The Adventurer’s Consortium’s records room was in one of the building’s many basements. Taramelle led us through a few hallways before we made it to the stairs. After the first two flights, we saw a group of clerks in what looked like a small kitchen and dining room not far down the hallway.

“I had the team vacate the record room after my discovery,” Taramelle explained, leading us further down. “I thought you might want to check things out without a lot of prying eyes, Head Adventurer.”

“A good choice, Tara. Thank you,” he said as we made it to our destination.

The room was clearly marked in both Elven and Imperial Standard, and the Half-Elf retrieved a wooden card from her pockets. She slid it against the doorframe next to the knob. A loud click could be heard, and she opened it, gesturing for us to enter.

Dorostreff did so, but I looked at the lock. “Any signs of forced entry?” I asked.

“No, though all the record clerks and many of the managers have one of these access cards,” Taramelle answered, holding up the wooden card.

“Have any gone missing?”

“No, sir. They’re all accounted for. The access cards don’t leave this building. They get passed from one person to the next at shift change. It’s all recorded, as per the law.”

Nodding, I followed Dorostreff in. That log should make finding whoever did this easier.

Should because I hoped this had nothing to do with the portal expert that had helped the Blackwood Queen make her escape. Those types always made these things harder.

The smell of old paper, ink, and fresh flowers hit me as soon as I walked in. It reminded me of the records room in the DoD, and I found some solace in that as I looked around. Behind me, Taramelle shut the door. It clicked loudly again, indicating that it was now locked.

Rows and rows of white wooden cabinets took up most of the space in the room. I knew that these were magically enchanted to help preserve the files within. It was an expensive endeavor, but a necessary one. Almost every record detailing adventurers and their dealings with dungeons from the last 800 years rested here.

There were tables for working placed sporadically throughout, but they were neat and tidy despite being covered in scrolls and forms. They each had a few chairs around it, and it looked like whoever was working at each one only had time to stopper their inkwells before they evacuated the room.

Taramelle walked around us towards the back of the room. We were led towards a desk that was tucked away behind a series of empty carts. A name plate belonging to the Half-Elf sat prominently on the corner and it was just as neat as the tables. I could appreciate that.

“This is where I left the file,” Taramelle said, walking around to sit down. She retrieved a thick stack of paper from one of the desk drawers and placed it on top, pushing it towards us.

Dorostreff was the first to take it and start looking through. I frowned as I waited my turn, but I didn’t have to be impatient for long.

“Yup. Those are our signatures, all right,” he confirmed before handing it to me. The Head Adventurer had barely glanced at it.

I quickly took the file and shared a glance with Taramelle. She gave me an apologetic smile as if that would somehow make up for her boss’ cavalier attitude, and I started reading.

The Certificate of Destruction wasn't usually a lengthy document. Thankfully, law mandated that all official Consortium documents were written in Imperial Standard. After trying and failing to read Ferrisdae’s Elven script back in the Dungeon Master’s little story, I was thankful I didn’t have to ask for a translator.

At the top, it stated which dungeon was terminated and when. Just like Taramelle said, this one was for the Red Thicket and was dated almost a month and three weeks back. Next was the reason.

Whoever filled it out had stated that it was destroyed due to magic decay. It was something that happened to older dungeons more frequently than young ones, though it could theoretically affect any of them. Due to various reasons, the magic stopped functioning the way it was supposed to. Whether it ceased reviving the denizens or stunted the growth of the crystals, the signs were usually easy to spot well in advance.

Most of the times a dungeon’s boss was relocated was because the symptoms of magic decay were showing. They became too powerful for the original magical array and they took the opportunity to move on to bigger, better pastures. It allowed them to grow further in power as well. Sevenslegs’ dungeon had only been around ten years old when we had to move him to the forest. He had fallen into that category.

Magic decay was an interesting choice. Not just because the Treants were actually decaying, but because the Red Thicket was centuries old. It was something that someone might think about for a moment before deciding it was likely. If it had been something like a subjugation or a request from Grandfather Red himself to shut it down, that would have brought up more questions for someone to dig into.

The notes section was empty, which wasn’t strange either. I, personally, left as many details as I could in the small space. Ferrisdae was the same way. In my case, I left as much information as possible so nobody came asking about it later. My junior was simply verbose and was incapable of being brief, which I counted as a positive in this case.

At the bottom was the section for signatures. There were three places, one for the Head Adventurer, one for the Chief Records Officer, and another for the Dungeon Inspector who helped with the destruction. I brought it close to my eyes for this one.

Dorostreff’s signature was a large, loopy affair. His handwriting, frankly, was unrefined. It looked more like he was trying to take up more of the form than he was trying to sign an important document.

Taramelle’s was next. Hers was smaller, though it did take up most of the line it was written on. Her first name was legible, though her surname was packed tight. There were places where the ink was thicker than others where the letters flowed into one another.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The last was that of the Dungeon Inspector’s, and I scowled. It was an almost illegible mess. The more I stared at it, the more I thought it actually spelled out Dungeon Inspector, which started to piss me off.

Reaching up and pinching the bridge of my nose, I sighed. “Taramelle, how long have you been working as the Chief Records Officer here in Athir?” I asked as I checked the next form after the certificate.

Most of the records the Consortium kept were for the clearing of dungeons and sales of magical crystals they produced. The adventurers would see which locations were in that week’s rotations and go out to see what they could earn. This allowed dungeons the time they required to revive denizens and regrow precious resources as well as give the owner a short break.

This was a process that used to be overseen by the DoD, but had been given to the Consortium to make sure the department never got too powerful. Whoever controlled the resources, after all, could help or harm the market as they saw fit. That was a decision that was made long before I was even born, and I agreed with it.

