. Monsters, undead, doesn’t matter. They’ll all fall to my blade.”

“And we’ll take whatever we want,” Lain added with a smirk, her eyes glinting with malice, “Gold, treasures… maybe even some exotic captives to sell.”

They laughed, their voices filled with overconfidence and disdain. To them, the dungeon was nothing more than another challenge to overcome, another source of wealth and glory. They planned to leave for the catacombs at first light, fully convinced of their inevitable success.

Jorn turned his gaze down to Finch, his lips curling into a sneer. “And as for you, little rat,” he said, making Finch flinch at the harshness in his voice, “you’re going to make yourself useful in the dungeon. You’ll go ahead of us, trigger the traps so we don’t have to.”

Finch nodded meekly, her heart pounding with fear. The thought of being forced into the dungeon terrified her. She knew her life meant nothing to them—that if she were killed, they would leave her body there without a second thought. Lain yanked her leash, pulling her close until her lips were near Finch's ear.

“You’ll probably die down there,” she whispered, her voice dripping with malice. “But don’t worry, the boys will make sure you have a real good time tonight. We’ll make sure you die happy.” Finch shuddered, her eyes squeezing shut.

“Maybe death would be better,” she thought, “Maybe it would be easier.” But the fear of pain, of suffering, made her hesitate. She did not want to die—not like that, not in darkness.

As the adventurers laughed and continued to plan, the villagers outside the inn glanced toward the building with a mix of fear and resignation. They knew the adventurers were dangerous, that their presence brought trouble. They whispered amongst themselves about the dungeon—about how it had appeared out of nowhere, and about the strange lights and sounds that came from the catacombs at night.

“No one who enters ever comes back,” an elderly man muttered, his voice trembling. “It’s a cursed place, full of dark power. They shouldn’t go in there.”

“Maybe they won’t come back either,” another villager replied softly, her eyes filled with a mix of pity and fear as she looked at the inn. She had seen the kobold’s broken form, had heard the cruel laughter of the adventurers. She knew they were not heroes—they were predators, and she quietly hoped that the dungeon would be their undoing.

Night fell, and the adventurers retired to their rooms, dragging Finch along behind them. The little kobold didn’t try to fight as she was pulled into the adventurer’s room and thrown onto one of the beds. She knew it was pointless to resist as the three men stripped and climb on top of her. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the pain as they used her, passing her around between them, violating her small body. She tried not to see Lain sitting nearby, rubbing herself while she enjoyed watching Finch be assaulted over and over.

By the time it was over the little kobold was exhausted, her body aching from the day’s abuse. She curled up on the cold stone floor in the corner of their room, her eyes staring blankly ahead, trying to ignore the fluid leaking from every orifice. She could hear them talking still—about treasure, about power, about the riches they would claim.

Finch closed her eyes, her heart heavy with fear and despair. “Please,” she thought, her mind reaching out to whatever power might listen, “Please, let them die in that place. Let the dungeon devour them.”

She shivered, pulling her thin arms around herself as she tried to find some comfort in the cold. The adventurers’ laughter echoed in her ears, but she held onto her desperate wish, hoping—even if only for a moment—that the darkness in the dungeon would be stronger than they were.

“Let them die.”