Latham wasn’t the type to worry.

His primary function was to ensure the well-being of those in and around the Celestial Temple. Considering most of the occupants of that building were capable of the sort of violence rarely seen outside of a kindergarten classroom during wet play, stoicism was very much his middle name. Worry didn’t enter into it. Not for a man built like a fortress, loaded with Skills and rocking the most divine of authorities. People liked to joke (not in his hearing, obviously) that Latham didn’t have blood in his veins, just violence that hadn't happened to other people yet.

Nevertheless, something was gnawing at him. Ever since being put on 'Lowe Watch' during the investigation into the death of Gianna d'Avec, he'd found himself having this small, irritating thorn of unease in his belly. If he didn't know any better, he'd say it was . . . concern for another person.

That was why, rather than being on post at the Temple Gate, Latham found himself loitering in an alley with a good view of Soar Museum. He'd rather die than admit it to the little man, but he just wanted to make sure the re-enactment had gone okay. Wherever Lowe went, chaos seemed to follow, and once he'd woken up with a sense that something was about to tip over, he couldn't do anything else than take a different path at the Portal Stone to cast his eye over the museum.

And, as so often seemed to be the case, his instincts were spot on. His fingers tightened around the handle of his sword. Something was brewing inside that museum. He didn’t know what it was, but he could feel the weight of it pressing down on the city, like the air before a storm.

Then, without warning, the storm broke.

The ground trembled beneath Latham’s feet, the stone of the cobbles vibrating with a low, ominous groan. His eyes snapped to the gates of the museum. It wasn’t just shaking—it was changing. Columns that had stood proudly for decades began to twist, the marble bending and contorting in ways that defied physics. Walls shifted, warping like wax under a flame.

Latham activated every defensive Skill he had as the museum grew, its structure stretching upward, taller and more grotesque with each passing second. He could see the spires elongating, their shapes becoming jagged, unnatural, like claws reaching for the sky.

“By the gods…” Latham whispered, the words barely escaping his lips.

He took a step forward, instinct urging him to charge toward the museum, to do . . . something. But he stopped. What could he do against this? Against a building that was no longer just stone and mortar? It was turning into something dark. Something alive.

Soar Museum had become a Dungeon. And Lowe was still inside.

*

Hel had to admit that she liked nothing more than the freedom of an afternoon flight. Since her . . . retirement from active service, she had ensured that, whenever she could, she'd drop everything, summon up strands of wind and soar above the city.

Soar above Soar.

That made her giggle uncontrollably, prompting her to drop just a little lower in the sky, where the air was less thin. When she was flying, she felt like she was the eye of a storm; she loved the thrill of the tempest beneath her feet, the raw power surging through the air. Others never appreciated the sheer violence of nature . . . not until she dropped a building on their heads.

But no. That wasn't her anymore. She was trying to go . . . if not straight, then less epically bloodthirsty. An image of the battered face of Kelvin Kregg appeared in her mind. Well, some of the time. There were just people who deserved a damn good smiting.

Something caught her attention—a ripple of dark energy more violent than even the tempest she was travelling in. Hel’s dipped lower, eyes locking onto the source. Soar Museum. It wasn’t just shaking; it was bleeding.

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Walls rippled, twisted, and then burst - literally burst - open. A scream of stone and earth tore through the air, deafening even from her altitude. Hel’s eyes widened as she watched deep cracks split open the foundations of the building, blood-red light pouring from the gashes. Despite herself, she dipped lower and what she saw made her skin crawl.

Passersby, tourists, museum guards - anyone standing too close - were ripped apart in the building's transformation. The ground beneath their feet buckled, hurling them into the air. A man walking calmly with a scroll in hand was flung like a ragdoll into the air, his limbs snapping in grotesque directions when he landed, before a jagged fissure swallowed his body. The earth chewed him up without hesitation, the cracks widening to gulp down the screams of others nearby.

