We gathered in the morning, just after first light, and waited before the iron face of the dungeon door. Khelero stood head-to-toe in his steel full-plate. His beak visor was locked upright, so I could see his face. He looked calm with his kite shield strapped firmly to his left arm. It was emblazoned with a Baru noble crest, a black gryphon, with claws splayed and eyes red with fire.

Elizabeth and Leo stood together on the left side of the door. Liz wore her anointed raiment, a white robe that was traditional to followers of Namidae, a goddess of healing from the west continent. Her worship was rare outside of the priest class, and adventurers favored her for her powerful boons. Liz had her thick book secured in a leather sling that was strapped over her shoulder. That book, like a wizard’s staff, and a warrior’s sword, was her tool of choice.

It had begun to snow, so Leo had pulled the brown hood of his layered robe over his head. His frameless, round glasses rested neatly on his nose, and his exotic mahogany-wood staff was leaned on his shoulder. Leo was a slacker, by my standards, and he seemed disinterested in the event. I would have rather he straightened his shoulders for the newbies and show them some pride, but I knew he would get fired up as soon as battle began. Pyromancers always did.

Fiona stood beside me on the right side of the dungeon gate. Her armor was an appealing mix of chain-link steel and leather to keep her limber and mobile. When a nervous bronze fledgling looked her way, she flashed them a smile. Fiona was a stylish woman that appreciated flair. I knew she was nursing a hangover, but she didn’t show it. She kept her back straight, eyes sharp, and her hands on her black-willow longbow. Meanwhile, I saw the quiver behind her hip was heavy with feathers striped red and green. Those were bodkin-type arrows.

You might recognize the bodkin as a cheap alternative to proper broadhead arrows, but while traditional armies had long phased out their use, they found a niche in the adventurer’s arsenal. Exchange their cheap iron tip for a dense tip of hardened steel, and the bodkins small cross section made it excellent for penetrating a monster’s thick armor.

Red meant bodkin, and green meant mithril. They were mithril-tip bodkins, as expensive as the gear of an entire bronze party, and far more valuable. I knew that meant Fiona was nervous too.

As for myself, I looked much the same as I do these days. My hair was shorter, my coat had a few less holes, and there were fewer cuts in my pants, but my clothes were the same. I did have a staff back then, a long one like Leo’s, made from smooth mahogany and capped at the end with a crystal of blue tourmaline.

I looked toward the camp and saw the bronze and silver groups had assembled before us. They wore cheaper, iron armor or simple clothing under a steel breastplate or leather padding. The guild funded equipment for Gold Rank adventurers, but silver and bronze had to purchase their own gear. What they wore was often all they had.

Khelero clapped his hands and got our attention.

“Welcome,” he said loud enough that everyone could hear. “To the dungeon break. I understand for many of you this your first raid. Ordinarily you wouldn’t see one before your fourth year, and only then if you made it to Silver Rank. But we don’t live in ordinary times. I know some of you are from Bastilhas, which means you’re aware of why we’re here. Because of the Zenith War, Bastilhas has pulled funds from our little home, Adheim, and so the guild has withdrawn its support.

“Maybe you’ve heard that story before. There are dungeons all around the world, but the farthest ones—the smallest ones—every bit as consequential as the Grand Dungeon of Atheria, are frequently abandoned. Sometimes the villages around those dungeons move on, or are evacuated, but that’s not always the case. More often than not, the guild leaves people to die when it decides a dungeon is no longer worth harvesting.”

Khelero sneered. I turned my eyes to the ground.

“That’s right, harvesting. That’s what you’ve done for the past year—and two, for some of you—you’ve tilled the dungeon like a farmer’s field. We harvest ingredients, components, and reagents for the guild and its patrons. Once, Bastilhas even mined mithril from this dungeon’s walls, with our support of course. That is what we do as adventurers, we put down the dungeon breaks, so we can milk the ruler’s lair for all its worth.

“But, that’s not why you became adventurers. Why are you here? Some of you were on the run from the inquisition, and others—I’m sure—joined the guild after their ‘families’ threw them from their own homes. But still, some of you became adventurers because you were inspired. Was it Herakles that motivated you? The indomitable Hero, higher than even the vaunted Adamantine Rank, who can defeat a dungeon break with one hand! Was it because you saw those parades as a child? Where the mithril and adamantine are carried on floats in their grand armor, or because you were read stories of dungeons let loose on the land, and the noble souls that sacrificed to keep evil its self at bay!”

