With a determined stride, Buren approached the Central Keep, garbed in the armor and crimson robes befitting a Knight of Penance. However, he carried his helmet tucked under his arm, figuring that would show where his loyalties, supposedly, lied, while hopefully not inciting the ire of King Duriel, who had yet to acknowledge his elevated status. Beside him, Flynn maintained a brisk pace, burdened with the additional responsibility of bearing Buren's blade alongside his own.

The grim spectacle of traitors, executed and displayed as a warning at the portcullis to all those that might oppose the King, greeted them with a morbid welcome, their lifeless bodies swaying gently in the breeze, the ropes creaking ominously. Without hesitation, Buren presented his summons at the gate, securing them passage into the foreboding fortress.

Inside, a noticeable increase in the guard presence was evident, their readiness to engage in combat palpable as they gripped their weapons with a vigilant grip. The lowered visors bestowed upon them an eerie sense of faceless threat and impersonality, a testament to the growing fear and paranoia that seemed to permeate the castle's very stones. The King's emblem, proudly displayed on their chests, seemed less a symbol of power and more a desperate attempt to mask the pervasive scent of fear that hung in the air.

The throne room bore the marks of change as well; the assembly of nobles had dwindled, with only a select few occupying the seats at the base of the dais where the throne resided. These were presumably Duriel's staunchest allies, yet even they were kept at a distance by a vigilant line of guards. The courtesans, once a fixture at the king's feet, were now restrained, their wrists shackled to the throne, their movements severely restricted.

Flynn shuddered audibly, a physical manifestation of the chill that seemed to pervade the room.

King Duriel presented a pitiable figure, his complexion sallow, his flesh sagging grotesquely while his body appeared bloated, like he had lost and gained weight at the same time. His gaze, once piercing, now harbored a dull, lingering malice.

With a practiced grace, Buren and Flynn knelt, enduring a tense pause as Duriel took his time before giving the permission to rise

"I just don't get you," Duriel wheezed. "The changes you've made to your District show that you can appreciate the finer points in life." He gestured languidly towards the captive girls at his feet, a twisted display of opulence. " And then you go become a Penitent, rejecting it all. From hero, to villain, back to hero. What am I supposed to make of that?"

Buren responded with a noncommittal shrug.

"Yes, it is not your place to tell me what to think," Duriel said, leaning forward, his voice tinged with desperation. "In these precarious times, my reign demands unwavering loyalty. That means that everyone working for me needs to be completely dependent upon my goodwill, that way I can know they'll do what I want. Having options apart from the ones I permit them just leads to seditious thinking."

Flynn's soft groan of dismay went unnoticed, drowned in the king's fervent speech.

Duriel continued, his gaze fixed on Buren. "Yet here you stand, a wild card in my court, wielding immense power and hailed as a beacon of hope by the zealous missionaries. Surely you can see my dilemma?"

"Your dilemma is that the Treaty prohibits you from executing me without a trial by all the signers," Buren thought. Yet, he chose to remain silent, offering a slight tilt of his head, a gesture open to interpretation.

Duriel seized upon this, his voice gaining strength. " But in my magnanimity, I am prepared to offer you a chance to reaffirm your allegiance. I have instructed the Reverend to appoint you as my personal bodyguard, a role that will unequivocally demonstrate who holds the real power in this realm, who commands and who obeys."

"Yes, I'm sure this was your idea, and not the Reverend's," Buren derided mentally.

Duriel imbibed on his drink, seemingly satisfied with Buren's submission. "Fortuitously, your appointment coincides with a forthcoming meeting with the mages beyond the capital, a situation where your unique abilities may prove beneficial."

With a dismissive gesture, Duriel concluded the audience. "Consult with my officials for further details."

As they retreated from the king's presence, Duriel's voice rang out once more, tinged with disdain. "And you're not welcome here unless summoned, so don't entertain the notion of wandering these halls freely just because you now serve me."

Buren felt a surge of relief as they left the stifling atmosphere of the chamber, a place rife with sycophants who wore strained smiles, nodding fervently at every utterance from the king's lips. The air outside seemed less oppressive, less saturated with the stench of fear and blind obedience.

They soon found the official responsible for orchestrating the meeting between the king and the mage representatives, a rendezvous set at an abandoned monastery perched on a cliffside to the west of the capital. The king had refused to venture further, resulting in a logistical nightmare for the harried official, who was tasked with fulfilling the king's ever-growing list of demands for both security and indulgence. Buren could see the weight of responsibility etched on the official's face, a man well aware that his head would roll at the slightest error. Buren was instructed to lead the king's honor guard, a highly coveted and visible role that would place him at the forefront of the procession, a spectacle eagerly anticipated by the populace.

Next, they were ushered to the quartermaster. Buren declined most of the offered gear, accepting only the helmet, without which, the man insisted, he could not take part in the honor guard. The helmet bore a grotesque visage, a wide, toothy grin adorned with a mane of fur, an homage to the manticore that featured prominently in the city's lore. Flynn, despite his eagerness to don the full set of armor, was relegated to more modest attire, befitting his rank.

Once they were safely out of earshot, Flynn leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. "You know, if an assassin were to target our king, would you perhaps find yourself...distracted at that critical moment? I doubt many would hold it against you."

Buren shook his head solemnly. The king's alliance with the Faith was too deeply entrenched, so the regent's plans were also the Faith's plans. For now, Buren was the instrument of their will, a role he would maintain as long as it furthered his own objectives.

Back at Eastend castle, preparations were underway to ensure a seamless operation during Buren's absence. That night, he sought solace in Inanna's embrace, finding refuge in the dark abyss of sleep that shielded him from his tormenting dreams. Just for that she was quickly becoming someone he could not do without.

As dawn broke, the city came alive with the resounding notes of fanfares, heralding their departure. Crowds swelled along the streets, restrained by the city guard, their voices rising in a cacophony of adulation and dissent. While many echoed the missionaries' praises for the king, others cheered for Buren, their champion. Inside his lavish carriage, shielded by layers of polished wood and silk, the king could not ignore the acclaim directed at the Bearer of the Gauntlet, a fact that surely gnawed at his fragile ego. Buren could almost sense the king's simmering resentment, a bitterness that permeated the air, though it might have been a lingering effect of the previous night's drinking. Yet amidst the cheers, there were voices of discontent, hurling curses and wishing for their permanent departure.

Flynn observed the crowd with a furrowed brow, his voice tinged with anxiety. "The populace seems deeply divided. Hopefully we can show them that we're on their side, while they realize the opposite goes for Duriel."

Buren responded with a gentle shake of his head, a knowing sadness in his eyes. The masses were easily swayed by charismatic leaders, a truth he had come to understand all too well. Maintaining his favorable public image would require a different strategy once his alliance with the Faith ended, at least until he could establish stability through sheer force.

As the procession moved beyond the city gates, the true journey began. The main road took them across the barren fields covered in a thin sheet of snow, and the going was easy as the stones laid by their ancestors still held firm underfoot. Many had called the quality of its make a marvel. However, their progress was soon hindered by the deteriorating conditions of the side roads. Funding had been cut from road maintenance, and the hosts of both armies going to war and refugees coming to capital had trampled the ground until it resembled a muddy ditch, as the weather still had not been cold enough to harden the ground at any depth. Buren led the way, with Flynn close behind, burdened with their equipment. The others struggled to maintain their footing, their frustrations echoing through the forest as they cursed their squires and the treacherous terrain.

Flynn gestured to the chaos with a look of disbelief. "Who in their right mind would choose this route for such a large procession?"

A fellow squire chimed in, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The king, of course. Despite the official's advice, he insisted on the shortest route."

A carriage laden with hefty fortification equipment at the forefront of the procession ground to a halt, its wheels ensnared by the mire. Despite the men's fervent efforts and the merciless whipping of the beleaguered horses, the carriage stubbornly refused to budge. The narrow road offered no space for bypassing, forcing the entire convoy to a standstill.

"Ah, an unexpected respite," Flynn remarked with a hint of sarcasm. Buren, suspecting they would be here for a while, directed his men to disperse and secure the perimeter of their halted entourage.

The ordeal of freeing the entrenched carriage demanded the strength of additional horses, and at that point the rest of the carriages had sunk deeper into the mud, so they would have to work them free one by one. Men were dispatched to forage for branches, laying them ahead like a makeshift carpet to mitigate the road's treacherous grip. Yet, the journey, initially envisioned as a day's travel, morphed into a nightmarish standstill, with men toiling under the moon's cold gaze to liberate the vehicles from the swampy grasp of the road.

Throughout the night, Buren and his vanguard remained vigilant, their senses heightened by the grim discovery of mutilated travelers further up the road. The state of the corpses rendered it impossible to tell whether they had been robbed before their corpses had been ravaged by predators, or the other way around. Despite the unsettling find, Buren maintained a relentless watch over their section of the encampment, a diligence not mirrored by other guard leaders, whose men succumbed to slumber, covering their heads in heavy blankets, oblivious to the lurking dangers. The King would have them drawn and quartered if he found out, but that was unlikely as he had in no point left his luxurious coach.

As darkness deepened, the eerie symphony of wolf howls grew ever closer, their numbers seemingly multiplying with each passing hour. They could be seen circling the borders of the encampment but did not dare to come close to the fires. To Buren, the animals seemed unusually restless, like there was something else driving them apart from hunger. Buren's keen eyes occasionally caught flickering shapes amidst the trees, human silhouettes that vanished as quickly as they appeared, but he could not be certain what he had seen in the gloom and mist. An unsettling resonance emanated from the Gauntlet, akin to the harmonic tremor induced by a powerful vocal note vibrating through a wineglass. The sensation unsettled him, a harbinger of unseen perils lurking in the shadows.

Dawn arrived reluctantly, ending a night that seemed to stretch the boundaries of time itself. The morning briefing brought grim news: two guards stationed deeper in the woods had vanished without a trace, their post marred only by splatters of coagulated blood and signs of a struggle amidst the fallen leaves. They were written off as having been dragged away by the wolves. There were no wolf tracks in the area, in fact, they seemed to have given the spot a wide berth the entire night. But Buren kept that insight to himself. They had enough problems without rumors of something worse than beasts stalking the woods causing panic.

After a tense council, a proclamation from the king — relayed through an official as the monarch remained conspicuously absent — dictated the abandonment of non-essential equipment and supplies, leaving a contingent behind to guard them. The decision split the convoy in half: one group forging ahead with the freed wagons, the other tasked with clearing the path for their eventual return and summoning aid from the capital to mend the ravaged road. It was difficult to tell which group found the prospect more unappealing, but no one came out against the ruler's wishes.