Hel swooped lower, seeing the carnage unfold. Stone turned to flesh before her eyes, the museum’s walls seeming to pulse, as though alive. A woman stumbled back, desperately seeking safety, but her scream was cut short as one of the grotesque spires above her exploded, raining down jagged chunks of masonry and shards of glass that tore through her body like knives. She crumpled in a heap, her blood painting the cobblestones. Down the street, she saw a mother dragging her child away, both of them covered in dust and blood. They didn’t make it far. The street buckled, cracking open beneath them, and a slab of stone rose like a jagged tooth, impaling them both in a sickening crunch. Their bodies hung limp, blood streaming down the stone like a macabre fountain.

Hel hovered above it all, watching in horror as the museum transformed into something far more sinister, more alive. The walls groaned and flexed, the spires twisting into jagged, unnatural shapes.

“Just what we needed. A fucking Dungeon in the middle of the city.”

*

Pernille Staffen had seen a lot in her years at Cuckoo House. She’d dealt with inspectors, dignitaries, and worse, the paperwork that followed in their wake. But nothing prepared her for the sensation that ran through the building that day.

It started small, a low rumble beneath her feet, like a distant thunderstorm rolling across the plains. She frowned, her teacup rattling gently on the saucer. Not unusual in an old building like Cuckoo House. Old foundations, old stone—sometimes things just shifted.

But then the whole damn place started shaking.

Her tea, tragically abandoned, sloshed over the cup's rim as the photographs on her wall jittered violently, frames clattering against each other. Staffen stood up, cursing a blue street, and strode to the window, bracing herself against the wall as the shaking intensified.

She pushed open the window and leaned out, scanning the streets below. The city itself looked… normal. Busy, bustling, with people going about their day like the world wasn’t on the verge of collapse.

Knowing in her heart that Jana fucking Lowe was at the heart of whatever was going on, she triggered her Interfering Bitch Skill - her god really did waste time on flowery names for his gifts - and zoomed her vision in on the heart of the chaos.

Soar Museum, the grand old structure that had stood for so long, was shifting, twisting in ways no building should. Its stone rippled like water, the spires bent and cracked, and the entire structure seemed to *grow*, its shadow stretching over the surrounding streets. It was wrong, deeply, profoundly wrong, and it sent a shiver down her spine.

“Oh, for the love of—” Staffen muttered, rubbing her temples. “Bloody Jana Lowe.”

She turned away from the window, already knowing what she would find. Chaos. More chaos. People would be pouring into her office, demanding answers she didn’t have. And all of it, every single bit of it, seemed to trace back to that damn Inspector. A man she had a rather thick file on now - after an illuminating chat with an old . . . adversary - than had been the case the day before.

She sighed, resigned. “I’m going to need more tea.”

*

Atop the First Floor of the Celestial Temple, Arkola drifted between realms, their mind untethered from the mundane concerns of the world below. They observed, they guided, but they rarely intervened. Mortals were amusing in their way, scurrying about, desperately trying to shape their own destinies, unaware of the threads they tangled in their attempts to control their fates.

But today, something tugged at Arkola’s attention.

It was subtle at first, a faint ripple in the fabric of reality, like the pluck of a single string in an otherwise harmonious melody. But it grew stronger, pulling them back toward the mortal plane. With a sigh, Arkola allowed themselves to be drawn in, their gaze focusing on the source of the disturbance.

Soar Museum.

It was… changing. Warping. Pulsing with raw, ancient power. The kind of power Arkola had not felt in millennia.

A Dungeon Reborn.

Arkola tilted their head, curiosity piqued. Dungeons did not simply begin again. They were relics of an older time, places of great power and danger, born from the chaos that had once ruled the world. And yet, here it was, a Dungeon manifesting in the heart of Soar.

Interesting.

Arkola smiled, a slow, languid expression. They could feel the ripple of energy spreading from the museum, washing over the city like a tidal wave, changing everything in its path.

And there, at its heart, was the aura of a man who had been delightfully helpful recently.

"Interesting. Very interesting."