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Khelero paced before the door. He was angry, but that was good. He had to stoke himself before the fight. Everyone needed that energy.

“That is what you are! That is why you were made different! The mana that flows in your veins—separates your world from the ordinary—is the greatest treasure in Adohas. Without you, the land would have been turned black by the dungeons long ago. You hold it back! You stop the breaks!”

The bronze and silver groups, so nervous before, cheered.

“For that reason, you were made!”

They cheered again, louder.

“The guild treats us like obedient dogs that serve for the profit of its merchants and its own glory. They won’t support us now, because they get nothing if they save lives for free. But you can bet after today, they’ll write our story! We’ll headline the next paper, and they’ll sell it on the streets of Atheria. They’ll put it in the hands of the citizens, in the hands of the children, and they’ll say this—this is why adventurers are important!”

Khelero cleared his throat.

“This raid won’t be easy,” he said. “But without us, those villagers in Adheim below will die. Each and every one of you is a hero in my eyes. To you all, who chose to join me this day, I say again, welcome home. This battlefield is yours. Here is where adventurers belong.”

I hope I rendered that speech well for you, Zenos. It’s hard to express just how compelling Khelero was to us. He could reach the heart and remind you of what your dreams, like they were possible. Everyone that came to our raid, I’m certain, was an adventurer cut from the same cloth. They were idealistic, hopeful, and extremely brave. You could blame that on youth, perhaps, but Khelero had a way of making us all feel young.

After his speech, he turned to the dungeon gate.

“Gate,” he said and raised his steel longsword. “Open!”

The adventurers cheered and the great doors of the mountain juddered. Dust and dirt fell down their seams, and pebbles scattered over the road. The doors creaked back, opened into the mouth of the dark cave. Khelero lowered his beak visor, like a thimble of holes, and stepped forward.

We followed behind him. The silver group followed us, and the bronze group behind them. Khelero had done a lot of talk, but after the bluster, my work began. Zenos, you have never been inside the dungeon, but I’ll illustrate the idea as best I can. Imagine a black, lightless hall; one will go for about a mile, and it will branch off every so often into adjoining corridors or rooms. That is called a floor, and every dungeon starts on Floor 1. The floors change on the eve of every dungeon break, but there are always the same number. They are filled with traps and monsters.

With regard to Adderhorn Dungeon, there are five floors. Once the walls were lined with mithril, but no longer. The rooms, perhaps filled with opulent furniture in a distant age, had been picked clean. That’s why the guild ‘farmed’ the floors. They sent adventurers to kill the monsters that appeared from the dark and pick from the corpses whatever valuables they had. Usually these were core gems, but sometimes there were other items of interest. Either way, whatever loot the adventurers found was turned over to the guild in exchange for their salary.

Khelero had issue with that way of living. He thought exploiting dungeons made adventurer’s careless, because the adventures from which we took our name weren’t very dangerous. A dungeon break was a different beast altogether from our ordinary work. It was magnitudes more difficult and the consequences were lethal, for us and the land around us. It wasn’t salary work.

That day, the dungeon maze changed as expected. Floor 1 had changed from a long hall to a chain of many large rooms, but having fought in the past four dungeon breaks, I knew how to navigate a new floor. We made quick work of the lesser monsters that appeared and descended floor by floor, until we reached the 6th ‘floor’. The final floor, sometimes called the Boss Level, was the lair of the dungeon ruler. It only appeared during a dungeon break.

We had arrived before the door to the ruler’s chamber without injury. Spirits were high and the newbies thought we’d make it through unscathed. I was more skeptical, and as time has proven, I was right to be concerned.

Dungeon mutation, Zenos. Whatever evil fuels dungeons does not sit idle on its hands and let us come at it with all our skills and training. Every dungeon break is a little different than the last, more or less. Sometimes the mutation is benign, but other times it’s exceedingly dangerous. In the worst cases, where the guild expects a difficult dungeon to mutate, a party of mithril or higher rank adventurers are prepared to relieve a raid. That is to say, a dungeon fit for Gold Rank adventurers may suddenly give Adamantine Ranks a challenge.

We knew what dungeon ruler was behind that final gate, but how it had changed from our last encounter? Adventurers inevitably grew comfortable taking chances, even when the gamble meant life or death. I had gotten into the habit of clinging to one thing that gave me hope: Khelero’s confident smile. If we were behind that man, I thought, we would make it through.