Buren found himself amongst those pressing forward, accompanying the elusive King Duriel. A significant portion of their weaponry and armor was forsaken, the wagons bearing them mired too deeply to salvage swiftly. Consequently, the majority of the guards were reassigned to encircle the king's lavish carriage, leaving Buren with a scant force to safeguard the remainder of the company.

The king's envoy approached Buren, a sly grin playing on his lips. "Well? Do you find your king's directive unsatisfactory?"

With a grim expression, Buren shook his head. In Duriel's presence, dissent was not an option. Internally, he marveled at the stark contrast between the king and his progenitor, Devon, unable to fathom how such a noble lineage could give rise to the debauched figure who now desecrated the throne.

The caravan split in half and Buren lead the forward group ahead personally. He kept an eye at all times and ordered the others to do the same. A sense of foreboding gnawed at him. What was supposed to be a routine trip was quickly unraveling due to one bad decision after the another. And they hadn't even encountered any tangible threats yet.

Flynn, sensing Buren's unease, broke the oppressive silence. "Cheer up, sir. The road here is in better condition, less worn than those near the capital. We're making good headway."

Flynn's observation was accurate. Their pace had quickened, but it wasn't long before a message from the King demanded they slow down to spare his carriage from excessive jostling. Muffled grumbles rippled through the retinue, but none dared voice their frustrations aloud.

Buren's heart lightened as the silhouette of the monastery emerged from the treeline. However, his relief was short-lived. A faint, all too familiar scent of decay wafted through the air, a scent he associated with the Malignant One's minions.

The monastery had belonged to a group of people worshipping the ground and was an architectural marvel, carved directly into the mountain. Its entrance was a gaping mouth set in a colossal stone face, with unlit braziers for eyes and a nose as massive as a millstone. The once-sacred grounds were now overrun with weeds, and symbols of the Faith were crudely painted onto the cliffside. A grim reminder of the monastery's violent past lay at the entrance: a pile of sun-bleached bones, remnants of the worshippers who had once called this place home. The Knights of Penance had driven them out with zealous fervor, and the monastery had stood desolate ever since the stories of its downfall serving as a stark warning to any who dared defy the Faith.

In the courtyard stood a peculiar tent, shaped like a spiraling tower with vibrant blue and orange stripes. A matching pennant fluttered atop it. Its entrance, however, remained elusive.

"Mages and their towers," Flynn remarked, attempting nonchalance, but his eyes were bright with excitement. After all, what kind of a squire did not dream of magical adventures, when thought of maidens did not fill their mind?

An official, acting as the voice for the King who refused to step a foot into his kingdom, approached Buren hurriedly. "His Highness wishes for you to initiate contact with the mages and ascertain their intentions," he panted.

Buren, taken aback, responded with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, it must be you," the official continued. "His Highness refuses to enter a place so clearly under their spell, nor will he allow practitioners of dark arts near him."

Buren exhaled deeply. The King's growing paranoia threatened to strain their diplomatic relations. Treading carefully was paramount.

He approached the towering tent, feeling like he was standing in the shadow of a giant mushroom. Circling it counterclockwise yielded no entrance. Some soldiers snickered at his fruitless endeavor, but Buren remained undeterred. He would make his entrance, then. He strode to the cloth wall and sunk his claws into it.

Or tried, but the sharp point of his talons just skidded of the cloth like there was no friction at all, without a sound or leaving a mark. He stared at his palm for a moment, dumbfounded.

"These claws cut into stone and steel like butter," he thought and tried again, with the same result. He punched at the partition, but his fist just slid off like the fabric was at the same the hardest thing he had ever faced and not even there.

The spectacle drew amused chuckles from onlookers. Buren momentarily considered hurling one of the jeering men atop the tent but decided against it. Instead, he began another circuit, this time clockwise, letting his claws graze the tent's surface.

After covering a quarter of its circumference, he halted abruptly.

The was a jag in the surface. Or his claws ran into one, but to the naked eye that part of the wall was as smooth as any other. He also tested it with his left hand and found nothing unusual: in fact, he noted that to his fleshy hand the surface felt just like normal cloth, nothing like the unnatural, mirror-like plane the Gauntlet ran into. He stabbed it with his dagger as well, but it did not penetrate either. It reminded him of the ethereal strings manipulated by the daemoness, perceptible only through the Gauntlet.

He flexed his neck, the vertebrae yielding a series of satisfying cracks, and loosened his shoulder with a casual roll, preparing to unleash the might of his claws upon the anomaly.

"You could just try knocking," a voice behind him suggested, tinged with amusement.

Instinctively, his hand darted to the hilt of his sword, but relaxed almost immediately as he recognized the voice. He turned to face the speaker, a familiar figure from his past.

"But I shouldn't be too hard on you for that," Toksaris, the mage's apprentice said. "After all, without your habitual snooping around I'd be dead."

Buren eyed him from head to toe. He looked good, compared to how he had last seen him. The young man had not been used to travelling as much as they had needed to during their campaign and had appeared enfeebled for much of their journey. Gone were now the heavy bags under his eyes. His skin had regained some of its dusk, and instead of a glistening sheen on sweat it was fragrant oil that covered his skin. His pointed, wide-brimmed hat and long robes, the traditional gear of the mages, were in perfect order, not a hint of dirt on them.

With a flourish of his slender, graceful hands, he greeted Buren, his voice lilting in the characteristic high pitch of his kind. "Well? Don't I get a hug?"

Without waiting for a response, he enveloped Buren in a warm embrace, planting a kiss on his cheek. Buren tapped him on the back for a few, reluctant times. The scent of cedar incense wafted from Toksaris.

After he disengaged his clasp—a bit too slow for Buren's taste—he said:

"Sorry about all this hassle, but we have to run tight security around here. Come, let's go inside."

His words confirmed to Buren what he had felt: something was not right in the area. Toksaris turned to go but Buren stopped him by grabbing onto his shoulder. He pointed at Duriel's coach and retinue surrounding it.

Toksaris assured him with a confident smile, "This'll take no time at all, they'll be fine."

Buren scrutinized him, his gaze piercing, but eventually relented, releasing his grip. He sensed sincerity in Toksaris' words, a trust forged from past alliances.

With a grin, Toksaris instructed, "Follow in my steps; the entrance is right here if you know the moves."

He demonstrated a peculiar sequence of steps and movements, culminating in a backward hop that seemed to swallow him whole. The members of the crew who had followed the proceedings from a safe distance gasped, their faces a canvas of awe and fear. Unfazed, Buren replicated the sequence meticulously, offering a confident nod to the spectators before executing the final leap.

Instead of ground, he landed on a thick mat with elaborate designs of the night sky, and he found himself himself within an expansive chamber. Floating orbs of fire illuminated the space, revealing towering shelves laden with ancient texts and scrolls. Maps depicting lands and celestial constellations adorned the walls, a testament to the knowledge housed within this sanctuary.

"Welcome to my world," Toksaris greeted, his hat now removed to reveal strands of dark hair intricately braided with interwoven flowers. Buren recalled the camaraderie between Toksaris and Azure, their shared moments of grooming and exchanging hairdressing tips during moments of respite. A fleeting pang of jealousy might have surfaced, had Toksaris harbored any romantic interest in women.

"I'll escort you to the ambassador," Toksaris declared, his tone carrying a newfound authority. "Given my recent ventures in these lands, I've assumed the role of a guide and liaison. However, the ambassador remains the chief decision-maker."

As they ascended the spiraling staircase, Buren couldn't help but notice the peculiarities of the tent's interior. The ceiling soared far higher than what seemed possible from the outside, and the diameter of the space within seemed to defy the tent's external dimensions. Moreover, as he swung his arm while walking, the Gauntlet transmitted bizarre sensations, as if brushing against unseen cobwebs suspended in the air. This only solidified his suspicion that the Gauntlet could indeed touch magical elements.

Upon reaching the second level, a wooden floor greeted them, maintaining the circular motif of the structure. The levels tapered as they ascended, save for the uppermost floor which expanded outward, lending the tower its mushroom-like silhouette. Toksaris guided him to a figure engrossed in penning a letter, the quill dancing fervently across the parchment.

The man paused, lifting his gaze to scrutinize Buren, and harrumphed. Buren recognized the man from previous encounters at the Court and during the Convocation of the Treaty.

"Duriel has not only had the audacity to bring you here but also flaunts his manipulation of you quite blatantly," the man remarked, his voice tinged with disdain. "I must admit, his interpretation of the Treaty vastly differs from ours."

Toksaris interjected, his tone even, "He is here as a representative of the Faith, not as Duriel's envoy."

"I see my comings and goings are still reliably conveyed all the way to their lands," Buren thought.

The man sighed, conceding the point. "Indeed, let us not dwell on this when more pressing issues demand our attention."

He rose gracefully, offering a curtsy to Buren, who reciprocated with a respectful bow.

"I am Marsaget, Scythea's ambassador in these lands. Forgive my previous lack of formal introduction; in times like these, the power vested in names cannot be underestimated. I chose to withhold mine until we were certain of our safety from dark forces lurking in the shadows, behind cupboards and the like."

Buren nodded. Traveling with Toksaris had taught him questioning a mage's reasons just led to more confusion and headaches.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," Marsaget gestured towards a plush, high-backed chair before settling into his own. "I must say, your king chose quite an ominous locale for our discussions."

Buren waited, his eyes fixed on Marsaget, anticipating further elucidation.

Marsaget continued, his voice tinged with concern, " The moment we set foot in here, we could feel the Disturbance was strong in this area. We promptly erected protective barriers and established this tower as a secure outpost. Venturing into the woods to meet you seemed too perilous, hence we fortified our position here, working tirelessly through the night to conjure defenses for your convoy. Sadly, some wandered further than we had anticipated, and were lost."

Leaning forward, Buren's interest piqued, eager to grasp the full scope of the situation.

Marsaget's face darkened as he explained, "The Disturbance has stirred the dead, igniting a malevolent rage within them. They emerge at night, retreating to their resting places come dawn, dragging their prey with them."

A grim resolve settled over Buren. His nose had proven accurate once again.

With a forceful slap on the table, Marsaget declared, "As Enareis of the Flower Moon, we are bound by oath to eradicate this Disturbance wherever it manifests. This mission supersedes even our ongoing negotiations. The looming dusk threatens all outside this sanctuary."