An organization dedicated to adventurers would, in theory, want to do their best for said adventurers. Corruption popped up just like it did in any place where powerful people gathered, but it was dealt with quickly and brutally. Sometimes before a country’s government had time to notice, which could make things hard depending on the target.

If there was one thing adventurers were good at, it was rooting out corruption.

“I was promoted to this position six years ago,” she answered as I found what I was looking for.

According to the sales record, the Red Thicket had been on rotation every week for over four months before the certificate was issued. It had been a healthy dungeon that recovered quickly despite the many Treants it had to revive every time.

I checked the last visitors. The three latest entrants were from the same adventuring team, one that went by the name The Cypress Coven. I would have to ask about them later.

“Okay. I’m going to need a signature from the both of you,” I said, looking at them both in turn. “A few things within the last year, please. I want to look over the differences, because there’s something strange going on with Taramelle’s handwriting here.”

The Half-Elf nodded and stood up. “I’ll get you something right away, sir,” she replied. “But, what do you mean there’s something strange?”

I looked back at her signature while she walked off, and raised my voice so she could still clearly hear me. “There’s signs of hesitation,” I answered. Looking up, I saw Dorostreff raising an eyebrow at me, and I pointed it out. “Here, here, and here. The ink bled in these three places between letters, see?”

“They just look like small dots to me,” the Head Adventurer admitted.

“Yes, I can see why you’d think that,” I said, nodding. “But they show hesitation. Whoever is doing this signature likely stopped to look at whatever they’re copying from. Just a moment of sitting there as they decide how to write the next letter. Seems strange to me that someone who has been signing their name all their life needs to stop and think, don’t you?”

Dorostreff shrugged. “She could have just been distracted.”

This time, I raised my eyebrow at him. “Since when does someone in this line of work need undivided attention to sign their own name?” I asked. “Especially when they’ve been working in records for I assume years before becoming the Chief Records Officer.”

“It was just a thought, Badger,” he defended.

I scoffed. “Sure. Do you need to give your signature your undivided attention?”

“He doesn’t have to,” Taramelle said as she returned with three files. “Head Adventurer Dorostreff hasn’t signed anything himself in years. He lets his quill do it for him.”

"It saves time," he insisted, crossing his arms.

“I’m going to have a few choice words to say about that in a moment,” I said as I opened the three files the Half-Elf brought out. They each had Certificates of Destruction in them. Two from the past year, one being a subjugation while the other was due to a lack of interest, and the last was from two years ago when the owner wanted to move to the other side of the forest.

Each of them had the same exact signature minus the hesitation marks. They didn’t match with the forgery exactly, but they were damn close.

My suspicion of Taramelle lessened slightly, but Dorostreff was raising a big red flag.

I turned to look at him. “You have your magical quill sign all of your paperwork for you just so you can save a little time?” I asked, dubious that the man in charge of an entire country’s Consortium would make such a decision.

The Head Adventurer grunted. “A lot of paperwork crosses my desk, okay?”

“No, that’s not okay,” I replied, flicking the Certificate of Destruction with my finger. “You realize that your signature is the same on all four of these, right? And likely countless more?”

“It’s just a little shortcut,” he scoffed, gesturing towards the three on the table. “Those, I certainly did sign. I remember them. That CoD? I’ve never seen it. I didn’t even know it was broken until you brought it up to me. Anyone could have taken my quill and signed my name.”

I threw my hand into the air. “And don’t you think that’s a gods damned problem? Now we have a problem where you’re either lying to me or are grossly incompetent!”

“Hey! Don’t talk to me like that in my own house,” Dorostreff warned, pointing down at me with a finger. “I let you down here because I knew you were going to give me a headache one way or another. Don’t make me kick you out.”

“Unfortunately for you, you no longer can,” I responded, not giving him any ground. “There’s a plethora of rules right now that allow me to be in this room to do my job as a Dungeon Inspector. Because, guess what? This Certificate of Destruction never came to the DoD. If it did, I wouldn’t be here trying to figure out why people are dying there.”

“Were, Inspector. They were dying there,” he countered. “Nobody’s been in that dungeon for nearly two months and you’ve only just come out to see what’s up. Your precious Department of Dungeons has been nothing but-”

“Gentlemen,” Taramelle interjected, her voice stronger than I thought it would be. “We are here because someone tampered with official Consortium documents and we need to do something about it. Now is not the time to be fighting.”

Dorostreff worked his jaw, staring down at me where I stood my ground. After a few seconds, he nodded. “Alright, Tara,” he said quietly. “Get Dungeon Inspector Badger whatever he needs to get to the bottom of this. Not only do we have to figure out what’s going on, but he needs to clear my good name.”

I held my tongue; setting him off again would only make things harder for me.

“Of course, Head Adventurer. I’ll let you know what we find.”

“See to it that you do,” he said before turning on his heel and leaving.

Though I couldn’t see him due to the tall cabinets, I heard Dorostreff stomping through the records room. We both waited until we heard the first click, the door open, and then the final click before the tension left the room.

“I’m very sorry for him, sir,” Taramelle immediately started.

“He's not your problem to apologize for, but don't worry about it. This isn't the first time I’ve encountered someone like him,” I replied. “I have a few places I want to start. Could you grab some records from specific dungeons for me? I’m going to make a call while you do.”

“Of course. Anything to help expedite the investigation,” she answered.

I nodded. At least this part didn’t seem like it was going to be too terrible. “Alright, so the first is the Dark Elf Quarry, then…”