Frank’s son arrived just as the sun dipped below the horizon. His shirt was in tatters with patches of dried blood spattered across his chest and sleeves. His hair clumped in matted tangles, and he moved with a labored limp. He looked like he’d been through a war. Before he even spoke a word, he staggered to the nearest plate of food, and tore into it with ravenous desperation.

Between gulps and half-chewed mouthfuls, he told us that his father, Frank, was dead. And not only that, but the other two sons were being held prisoner at Kittrell. I clenched my fist as anger welled up inside me. Whoever did this to Frank was going to pay, and pay dearly.

Midway through his story, a notification that I hadn’t seen before appeared in my vision, and judging by the reaction of the people around me, they received it too. A murmur rose from the others around me, each of them glancing at invisible notifications of their own.

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“The gods have spoken,” someone muttered reverently, their voice barely louder than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might offend the unseen power behind the message.

The notification was brief, mostly an assortment of minor adjustments and changes to skills, passives, and relics—abilities I knew little about. But toward the end of the message, one line made me freeze. Under the ‘Minor Fixes’ section, there it was: ‘Fixed minor typographical errors and an omitted step in the sand-covered riddle.’

My mind raced, realization dawning on me with an almost physical weight. The implications started piling up fast, each one worse than the last.

Ah .. fuck.