Buren clenched his fist, the sound of his talons grating against each other echoed ominously in the chamber. He had fervently hoped his battles with the undead were behind him.

Marsaget hastily scribbled the final words of his letter, sealing it with a flourish of wax. "Deliver this to your king," he instructed, his voice carrying a note of urgency. "It proposes a united effort between our factions to venture into the mountain's depths, locate the source of this Disturbance, and extinguish this burgeoning nightmare."

With a solemn nod, Buren secured the parchment within the inner folds of his cloak, ready to bear the weighty message to his king.

"Once your sovereign has delineated his stance, rendezvous at the outer boundary of this tower where our envoy will meet you," Marsaget instructed.

With a respectful bow to the ambassador and a farewell nod to Toksaris, who reciprocated with an encouraging smile, Buren took his leave. No sooner had he turned away from the table than he found himself standing outside.

"Blasted wizards," he muttered under his breath, albeit with a hint of amusement. Quickly regaining his bearings, he strode purposefully towards the heart of their encampment.

The soldiers, who had earlier mocked his clumsy attempts to enter the magical tent, now retreated before him, their faces reflecting awe and fear, as if he were a harbinger of some dreaded plague. It was a typical reaction from those unfamiliar with the arcane arts, their knowledge shaped solely by the fiery, vehement sermons of the Faith's missionaries, who urged them to report even the slightest suspicion of magic to the Inquisitors. Buren held his head high; all needed to see his contact with the unnatural had not affected his devotion in any way.

Upon reaching the royal coach, he handed over the sealed message to an official who hurriedly disappeared inside, only to reemerge moments later, beckoning Buren to enter.

The interior was suffused with the stifling odour of human sweat, stale alcohol, and overpowering incense that failed miserably to mask the underlying stench. The King lay sprawled amidst luxurious bedding, his limbs entwined with those of three women. The sight of vomit staining the sheets and dribbling down the regent's chin seemed almost appropriate.

"It's the work of those damned occultists," the King slurred when he saw Buren's look, not that he would have ever said anything to Duriel's face. " They have afflicted me, trying to gain an advantage in the negotiations. But I am not so easily deceived or defeated."

Buren maintained an impassive facade, pondering whether the King genuinely believed his own delusions, or expected others to indulge him in this farce.

"When everyone has to act like your word is the truth under the threat of death, maybe belief ceases to matter altogether," he mused.

This," Duriel said, waving the latter around, "is another such trick. They are orchestrating this chaos. I refuse to be their puppet."

Buren's attention shifted momentarily to the Gauntlet, which had begun to pulsate gently once more.

Seemingly bolstered by his own rhetoric, the King outlined a treacherous plan. "We will outdo them at their own game. Go into the catacombs, feign cooperation, but delay them at every turn. A contingent of the Knights of Penance has shadowed us from the outset, shielded from the mages' scrutiny through tricks of their own. I will summon them to purge this land of the malevolent entities that plague it. And who can be blamed if an unfortunate wizard or two gets caught in between? That will show them not to mess with me."

Buren choked down his disagreement, but it must have shown on his face since Duriel suddenly surged upright, spitting venomously, "Do you dare to question me?"

Buren met the King's gaze unflinchingly, his dark brows casting shadows of stern rebuke. It was Duriel who averted his eyes first, unable to withstand the silent condemnation. The Gauntlet hummed ominously, a sound Buren realized was resonating through his very bones, imperceptible to others.

"Execute your orders and leave my presence!" Duriel commanded, his voice quivering with rage.

Buren bowed, the movement sudden and stiff, like someone bending over to vomit, and got out of the stifling chamber.

"Idiocy! Blind egotism!" he raged inwardly.

Quickly assessing the precarious situation, he realized the potential for catastrophic conflict. The Enarei, already wary of their dwindling numbers, would perceive any assault as a grave betrayal. The zealous Knights of the Faith might heed the tyrant's call to arms against the mages, igniting a schism that could engulf the Enarei, the Faith, and the royal court in a devastating conflict, the repercussions of which were unpredictable, potentially culminating in a full-scale war. While aligning with the Faith in a crusade against the mages might elevate his standing, Buren harbored no desire to betray the Wizards of the Day, who, despite their obscure and bizarre ways, sought harmony and stability within the realm.

Resolute, Buren vowed to not let harm befall the magicians because of some addled despot's animosity, not if he could help it.

With a wary eye on the descending sun, he knew time was of the essence. As Flynn approached, Buren instructed him to gather their equipment and rendezvous at the mages' tent.

Clad in their gear, Buren found himself pondering the time it would take for the mages to join them. He blinked, and found Toksaris having materialized before him, the jovial sparkle that once danced in his eyes now noticeably absent.

"Just you and me, friend," he uttered, a hint of trepidation marring his usually buoyant tone. "Just like old times."

Flynn advanced with a determined step. " I'll be coming along as well. I hope three's not a crowd?"

The men exchanged introductions, the air tinged with a mix of anticipation and unease.

"Really looking forward to working alongside a real Enaree," Flynn said.

"Oh, shush," Toksaris said, covering smile with a palm while giving a limp-wristed wave with his other hand. "Hopefully I can match your expectations, young man."

An uncertain crease appeared on Flynn's brow, but it swiftly smoothed, replaced by a hopeful gleam.

The sudden resonance of heavy footfalls and the clinking of armor heralded the arrival of another figure. Towering over them, a behemoth of a man clad in the regalia of the King's honor knights approached, a formidable shield affixed to his left forearm and a long-shafted mace grasped firmly in his right hand.

"I am here to ensure the King's commands are executed to the letter," he declared, his voice echoing with an unyielding resolve.

"Welcome aboard," Toksaris said, filling the silence left by the knight's lack of further introduction or explanation, which he evidently deemed beneath him.

Buren retrieved a spare short sword from Flynn and offered it to the knight. He carried a similar weapon, with the longsword of the Knights of Penance packed into satchel carried by Flynn, for backup. The knight, however, dismissed the offering with a disdainful shake of his helmeted head, brandishing his mace with a confident swirl.

"Retain your blade. I shall demonstrate the true art of warfare," he proclaimed, his voice brimming with arrogance.

Buren scoffed but did not waste his words on him. Let the man learn from experience. He adorned himself with a leather cap that shielded his head yet left his face exposed. Following his lead, Flynn and Toksaris made their respective preparations, the latter opting to forgo any head protection.

With their assembly complete and daylight waning, Buren initiated their journey, leading the group towards the gaping maw that marked the entrance to the sacred shrine, a personification of the very earth they trod upon. Flynn trailed closely, followed by a vigilant Toksaris who cast wary glances at the stern-faced knight bringing up the rear.

Upon entering, they were greeted by a noticeable drop in temperature, the air redolent with the damp, earthy scent of a root cellar, tinged with the faint, metallic aroma of blood. Darkness engulfed them, prompting Buren to signal Flynn to ignite the torches they carried. Toksaris declined the offer of a torch with a gracious smile, opting to showcase a bit of his magical prowess instead.

"Watch this, young man," the mage said with a touch of bravado and, with a flourish, produced a wick from his sleeve, whispering an incantation that ignited it with a flame far brighter than any ordinary candle. The fire danced upon the wick without scorching his flesh, floating in the air and revolving gently around him in a mesmerizing display of arcane mastery.

Flynn's eyes widened in awe, a reverent whisper escaping his lips, "Magic."

"Just a little trick," Toksaris replied, his eyes twinkling with restrained delight, though he feigned modesty by lowering his gaze. He gave Flynn a look pregnant with promise. "I could show you a lot more later, if you have the time."

"Knowing Toksaris, the 'magic' he wants to show to the kid is of quite the different kind from what Flynn has in mind," Buren thought.

Similar doubts had entered Flynn's head, judging by the wariness that now mixed with his enthusiasm.

Before Flynn could resolve if seeing more wizardry was worth the risk of being exposed to the mage's other charms, the knight interrupted them with a contemptuous scoff.

"Deviant!" No more of your perversion of the natural order, or I swear I'll crush your head, you fruit."

"Ooh, those were quite big words for someone with a mind as small as yours," Toksaris said. "A Faithful teach them to you?"

The knight brandished his mace with murderous intent as Toksaris retreated hastily.

Buren intervened, positioning himself firmly between the two, his gaze unwavering as he faced the irate knight.

"Step aside," the knight demanded, his voice a low growl. "Do you stand with this deviant or with the Faith?"

Buren's stern gaze held steady, his silence conveying his refusal to justify himself to a man who lacked the authority to question his allegiance.

A palpable tension hung in the air before the knight reluctantly lowered his weapon, his voice simmering with resentment as he muttered a foreboding warning.

"This matter is far from settled," he grumbled. "I am clear in my purpose, yet it seems you have lost sight of yours."

They ventured further into the bowels of the compound, traversing an earthen tunnel where roots protruded from the walls, casting serpentine shadows in the flickering amalgamation of torchlight and the luminescent glow of magical wicker. Buren had strategically rearranged the positions of Toksaris and Flynn, a precaution to prevent the unhinged knight from acting on his volatile threats at an opportune moment, with Flynn standing between him and the irreverent mage. However, this adjustment meant that Buren's access to his gear, carried by Flynn, was now somewhat restricted.

The path before them gradually descended, eventually branching into several diverging tunnels.

" Let's split up," the knight suggested brashly. Buren scoffed.

"Spoken like someone who has never done this before," he thought.

If he had perfect trust in the capabilities of every single one of his teammates, Buren might have supported the proposal, but in his current company all, he did was shake his head and guide them down the path that bore signs of recent disturbance.

Toksaris followed closely, his proximity so near that Buren could feel the occasional brush against his back.

"Can't believe your king would pick a place like this for our meeting," Toksaris murmured, his breath grazing Buren's neck with each word.

Buren cast a sideways glance at him, an eyebrow arched in silent inquiry.

"What, you like it here? Did all the spelunking we did grow on you, after all?" Toksaris teased.

Buren shook his head once more, refocusing on the path ahead.

"Oh, a misunderstanding on my part!" Toksaris exclaimed, a hint of playfulness in his tone. " This is why you should use words, fearless leader."

Buren gestured for silence, his senses straining to catch any sounds that might herald danger from the depths of the tunnel. he simple fact of having to stay quiet while on a hunt had always seemed to elude his teammates. Even Azure, who was half a creature of the forest herself, always had always yammered away. The incessant chatter from his companions brought a wave of nostalgia, a reminder of lighter times, and he found himself unwilling to completely stifle the conversation.

"You didn't know your side suggested this locale," Toksaris continued. "Well, they did, and their reason are wide open to us as well. Our hearing is exceptionally good when we so wish."

Buren's silent encouragement spurred him to elaborate further.

"The King initially desired to host us within his fortress, a show of might with his forces and those of the Faith amassed to 'put the fear of the King within us'," Toksaris recounted, his voice adopting a derisive tone accompanied by exaggerated finger quotes. "However, the Reverend opposed such proximity to the seat of power, fearing it might be perceived as a gesture of acceptance. Hence, the Faith's representatives suggested this location, a grim battlefield where a non-conformist order met their end, as a lesson of sorts. A futile attempt, really. It merely underscores the barbarity of both Duriel and the High Reverend."

The knight attempted to push past Flynn, who firmly held his ground in the confined space of the tunnel.

"Learn your place or meet your end," the knight threatened, his voice seething with venom.

Toksaris couldn't contain his exasperation, his voice rising theatrically. "Sheesh! What is it about this land that turns the men like this? The climate? The cuisine? Or perhaps the terribly unhealthy, mind-corrupting teachings that appeal to their worst sides?"

He adopted a mock contemplative pose, a finger resting against his lower lip.

"Must be the cuisine," he declared with feigned certainty. "An excess of meat leads to sluggish digestion. Upset stomachs, upset minds. Truly, Flynn, once we emerge from this place, allow me to introduce you to the delights of my roasted almonds with—"

Buren silenced him with a swift, firm hand over his mouth, pressing him against the damp wall. Toksaris' eyes widened in alarm, but he knew not to struggle and instead to trust his leader.

The group strained their ears, catching the faint, raspy moans emanating from the engulfing darkness ahead. The unsettling sounds gradually receded until they vanished entirely.

"We are not alone here," the knight stated, his voice tinged with unease.

Toksaris couldn't resist a sotto voce comment, "While painfully obvious, it's the first sensible thing he's uttered that neither offends nor showcases blatant ignorance. I consider it a marked improvement."

Buren offered a comforting squeeze on Toksaris' shoulder. He knew the man blabbered when he was nervous.

They advanced, their pace now tempered with a heightened sense of caution. The tunnel branched into numerous chambers, their entrances nothing more than narrow gaps in the earth, seemingly appearing out of nowhere to swallow them as they progressed. Buren meticulously inspected each one with the aid of his torch, unwilling to leave potential threats lurking in their rear, a strategy that further decelerated their advance.

The knight's patience dwindled with each passing moment, his restlessness manifesting in heavy sighs and shifting weight from one leg to another. Eventually, his frustration reached its zenith. With a brusque shove, he displaced Flynn and Toksaris, forcing his way to the forefront.

"This dawdling ends now," he declared, his ornate visor mere inches from Buren's face. "The King demands swift resolution, and I intend to deliver where you are unable."

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"It's your funeral," Buren though as he let the man pass. He stomped ahead, not bothering to check the side rooms. The knight's heedless advance soon carried him out of sight, his figure swallowed by the labyrinthine darkness.

"What a fool," Toksaris remarked, his voice tinged with both annoyance and concern. " Still, I hope he doesn't get himself killed. Death might not be the end of his troubles in a place so steeped in the Disturbance. You didn't put up much of a fight, though."

Buren offered a nonchalant shrug in response.

"Unless you intend to use him as bait, now that he practically volunteered," Toksaris speculated, a realization dawning upon him.

Buren remained silent, his attention diverted to the next chamber. Who was he to stop the knight from making his own decisions? It just so happened he might be more useful that way.

Suddenly, a ferocious roar echoed from the depths, met by a chorus of harsh, guttural murmurs. The living had made contact with the dead. Buren signaled for a halt, his senses attuned to the emerging threat. From a nearby chamber, a figure emerged, drawn by the commotion. Its skin resembled aged parchment, tearing with each movement and releasing plumes of dust. Buren stealthily approached the undead, dispatching it with a swift strike from his metallic arm. The entity crumbled, its skeletal remains scattering amidst a cloud of dust. The parts still moved piteously on the ground, but Buren methodically dismantled the twitching remnants, ensuring it posed no further threat.

Convinced that any lurking entities would have revealed themselves by now, Buren abandoned his meticulous inspections, hastening towards the source of the yells.

The tunnel narrowed progressively, forcing frequent pauses to discern the direction of the muffled sounds and maintain the group's cohesion. The deeper they ventured, the more the atmosphere transformed, the initial dampness giving way to a stifling dry heat, the air thick with particles that clung to their skin and irritated their throats.

Nothing Buren wasn't used to.

Rounding another bend, they nearly collided with a horde of reanimated corpses. The knight found himself ensnared between two groups of relentless wights within the confined space. The knight pushed the closest attackers back with the head of his mace, but when he, in apparent blind panic, tried to smash them with a heavy blow the long weapon struck the wall of the tight passage, showering them with dirt and leaving him unable to attack. Just as Buren had known would happen.

As a wight seized the knight from behind, he managed to free himself, his armored fist smashing into the creature's face. The creature stumbled back a few steps but immediately resumed its assault: its kind did not feel pain, or care for it at all if they did, and even grievous wounds would not even make them hesitate.

Without hesitation, Buren got to work. Wielding his short sword - an ideal weapon for the cramped quarters - he cleaved through the undead with precise, forceful strokes. The corpses, devoid of any lifeblood, fell apart, their severed limbs twitching grotesquely on the ground, still seeking to harm. He turned around for just long enough to motion for Flynn to take care of the cleanup, and the squire understood: as long as the remains moved, even when mutilated, the fiends still posed a threat. If they managed to trip one over, or just hamper their movement at the worst time, they might still cause the death of his teacher. The squire complied, initially cutting at them with his sword, like splitting logs with an axe, but found that too slow and ineffective and took his master's example and simply crushed their bones under his boots.

In the midst of the chaos, Buren had deftly maneuvered his way to the beleaguered knight's rear. The man was a maelstrom of frantic breaths and palpable fear. A tap on the shoulder from Buren was met with a wild, desperate swing that could have shattered Buren's face had it not been intercepted by his metallic palm.

"Help, help," the knight stammered, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, Buren seized the knight's flailing hand, pulling him backward and swiftly taking his place at the forefront of the battle. He thrust his torch towards the nearest assailant, noting even its eyes were so desiccated as not to have any reflection. The creature's parched flesh ignited instantly, becoming a living pyre that Buren kicked into the throng of its companions. Soon, the narrow passage was illuminated by the ghastly glow of burning corpses, their fiery demise filling the air with an acrid stench that induced gagging in Toksaris and brought tears to Flynn's eyes. One by one, the flailing figures succumbed to the flames, leaving nothing but dark, sooty remnants on the cavern floor.

The men fanned the air with their hands to get rid of the reeking smoke. Buren raised a cautionary finger, urging silence. He stood transfixed, his head tilted slightly, mouth ajar in a technique passed down by his father to enhance one's hearing. Breath held, he strained to detect any signs of lurking threats within the oppressive darkness.

Satisfied that no immediate danger lingered, he approached the trembling figure of the knight, now reduced to a pitiable state on the ground. Grasping him firmly under the armpit, Buren hoisted him to his feet, steadying the man as his legs threatened to give way beneath him. The overpowering scent of urine mingled with the lingering odor of charred flesh, a testament to the knight's abject fear.

With trembling hands, the knight managed to remove his helmet, revealing a visage marred by sweat and terror, his high cheekbones and prominent forehead glistening with perspiration. His violet eyes darted erratically, the pupils dilated to an alarming extent.

"They... they appeared from the shadows," he stuttered, his words tumbling over one another. "The helmet restricted my vision, and my weapon... it failed me, losing power with each swing. I feared I would meet my end here, torn asunder in this forsaken abyss."

His voice broke, choked by the gravity of his near demise.

Buren signaled to Flynn, who promptly retrieved a cap and a short sword from his satchel, extending them towards the shaken knight.

"Equip yourself with these," Flynn urged.

"Why?" the knight queried, albeit complying with the directive.

Flynn assisted with the cap's fastenings, his tone patient yet firm. "It's quite simple, really. This gear is tailored for our current environment. The cap offers protection without compromising your peripheral vision, and the sword's compact design allows for nimble maneuvering in confined spaces."

A whimper escaped the knight. "I assumed it was all you could afford..."

Flynn's laughter echoed softly within the chamber, a warm hand clapping the knight reassuringly on the shoulder. "Rest assured, every decision Marquis Coldwood makes is grounded in strategy and logic. You'll fare better following his lead."

The knight nodded, a newfound resolve flickering in his eyes. "I understand now. I'll trust in your guidance."

"Welcome to our ranks, Marett," Toksaris chimed in, his voice tinged with amusement.

The knight blinked, startled. "How did you know my name?"

A cryptic smile played on Toksaris' lips. "We of my kind are privy to many secrets."

With a decisive gesture, Buren beckoned the group to resume their journey. Obediently, they followed, the grisly remains of the vanquished undead crunching ominously beneath their boots.

As they ventured deeper, the passages continued to fork and diverge, becoming increasingly labyrinthine. Despite marking their path with luminescent shinestones, Buren found himself relying more on intuition than concrete strategy in choosing their route.

At yet another junction, Toksaris stepped forward, a determined glint in his eye. "Allow me to try something," he proposed, positioning himself beside Buren.

With palms outstretched and eyes closed in concentration, the mage attuned himself to the energies pulsating within the cavern's depths. Moments later, he pointed decisively towards one of the tunnels, his voice echoing with conviction.

"There. The Disturbance emanates most potently from this direction."

With a resolute stride, Buren led the way, placing his faith in Toksaris' mystical insights. Their past adventures had repeatedly validated the mage's uncanny abilities.

They reached yet another crossroads, the twenty-third by Buren's reckoning, though the significance of the count was beginning to wane. As Toksaris prepared to attune himself to the magical currents once more, Buren gestured for him to pause. Lifting the Gauntlet, he unfurled its talons and mimicked the gestures he had observed Toksaris perform, attuning himself to the ambient energies. Concentrating intently, he felt a subtle pulsation emanating from the arm. As he oriented it towards different passages, he discerned a slightly intensified vibration from the right.

Pointing towards the passage where the mystical energies seemed most concentrated, Buren cast a questioning glance at the mage. Toksaris, after a series of rapid blinks, confirmed the presence of the energies through his own means, his expression morphing into one of awe.

"Indeed, the Disturbance is most potent from that direction."

Their journey resumed, but Toksaris' curiosity bubbled over. " What else have you learned of the Gauntlet?"

Buren shrugged. This didn't satisfy Toksaris, who pressed on: "Upon my return from the Grey Battle, I was subjected to three days of relentless inquiry. The Elders were eager to glean every fragment of knowledge about the Gauntlet from my mind. Even after I had shared all I consciously knew, they resorted to concoctions and mesmerism to unearth any latent memories. I was left with a nagging headache that persisted for days."

Buren filed that information to memory for later use, thinking their interest in his arm might be something he could leverage in one negotiation or another.

"I could offer them little, despite their efforts, since that thing is like a blind spot to my magical sense."

Flynn chimed in, his curiosity evident. "Really?"

"Indeed. Even our most adept seers find themselves baffled. It appears to forge a barrier, separating him from the pervasive magical currents that otherwise permeate all things."

Buren was glad he had not silenced the man more strictly. His loose lips were providing a valuable source of information.

Toksaris continued, his tone hopeful, "Once this mission concludes, would you consider accompanying me to Scythea for further study? The knowledge we could uncover would be mutually beneficial, and your presence would undoubtedly enhance my standing. It's a win-win situation, don't you think?"

Marett interjected with a gruff tone, "How about we get out of this pit of Tartarus before planning for a vacation?"

"I don't know about you, but without the thoughts of a vacation I might just give up and lay down for those things to munch on me," Toksaris called back. "Just thinking about those massage boys kneading my aching limbs with fragrant oils propels me forward."

Marett visibly recoiled at the imagery, though he chose to withhold any further remarks.

As they ventured deeper, the earthen corridors transitioned into solid stone passages, a testament to the fervent dedication of the worshippers who had carved directly into the bedrock. Niches, large enough to accommodate a body, were chiseled into the walls.

"Here, the dead would find rest, were they not aimlessly wandering," Toksaris mused.

Once again, Buren attuned himself to the environment, signaling for the group to halt. The Gauntlet resonated with a harmonious hum, indicating that the source of their predicament was nearby. Cautiously peering ahead, he took a moment to assimilate the stark divergence between the forthcoming chamber and the tunnels they had traversed. Signaling for the group to advance with caution, he adopted a stealthy, hunched posture.

The narrow tunnel expanded into a grand subterranean sanctuary, a living monument to the worshippers' reverence for the earth. The sheer magnitude of the chamber left them momentarily awestruck. Towering walls encased the vast space, their rugged facades embellished with elaborate carvings and bas-reliefs that celebrated the beauty of the natural world. A heavy atmosphere, laden with the musk of damp soil and the remnants of ancient ceremonies, enveloped them as they ventured further.

The flickering glow of distant torches cast unsettling shadows across the ground, unveiling a complex mosaic of stones arranged in a labyrinthine design. At the heart of this intricate pattern, a colossal altar of obsidian stood defiantly, its polished surface reflecting the flickering flames.

Pillars of raw, uncut stone soared skyward, buttressing the immense ceiling that loomed overhead. Scattered throughout the chamber, these geological guardians stood as silent witnesses to countless ceremonies and offerings dedicated to the sacred earth itself.

From above, stalactites descended like ancient chandeliers, their crystalline tips catching the torchlight in a mesmerizing ballet of shadows and luminescence. Their counterparts, the stalagmites, stretched skyward from the ground, resembling silent supplicants in a natural aisle that beckoned the adventurers further into the chamber's depths.

The air pulsated with a tangible sense of awe and reverence, the accumulated weight of centuries of worship bearing down upon them. This subterranean sanctuary undoubtedly served as the pulsating heart of a once vibrant faith.

Even before they had stepped into the chamber, Buren had perceived the rasping chants that now reverberated around them. Seeking cover behind a rock formation, they realized they were not alone. Near the obsidian altar, a grim assembly of undead earth worshippers congregated, their desiccated forms garbed in the remnants of ceremonial attire. Engrossed in a cryptic ritual, they lifted their arms in eerie harmony, their hollow voices echoing in a haunting chorus throughout the chamber. Once vibrant and magnificent, their ceremonial garments now clung to them in tatters, the tarnished symbols of their faith still gracing their necks and wrists, belying the malevolent force that had ensnared them.

Oblivious to the intruders, the undead worshippers remained focused on their ritual. A stealthy approach seemed feasible, their footsteps potentially masked by the ongoing litany, offering them the chance to strike before the creatures could retaliate.

Yet, something about their demeanor captivated Buren's attention. These beings differed from the frenzied, staggering wights they had previously encountered; their actions seemed purposeful, guided by some semblance of self-awareness. Their voices, albeit frail and grating, harmonized in a discernible chant, a far cry from the guttural snarls of the mindlessly furious undead they had faced before. Utilizing his arm to analyze them, Buren noted nuanced differences in the vibrations they emanated—less discordant, more harmonious. The sensation, he realized, was akin to a gentle purr rather than the abrasive screech they had grown accustomed to encountering.

Casting a glance back at his companions, he noticed their expectant and anxious gazes fixed on him, awaiting his signal to launch an attack. The straightforward solution would be to eliminate these animated corpses, thereby eradicating the immediate threat. Yet, the nuanced readings he had gleaned from them gave him pause. Instead of initiating an attack, he rose and deliberately advanced towards the undead, fully exposed. His companions, realizing his intentions too late, could only watch in horror. His footsteps echoed ominously, drawing the attention of the dead. As they turned towards him, Buren noticed a flicker of intelligence lingering in their otherwise dull and lifeless eyes, a stark contrast to the mindless entities they had encountered thus far.

A figure separated from the group, seemingly commanding respect from the others. Despite the decay and degradation, Buren surmised it might have once been a woman. Her robes, now little more than rags melded with flesh in places and more dirt that cloth in others, barely clung to her frame. Yet, her cylindrical headpiece adorned with a smooth, yellow gem distinguished her from the rest.

With a voice like the rustling of dry autumn leaves, she addressed Buren, an undertone of authority resonating in her hollow words. "We seek no violence," she declared, her proclamation met with a chorus of mournful agreement from her companions.

"You will find it all the same," Marett said and advanced with his mace, apparently eager to take out his anger on what he saw as enemies, even when they wished for a truce. Buren held him back with a raised arm.

Toksaris, maintaining a cautious distance, called out, "What is it that you desire, then? Why linger in this state, unable to move on? The Disturbance in magical flows is quite strong here."

The cadaverous figure gestured grandly, her voice echoing softly, "This is a sacred place. I once presided here as the head priestess, overseeing daily rituals and offerings."

She gestured towards the expansive walls that encased them, and Buren's gaze followed, taking in the intricate murals that spanned from floor to ceiling.

"This sanctuary exists at the nexus between your world and the Tartarus below, a liminal space bridging the realms of the living and the dead. From the earth we all emerge, and to it, we shall return. This truth binds all, from the humblest worm to the mightiest deity, from a solitary stone to the grandest palace. To be interred here is a profound honor, allowing the most devout among us to transcend mortality, their spirits lingering in these hallowed halls for as long as they desire."

"That phenomenon is likely the result of a Source, a wellspring of magical energy," Toksaris elucidated.

She responded with a serene yet firm tone, "Name it as you wish. Our sacred duty and privilege were to present offerings to these revered forebears, receiving their wisdom and guidance in return, all while anticipating the blissful day we would reunite with the bosom of the earth. But the advent of the Faith disrupted this harmony."

A chorus of anguish echoed from the dead, interspersed with growls of fury. Those who growled were swiftly calmed by their companions, appearing momentarily bewildered by their own outbursts.

"They cling to their sanity by the merest thread," Toksaris murmured. "The energies here seem insufficient to preserve their cognitive functions fully. It won't be long before they devolve into mere shells, driven by the potent emotions that once resonated within these walls. They will become like the rest."

The priestess appeared oblivious to his commentary, perhaps due to the deterioration of their auditory faculties, a fate shared by their other senses.

"With peaceful intentions, we asserted our right to remain here. Yet they invaded with blades, bludgeons, and flames, perpetrating unspeakable atrocities and massacring without mercy. Only within these depths did they encounter resistance, as the spirits of our ancestors repelled them. However, the trauma and sorrow unleashed that day twisted our brethren, who returned as frenzied monsters, leading to the downfall of many others. Despite this, we harbor no resentment. Our hope is to restore them through our continued rituals here."

She gestured towards the altar.

"It has, seemingly, preserved our lucidity to some extent. Yet we dare not venture beyond these confines, and the voices of our ancestors have fallen silent."

Toksaris pondered aloud, "The atmosphere of safety and benevolence cultivated here might be stabilizing them amidst fluctuations in the Disturbance's resonance."

It was all gibberish to Buren, but he just nodded slightly. The intricacies of magical theory seemed trivial at this juncture.

"Without our ancestors watching over us, I fear our time is limited," she resumed, her voice tinged with melancholy. "Despite bearing the garb of our persecutors, your willingness to listen is apparent. Having made it all the way here demonstrates your prowess in self-defense. Might you consider assisting forsaken beings such as us?"

Marett's response was a vehement scoff. "Under no circumstance," he spat venomously. "In life, you opposed the Faith, and now in death, you are nothing but abominations demanding eradication."

He gestured accusingly towards Buren. "To propose an alliance is a blatant affront to the Knight's honor."

Toksaris intervened swiftly, " Not so fast. A more sinister threat resides here, one we might neutralize with their assistance. Even a devout follower must recognize the necessity of reason over blind prejudice."

Marett retorted, his voice brimming with disdain, "We were dispatched by the King to eliminate the dark forces, not to fraternize with them."

With a decisive gesture, Buren silenced the brewing argument, extending an open palm towards the undead priestess, granting her the floor to continue.

Recognizing the gesture, she resumed, "We perceive that the source of this malevolent influence emanates from the depths below. Venturing there, we find ourselves overwhelmed by hatred, our grasp on sanity slipping further. That is where our ancestors' sanctuaries lie, now beyond our care. I implore you to journey there and—"

Her plea was interrupted by gasps of horror from her companions, who seized her arms in a futile attempt to restrain her. She shook free defiantly.

"I am aware of the prohibition," she acknowledged, her voice resolute. "But we have no alternative."

Turning her focus back to Buren, her voice carried a desperate plea, "Descend to the nethermost reaches and confront the source of this vile affliction. Perhaps there, you can either seal it or obliterate it entirely."

Marett's impatience bubbled over. "The course of action should be unequivocal, devoid of any deliberation."

He shifted his stance, poised to attack, his grip tightening on his weapon. "We exterminate them, and then proceed to eradicate whatever lurks below, whether they be demons or ancestral spirits. I fail to see a distinction."

"You mean Buren cuts them down while you cower behind him?" Toksaris shot back, his voice tinged with scorn. "Quite bold of you to dictate terms when you fully intend for him to shoulder the burden."

The priestess advanced, her movements echoing a grace long lost. "If we could only pay homage to our ancestors as intended, I am convinced their influence would restore sanity to our brethren. Once that is done, we shall collapse these tunnels and stay here, deep within the bosom of ground, until we might return to it completely. No one will ever hear from us again. We seek nothing more than to vanish from the world's memory."

Marett muttered a sullen retort, lost amidst the wails of the dead.

The undead priestess fixed her lifeless eyes upon Buren, a flicker of hope in her hollow gaze. "Will you assist us?"

Buren had forged his resolution even before her plea reached his ears. As he sifted through the myriad possibilities, a singular path of righteousness emerged, as it always did. He would spare the innocent, provided such a course remained viable.

Yet, he could ill afford to foster doubt within the Faith or the King regarding his allegiance. And could anyone be called truly innocent if they stood in the way of saving everything, even in their ignorance?

With a weighty pause that seemed to stretch the shadows around them, he finally nodded, a fierce resolve burning in his eyes.

A collective release of tension seemed to ripple through the undead, as though they expelled breaths they no longer possessed. In stark contrast, Toksaris and Flynn exhaled audibly, their relief palpable. Marett, however, contorted with a blend of rage and disbelief, his face a canvas of brewing storm.

"Your time with the Faith is done when the King learns of this," he threatened, his finger jabbing towards Buren in accusation.

Toksaris, wearing a sardonic grin, taunted Marett, "Feel free to depart and report to him straight away. Naturally, you'd have to navigate the labyrinthine corridors solo, but a gallant knight of your stature shouldn't find that daunting, right?"

Marett's face twisted further, his voice a venomous snarl. "Your reckoning approaches, mage. The Faith will ensure it. Your iron-armed guardian won't shield you forever."

The priestess interjected with a serene grace, "We shall invoke blessings for your safe return."

She murmured an incantation to a nearby cadaver, who lumbered towards a recess in the wall and manipulated a hidden mechanism, eliciting a harsh, grinding noise of stone against stone. A portion of the wall receded, unveiling a concealed passage leading to a descending staircase.

"The path to the sepulchers," she elucidated. Buren led the way, his companions trailing behind, Flynn displaying a semblance of youthful enthusiasm amidst the foreboding atmosphere.

With a sense of foreboding, they embarked on their descent into the sepulchers, the air growing progressively colder and more stifling. The flickering torchlight cast grotesque shadows upon the ancient walls, unveiling narratives of bygone rituals captured in intricate bas-reliefs. A pervasive silence engulfed them, punctuated only by the soft echoes of their footsteps reverberating through the abyssal corridors.

As they delved deeper, an ethereal glow began to permeate from the cavern walls, casting a spectral hue upon their surroundings. The staircase ushered them into a sprawling chamber, a spectacle both magnificent and malevolent in its grandiosity. Here lay the eternal sanctuary of the ground worshippers, a monument to their reverence for the underworld.

The sepulcher chamber unfurled as a gargantuan cavern, its domed ceiling swallowed by the encompassing darkness overhead. At its core yawned an abyss, a chasm so profound it seemed to devour the feeble light, radiating an ominous void. This gaping maw was ringed by ornately carved stones, standing sentinel at the brink of the seemingly infinite darkness.

A complex network of walkways and bridges interconnected numerous crypts and alcoves, where the worshippers had rested undisturbed for eons. Majestic sarcophagi, crowned with exquisite effigies, guarded their inhabitants, while shelves of ossuaries, housing the skeletal remains of the devout, adorned the chamber's periphery.

The ceremonial torches of yore had long since extinguished, leaving only the flickering flames they carried and the magical luminescence conjured by Toksaris to illuminate their path. Scattered shinestones cast a feeble glow, preserving the sunlight they had once absorbed. In this dim radiance, grotesque shadows cavorted upon the walls, their movements disjointed and erratic. Though visibility was scarce, Buren perceived the undead attempting to desecrate the sarcophagi, endeavoring to cast them into the abyss. The enveloping darkness obscured their numbers, yet Buren harbored no desire to tempt fate against the looming void.

The Gauntlet hummed with a resonance more potent than before, compelling Buren to pause and steady himself as he surveyed the surroundings. Somewhere amidst the throng of the undead, a force pulsated, sending ripples of unseen energy through the cavernous space, yet its exact origin remained elusive to his sight.

"I sense it too," Toksaris breathed, his words a ghostly murmur in Buren's ear. "The epicenter of the disturbance."

As Toksaris began to retreat, Buren's grip fastened around his arm, pulling him near. With a pointed gesture towards the unseen source of power, Buren's gaze bore into Toksaris, conveying an unspoken yet unequivocal command. It was a silent language, honed during hunting expeditions with his father, a method of communication that transcended words. After a moment of intense scrutiny, even Toksaris seemed to grasp the gravity of his silent plea.

"I am not going in there," he objected, his voice barely more than a whisper, yet laden with palpable dread.

Buren's gaze remained unyielding, a bastion of resolve.

With a resigned slump of his shoulders, Toksaris sighed, "I knew I should have never joined forces with you. It's been constant danger and struggle ever since."

Buren's stern facade softened, yet the fire of determination within him remained undiminished.

"Very well, I'll comply," conceded the mage, his voice tinged with reluctance. "Would a veil of invisibility suffice?"

A firm nod from Buren affirmed that Toksaris had grasped his intentions accurately.

With a resigned step, Toksaris moved closer, their shoulders briefly touching. He commenced a series of ancient incantations, his arms weaving through the air in intricate, controlled patterns. Gradually, Buren felt a shift in the air, and their surroundings appeared to warp and twist, becoming more distorted by the moment. As the final words echoed through the chamber, their surroundings snapped back into sharp focus. To them, the world had reverted to its original state, but Flynn and Marett stood beyond the spell's protective sphere, their figures tinged with confusion and concern.

"Sir?" Flynn's voice trembled in the eerie silence. "Are you still with us?"

"We're here," Toksaris reassured. "The spell manipulates the air to bend light in a specific manner, akin to the distortion observed when gazing upon objects submerged underwater. This phenomenon, however, is potent enough to cloak us entirely from sight. Though, considering the deteriorated state of our foes' vision, this might be somewhat excessive."

With a gentle yet firm nudge, Buren urged Toksaris forward. The mage hesitated, his initial steps tentative, but the persistent pressure at his back soon propelled him into a more brisk pace.

Shielded by the invisibility spell, Buren guided Toksaris through the undulating mass of undead. The creatures, now grotesquely close, emitted a cacophony of tortured moans and guttural cries that reverberated ominously within the chamber. Buren moved with a predator's grace, each step a study in calculated precision, avoiding any inadvertent contact with the grotesque beings or the crunch of dried bones beneath their boots.

Toksaris, however, seemed on the verge of succumbing to the terror that clawed at his senses with each rasping breath of the undead. Buren could feel the mage's escalating panic, a volatile element in their precarious situation. Grasping Toksaris firmly by the shoulder, Buren offered both guidance and reassurance, steering him unerringly through the chaos. Toksaris had never aspired to be a front-line warrior; his dreams had always veered towards scholarly pursuits within the safe confines of Scythea's Grand Library or Academy, but had been compelled to join his cause and found himself thrust into the heat of danger Still, he still preferred to stay in the background, casting his spells from a safe distance. He was still not comfortable facing danger head on, not that he even attempted to acclimate as he kept telling everyone, including himself, that every battle would be his last before he retired from adventuring and went live a life of lavish luxury and scholarly pursuits, which he did not see conflicting with each other in any way.

Buren's coolheaded presence and steadfast grip anchored the trembling mage, who drew a fortifying breath, bracing himself for the journey ahead. Together, they navigated the sea of undead, skillfully evading the aimless, clawing hands that reached out to ensnare them. The pervasive stench of decay hung heavily in the air, a nauseating miasma that threatened to betray their presence with each suppressed gag.

With meticulous care, they forged a path through the chamber, Buren's vigilant guidance ensuring Toksaris remained grounded amidst his mounting anxiety. United, they traversed the labyrinthine throng of undead, their progress safeguarded by Buren's unwavering resolve and the potent shield of Toksaris's magical concealment.

Their onward journey was obstructed by a dense congregation of undead, their bodies festooned with gemstones and vivid, albeit aged, paintings. Buren deduced that these beings had rested here for centuries, perhaps millennia, their bodies honored with vibrant adornments by the worshippers of old. The oily sheen and fragrant scent clinging to their skin suggested an ancient method of embalming, a ritual to preserve their mortal vessels.

Buren gestured towards the yawning abyss, where a more navigable path beckoned from the other side. Toksaris responded with a shrug, his expression clearly conveying, "So what?"

Undeterred, Buren motioned for patience and mimicked the act of hurling something across the gaping chasm.

Realization dawned in Toksaris's eyes, followed swiftly by vehement head shaking. Yet, under the weight of Buren's commanding gaze and insistent gestures, he finally succumbed, wrapping his arms tightly around Buren's neck in a near-strangling grip.

With a grace that belied the weight they bore, Buren crouched, the Gauntlet lending them support even as Toksaris clung to him like a lifeline. This was uncharted territory for Buren, propelling not just himself but another across such a perilous gap, and he braced for the immense strain it would exert on his physique.

"On three?" Toksaris proposed, his voice tinged with anxiety as he began a shaky countdown. "One. Two. Wait, perhaps we should reconsider—"

With a surge of power, Buren catapulted them across the dark void, his muscles singing a tense, harmonious note akin to a harp's string drawn taut. They cleared the gaping maw of darkness, with Buren landing securely on his feet. Toksaris, however, lost his footing, hurtling towards a mound of desiccated bones. Swift as a shadow, Buren intercepted, snagging the mage by the lapel of his robe and leaving him dangling precariously above the bone pile, teetering on the brink of a graceless fall.

With a firm yet gentle tug, Buren steadied Toksaris, whose legs quivered like fragile reeds in a tempest.

"Let's vow never to repeat that," Toksaris murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. After regaining a semblance of composure, he added, "We must hasten; the spell's efficacy dwindles with each passing moment."

As they ventured closer to the malevolent heart pulsating within the crypt, the Gauntlet thrummed with increasing urgency. Buren extended his hand, the air crackling with unseen energies, as if he were gauging the heat of a fierce blaze. His senses honed in on a particular sarcophagus, its seal violated and lid slightly askew. Straining to peer within its dark confines with the aid of his torch, the shadows stubbornly cloaked its contents in mystery. Pushing the heavy stone cover aside would undoubtedly alert the lurking horrors to their presence. With a resigned exhale, he plunged his Gauntlet-clad arm into the darkness, navigating by the unique vibrational feedback it provided. Soon, it enclosed around an object pulsating with a sinister heartbeat.

Retrieving his arm, Buren scrutinized the artifact clutched within the Gauntlet's grasp. It was an ornate relic, forged from a metal that shimmered with an unholy light, adorned with cryptic symbols that eluded his recognition. Dark, dried blood stained its surface, filling the carved recesses with a grim history. He presented it to Toksaris, who examined it through the lens of his arcane knowledge, his face contorting in shock.

"It's a Stake!" he exclaimed, his voice echoing ominously within the chamber. "Though I've never encountered one, the literature describes them as bearing such markings and emanating this vile energy. Its presence here is no accident."

Buren regarded him with a quizzical expression, urging further explanation.

"A Catalyst is a magical conduit, facilitating the flow of energies within a designated vicinity. They come in various types, each influencing the nature of the energies they release. A Stake is like a thorn in the flesh of reality, driven there violently, and the power that emanates from it corrupts its surroundings. Magic of the most malevolent kind. This didn't just end up here by chance."

Before Toksaris could elaborate further, a decayed arm erupted from the sarcophagus, its gnarled fingers clutching desperately at his robe. A scream tore from Toksaris, his voice reaching a panicked crescendo as he fought to extricate himself from the deathly grip. With a fluid, decisive motion, Buren severed the arm at the wrist, allowing Toksaris to wrench it free and toss it away.

"Damnation!" Toksaris spat, his voice tinged with fear and anger. "I swear, this is the final time I succumb to your persuasive tactics. Another fright like this, and my hair will certainly turn gray. And that would be—"

His tirade died down when he noticed Buren's attention was focused elsewhere, behind his back. Toksaris then realized the invisibility spell had dissipated when his concentration wavered. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, and turned around, slowly and stiffly.

In the dim, flickering light, a chilling tableau unfolded before Toksaris. The undead horde had ceased their restless wanderings, their grotesque heads turned uniformly towards them, an audience of decay and death awaiting their next move.

The horde of undead, as if beckoned by a siren's call to a macabre feast, surged towards Buren and Toksaris with a newfound, horrifying vigor. Their grotesque forms, once languid and aimless, now propelled forward with a hunger that was both ravenous and terrifying. Trapped at the room's farthest reaches, the duo faced a grim choice: stand and fight or plunge into the abyss that yawned ominously behind them.

Buren motioned for Toksaris to stay back, his face a mask of fierce determination. Drawing his sword and brandishing the Gauntlet, he charged into the frenzied mass of decay with a warrior's resolve. His iron arm became a cyclone of destruction, cleaving through rotting flesh and shattering brittle bones with ruthless efficiency. The undead crumbled beneath his onslaught, limbs severed and skulls crushed under the relentless force of the Gauntlet. Buren sent body parts and debris flying, using the momentum to propel himself into the air and perform gravity-defying acrobatics. Each swing was a symphony of devastation, a dance of death where Buren soared and spun, evading the gnarled hands reaching out to ensnare him.

In the backdrop of this chaos, Toksaris conjured his own storm of destruction. His hands danced gracefully, tracing intricate patterns in the air as he chanted incantations steeped in ancient power. Arcane energy crackled from his fingertips, piercing the advancing horde with the precision of arrows. As the undead faltered, he summoned a barrier of roaring flames that engulfed and consumed their festering forms.

The battle became a maelstrom of death and destruction, a relentless tide that surged around them. Buren fought with a primal ferocity, his blade singing a deadly harmony with the Gauntlet's fury. He leaped upon a towering sarcophagus and rained down death upon those who dared to reach for him, only to leap back into the fray when the relentless undead managed to topple the structure.

A behemoth of an undead creature, adorned in a tapestry of gems and ancient jewelry, lunged towards him, its maw agape in a silent, eternal scream. With agility belying his size, Buren anchored the Gauntlet's talons into its fetid flesh, using his formidable strength to hurl the creature into a throng of its comrades, creating a symphony of shrieks and the sickening crunch of shattered bones.

As smaller, gnarled creatures threatened to engulf Buren with their sheer numbers, Toksaris conjured a whirlwind that lifted them from their feet, casting them into the abyss like discarded dolls.

United in purpose and resolve, Buren and Toksaris forged a path towards their entry point, their combined might carving a swath of destruction through the undead masses. Each step was hard-fought and perilous, their determination fueled by the mounting bodies of their foes. They would not falter, not while Buren still drew breath. After what he had already gone through, and knowing what kind of threat was to come, he would not be stopped by some crumbling carrions, no matter how many generations of them they faced.

But the undead were relentless, scrambling over one another to get to him. Buren was quickly running out of room to maneuver, and he was already stumbling over the still writhing undead remains piled at his feet.

As he fought, a grim realization dawned upon him. " There must have been centuries' worth of worshippers buried here," he mused, his blade cleaving through them with grim determination. Though the Gauntlet showed no signs of fatigue, Buren felt the strain of battle seeping into his very bones. He choked on the dust that billowed from the desiccated dead as they crumbled. The cloud of grime stung his lungs with every gasping breath, and he fleetingly wondered about contracting some lung disease if he survived this ordeal. But as the relentless undead forced him back, his survival seemed increasingly uncertain.

Amidst the cacophony of the undead, a vibrant cry pierced the gloom. Buren's gaze snapped towards the source, finding Flynn abandoning his hiding place to join the battle, brandishing a short sword and a flaming torch. He hurled curses at the undead and theatrically twirled the torch. Initially, Buren's face contorted in disapproval at the flamboyant display, as such a wasteful display of energy was not how he had taught the boy to fight. But as Flynn drew the attention of the undead, a flicker of pride ignited within Buren—his pupil demonstrated true initiative and courageous selflessness. However, his pride soon gave way to irritation and concern. Did the boy believe he couldn't handle himself? And what if Flynn got hurt while trying to protect him?

"Time to show him just how much help I need," Buren thought, and retreated to a massive stone slab, bracing himself against it with the Gauntlet. With a mighty push, he launched himself into a horizontal flight, his blade a vortex of death that cleaved through the undead ranks with unyielding force. As his momentum ebbed, he landed on one foot and one knee and skidded to a halt beside Flynn, who gazed at him with awe-stricken eyes.

"Nice of you to drop by, Sir," Flynn remarked, his voice tinged with admiration.

Buren responded by bisecting a corpse that had crept up on the unsuspecting boy.

"We'll need to refine your battlefield awareness once we return home," Buren remarked.

Flynn's face scrunched up at the thought of more training.

Suddenly, a pulsating pressure burgeoned within Buren's skull, a sensation mirrored by Flynn who began to probe his ears in discomfort. Toksaris' voice reverberated within their minds. "Keep them distracted," he said, the voice more felt than heard, the urgency in his mental tone unmistakable. "I believe I can neutralize the Stake's magic, but I'll be vulnerable during the incantation."

Buren's gaze swept across the battlefield, assessing the shifting dynamics. The undead seemed fixated on him and Flynn, leaving Toksaris momentarily overlooked in the chamber's recesses. A fragile barrier of ethereal light encased the mage, and Buren knew from earlier experience it would buy him some time, but under the sustained attack of so many, it would shatter like glass.

With a mental signal, akin to a psychic nod, Buren signaled Toksaris to commence.

"Alright, here goes," Toksaris answered.

Almost instantly, the heads of all the undead swiveled toward the mage.

"Flood me," Buren cursed mentally.

"What?" Toksaris cried via the mental link, and Buren made a note to watch his thoughts more carefully as long as the connection between them was open. "Did something happen? I need to focus on the Stake and can't look around to check!"

"Just keep working," Buren transmitted. "And be quick about it."

The tide of the undead shifted, like a putrid wave retreating to the ocean after crashing upon the shore, drawn towards the epicenter of magical disruption. The layout of the crosswalks and bridges over the abyss created many possible paths to the mage, and Buren quickly identified three critical junctures that needed fortification to safeguard Toksaris.

He turned to Flynn, his directive unequivocal. "Guard that walkway," he ordered, pointing towards a narrow passage.

"But how do I get there past all those—" Flynn began, only to be met with Buren's preparatory stance, hands interlocked and lowered, ready to catapult him across the chasm.

"Oh," Flynn swallowed, then forced himself to grin. "I'm going to have quite a story to tell back home."

With a running start, Flynn jumped, placing his foot on the hoist formed by Buren's interlinked fingers, and Buren sent him soaring gracefully across the void to land squarely on the designated walkway. The Gauntlet's precision was unerring, even when the target had been behind Buren's back. The narrowness of the overpass worked in Flynn's favor, as the undead could not make full use of their numerical advantage. Instead, they pushed one another over the edge as they tried to reach him.

Though it pained him to leave Flynn to fend for himself, Buren had to block two more paths, and for that, he needed Marett. He found the knight crouching near the chamber's entrance, with the remains of several living dead at his feet. Marett had pulverized them until they couldn't move, yet their muscles still twitched, even when the bones they were attached to lay in shattered pieces.

Buren knelt beside him, his voice urgent and commanding. "I need you to stop the dead from getting to Toksaris."

Marett's response was a smirk, a grotesque amalgamation of fear and conceit. "I'm not going to do that."

Buren's glare could have scorched stone, so intense was the fury radiating from him.

Marett leaned in, his voice dripping with malicious glee. "Let the magician die, that is what the King wants, after all. We don't need those accursed corpses to collapse these tunnels: we can do it ourselves. Get your squire and we'll leave this place, and I promise I won't inform the King of your earlier...conflict. You would look good in the eyes of both the Crown and the Faith. If you would also tell of my heroism down here, I would certainly appreciate it. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, get it?"

No matter how he tried to deny it, the man had an excellent point. After all, he was here to gain the King's favor. He would be stupid not to take the chance. His gaze drifted towards Toksaris, his loyal companion engrossed in a fervent chant, a beacon of determination amidst the encroaching darkness.

With a heavy heart laden with the burden of choice, Buren knew the path he must tread. One more person would have to be sacrificed for the greater good.

With a reluctant nod, he acquiesced. "Very well. But he must first finalize the spell."

Marett's triumphant grin faltered, replaced by a questioning frown. "Why?"

"Consider a magical relic capable of resurrecting the dead, compelling them to assail even those they once cherished. Picture the immense value it would hold for the King, or any power-hungry entity, for that matter. We stand to gain far more than mere accolades for a mission accomplished," Buren said, his voice tinged with a dark promise. He raised his right arm, the Gauntlet gleaming ominously, and clenched it into a fist before Marett's face. "A magical object of that caliber is sure to make the person who secures it a hero."

Marett licked his lips. Greed shone in his eyes as he beheld the Gauntlet, and Buren could all but see his fantasy of holding an artifact of his own, a tool that would elevate him to Buren's stature, perhaps even higher. He spoke, his voice tinged with avarice and ambition, "On one condition: I will be the one to present it to the King. I will admit you helped in acquiring it, but most of the glory will be mine."

Buren inclined his head, considering for a moment. Then he nodded. "There will be no mention that would tarnish my reputation as a Penitent Knight."

"We have a deal," Marett agreed, his voice echoing with newfound resolve. Together, they rose, Buren leading the charge as they navigated the battlefield with agile leaps from one precarious bridge to another, outpacing the relentless horde. Marett swung his hammer with ruthless efficiency, his blows sending the desiccated bodies of the undead spiraling into the abyss below. His greed seemed to eclipse his fear, fueling a relentless onslaught devoid of hesitation, and no low ceiling to limit his attack.

Buren danced across the battlefield, a whirlwind of lethal grace, cutting down the undead that clawed desperately at the mage's flickering barrier. He then stationed himself at the third critical juncture, a fractured stone bridge that bore the marks of time and conflict. The undead seemed to grow more frantic, their link to the Stake driving them to defend the artifact from the mage's interference.

"Nearly there!" Toksaris conveyed, his mental voice strained, the urgency palpable even through their ethereal connection.

The undead began to bypass Buren, their focus singularly directed towards the vulnerable mage.

Buren quickly deduced the shift in their behavior. "Toksaris' efforts must be nearing completion," he realized. There were more of the dead than he could hope to vanquish, and he realized he would need to find another way to stem their overwhelming onslaught.

His gaze settled on the crumbling bridge beneath him, a desperate plan crystallizing in his mind. If he could collapse the bridge, it would halt the undead's advance, buying Toksaris precious time.

With resolve steeling his frame, Buren hoisted the Iron Hand high, bringing it crashing down upon the ancient stones with a force that reverberated through the battlefield. The impact sent a jarring shockwave up his arm, a symphony of grinding stone echoing ominously in the cavernous space. The initial blow birthed a network of cracks that marred the bridge's surface, yet it remained stubbornly intact. With gritted teeth and a silent vow, Buren struck again, the Gauntlet amplifying the destructive force, deepening the fissures that threatened to engulf the bridge.

With a final, resounding crash, Buren unleashed a blow that shattered the bridge's resistance. The structure yielded with a thunderous roar, succumbing to the relentless assault as it fragmented, plunging into the abyss below, dragging the frenzied undead with it.

Buren stepped back, his breath ragged, as he witnessed the undead's descent into the void, their frantic grasps and gnarls swallowed by the engulfing darkness.

Buren's body still tingled from the powerful blows he had dealt, the reverberations of the Gauntlet's strikes lingering like phantom sensations. Across the gaping chasm, the remaining undead shrieked in fury, their path now severed. A few ventured desperate leaps, only to fall short, their cries echoing as they joined their fallen brethren. The majority redirected their assault, converging upon the remaining paths where Flynn and Marett held their ground.

Buren's gaze shifted to his beleaguered companions. Flynn's visage was slick with sweat, his youthful face marred by scratches and the strain of relentless combat, his position gradually yielding to the undead's ceaseless advance.

Marett, too, was visibly flagging, the once powerful arcs of his hammer now sluggish and lacking their earlier ferocity.

Buren's heart wrenched as he surveyed the battlefield, knowing he could only lend his strength to one of them. His gaze lingered on Flynn for a heartbeat longer before he turned, moving decisively towards Marett. The potential gains were greater here, and he had to place faith in Flynn's burgeoning resilience, at least for a little while longer.

Suddenly, Toksaris' frantic thoughts reverberated in their minds, "I think I've managed to—oh by the Floo-" His words were severed by a blinding eruption of light, followed by a cacophony that resembled thunder reverberating through the subterranean chamber. A shockwave rippled through them, unsteadying Buren and Marett, and sending the lighter undead sprawling. The chamber was engulfed in a series of radiant explosions, forcing all combatants to momentarily seek refuge from the magical tempest that raged around them.

"He must be almost done!" Marett shouted. " Now, if these monsters don't finish him off, I'd be more than willing to do the honors. I've got a score to settle with that pompous sissy, anyway."

Buren locked eyes with Marett, no longer concealing his true emotions. Marett must have glimpsed his impending doom within those icy, calculating depths, for a mask of terror replaced his smug expression. He attempted to lift his hammer in defense, but his reactions were sluggish, too late to prevent the inevitable. The Gauntlet shot forward, seizing Marett's face in an unyielding grip. With a swift, merciless twist, Buren snapped Marett's head so that it faced backward. The knight's body slackened instantly, a lifeless husk that Buren unceremoniously shoved over the edge.

In the ensuing moments, a final surge of energy, more potent than its predecessors, engulfed the chamber, casting Buren to the ground amidst a sea of bodies. The undead collapsed atop him, and he struggled to free him from under their weight before they got the chance to tear into him. After a moment he realized his fight was unnecessary: the corpses were once again just dead weight.

"Sleep again," he heard one of them whisper before succumbing to eternal stillness.

Regaining his footing, a frigid grip of fear seized Buren's heart as he scanned the battlefield, finding no sign of Flynn or Toksaris. He rushed to the spot where he had last seen his squire and shoved aside the unmoving corpses that littered the area but could not find him.

"Over here!" Flynn's pained groan reached Buren's ears, and it took him a moment to realize the sound came from beyond the edge. His heart leapt as he discovered Flynn clinging desperately to the sheer cliffside. Wasting no time, Buren extended the Gauntlet, effortlessly hauling Flynn back to safety.

Flynn stumbled, his legs giving way as he found solid ground once more.

"The blast knocked me over," he gasped, his breath coming in ragged spurts. "Boy, that was close. I would have fell straight into Tartarus if I hadn't managed to grab on."

"I'm glad you didn't," Toksaris said as he pranced over the dead. "A dreadful place, and I speak of experience."

His gaze swept the vicinity, settling on the conspicuous absence of Marett. "Where has that oaf wandered off to?"

"He didn't make it," Buren declared, his voice devoid of emotion.

Shock and dismay mirrored in Flynn and Toksaris' expressions.

"Blast it," Toksaris muttered, his face contorting in a grimace of regret. "He may have been a fool, but no one deserves to perish in such a forsaken place. It wasn't the shockwave, was it?"

Buren shook his head, a gesture that seemed to bring a modicum of relief to the mage. "May his spirit find peace," Toksaris murmured, his voice tinged with solemnity. "The Disturbance has been dammed, at least, so his chances of remaining here as a vengeful spirit are no higher than usual. Hopefully he did not feel particularly betrayed at the moment of his death."

Buren remained silent, his gaze shifting pointedly to the artifact clutched in Toksaris' grasp.

"This?" Toksaris queried, his grip tightening defensively on the Stake. "I intend to present it to the masters for analysis."

Buren extended his hand, his palm open yet insistent.

Toksaris hesitated, his face contorting in a frown of resistance. "I'm not giving this up so easily."

The weight of Buren's unwavering gaze bore down upon him, a silent demand echoing louder than any words.

The mage squirmed under his intense gaze. "I mean, what would you even do with it?"

After another moment of the unyielding staredown, the mage finally relinquished the relic with a begrudging hand. "Be forewarned," he intoned, leveling an accusing finger at Buren. " If the masters ask, I'll tell them you took it by force, and you don't want to get on their bad side."

Buren pocketed the item, noting how it no longer pulsed in his hand, and strode out of the chamber.

Upon reaching the sanctum nestled in the upper echelons of the catacombs, they were met by the spectral figure of the undead priestess, her ethereal presence a beacon of solemnity amidst the darkness.

"You have performed admirably," she commended, her voice a haunting melody of gratitude echoing through the hollow expanse. "Our kin and forebears can finally embrace the tranquility of eternal rest, unburdened by the malevolent forces that plagued them."

Her vacant gaze swept over the labyrinthine tunnels that sprawled around them, a network of darkness and secrets. "I must urge you to vacate this sacred ground forthwith. It is my intention to seal these passages, safeguarding the sanctity of their eternal repose from further violations. There remains much to be done to appease the spirits of our ancestors."

Buren presented the Stake to her, watching as her decayed features twisted in a dance of anger and sorrow. "The malefactors who caused our demise must have brought this accursed artifact with them. Even now, I perceive a faint residue of the insanity it once harbored, though it is but a whisper of its former malevolence."

Her gaze bore into Buren, a plea resonating in her firm yet beseeching tone. "I entrust this to your care. Ensure it never resurfaces to sow chaos amongst the living or the departed."

With a grave nod of understanding, Buren and his companions readied themselves to depart from the forsaken depths that housed echoes of a time long past.

"As you venture forth, accept our deepest gratitude," the priestess murmured, her voice a gentle caress in the oppressive darkness. "Few possess the courage to face such perils on behalf of the forgotten. I regret that we cannot offer more in recompense for your valor. Know that your names will be etched into these hallowed walls, your bravery echoed in the eternal hymns that resonate within these shadowed corridors."

Flynn's face lit up with a youthful glow of pride, his chest puffing out slightly. "All in a day's work," he declared, his voice brimming with newfound confidence.

Toksaris shot him a cautionary glance, his voice tinged with the wisdom of experience. " Don't get used to it. If you think most adventures can be wrapped up so neatly, you're in for a rude awakening. That's another thing I've learned by travelling with our fearless leader."

Buren, engrossed in examining the Stake, which he held delicately between the metallic talons of the Gauntlet, could not help but resign to agree.