Part of the castle was in the middle of the lake. A small building with huge, ornate windows. Something inside glittered beautifully in the sunlight, though Owin couldn’t tell what it was from so far away. A bridge that looked like it was sticking together by threads connected the small building with the rest of the castle, which was separated from the mainland by a moat.

Artivan stood on the edge of the moat, which was a good ten feet from the edge to the dark castle stones. The water rushed through, dark as it moved, hiding the depth of the bottom. All Owin could think about was the water grabbing hold of him and throwing him out into the lake, too far away to be saved.

The gatehouse jutted out from the main wall with thin arrow slits on both sides of a raised drawbridge. It was the only obvious way in, though with it raised, there wasn’t a clear way to get through.

“This is the only entrance?” Owin asked.

“I walked all the way around the last time I was here. Nothing. The moat gets even wider in some sections. Never thinner. We need to find some way to open the drawbridge. If it was easy, it wouldn’t be a secret. It’s difficult to miss the castle here.”

It was huge. The dark stone was a stark monument on the horizon even from the hobgoblin town. Whatever secrets Ruvaine hid inside were going to be more than simply difficult to unveil.

“Jumping the moat would be easy,” Artivan said. “But then what?”

“Can we destroy the bridge?”

Artivan pointed at the raised wooden bridge. “Flare Burst.” Luminous flames appeared on the wooden, but quickly fizzled out. “That’s my only ranged attack.”

Owin looked down into the dark waters. Throwing the hammer was his best ranged option, but if it didn’t work, or if he missed, he might lose the hammer forever.

“Don’t throw the hammer,” Artivan said.

Owin shot him a look. “How did you know?”

“You’re predictable, little goblin. You jump or throw. Your moves and attacks haven’t been all that different from one another. Ogre? Jump. Hobgoblin? Jump. Scaltari? Both.”

“I could do something different,” Owin said, ready to argue. Before he had the chance to say anything else, he had trouble imagining even a single other way to fight. Berserkers had abilities that helped them charge forward, while knights and soldiers had shields and weapons to block and parry. Real wizards, not deficient ones like Owin, had plenty of spells to work with, especially by the time they reached the fourth floor of a dungeon. What else could he do?

“Never mind,” Owin said.

“You will learn new techniques as your skills grow. You may not get new abilities and spells like every other hero, but that won’t stop you from improving.” Artivan looked around the ground and used his armored foot to kick a few patches of grass until he found a decent rock. He tossed it and swiftly snatched it out of the air.

“I can throw harder than you,” Owin said.

“And with the five points you have in dexterity, you might end up throwing it backward through my skull.” Artivan positioned himself right in front of the drawbridge and adjusted his grip on the rock. “If I can damage the bridge, that will give us an idea of ways to get inside. I know going on the roof doesn’t work. I heard a story of an umbra who teleported up top and slipped right off as if he had stepped onto grease.”

“I have thirty points,” Owin said.

“I’m not entirely sure that the difference matters. Anything below fifty is useless.”

“Wisdom and charisma are lower,” Owin muttered.

Artivan whipped his arm around and threw the rock. It pinged off the wood, booming out a loud, but empty thunk, before the rock dropped into the rushing moat. “That wasn’t entirely unexpected.” The knight waved Owin on, leading him along the moat. “Perhaps the entrance is hidden like the labyrinth.”

Owin kept his eyes on the water as Artivan walked perilously close to the edge. The old knight didn’t seem bothered by the possibility of falling in, or he was oblivious to just how close he was.

“Low wisdom and charisma don’t show themselves as much as the other stats would if they were that low. Let’s just say that a low charisma won’t be helping you make friends. Being a goblin isn’t going to assist that either. And wisdom . . . it’s what magus and menders use for spells. I can’t say mine is all that high either. It helps with common sense, intuition, and understanding people. While I feel I can still do those things, someone with higher wisdom likely does much better.”

“What’s common sense?”

Artivan clapped his armored hands together. “And that, little goblin, might just be the evidence you are looking for.”

“I don’t understand.”

Artivan looked over his shoulder. His face was mostly hidden in shadow under the raised visor of his helmet. “You will someday.”

From outside, the main hall of the castle looked like it was at least as big as the Malignant Spirit’s cathedral. It was difficult to tell from the outside. There weren't as many ornamentations on the walls as there had been on the cathedral, and the castle was shorter, but most of the ceiling had been empty space in the cathedral that did little more than make sound bounce around wildly.

It took them a while to walk around the main hall, and all Owin could do was watch the dark water below. He kept back from the edge, but the flowing water was still visible wherever he went, like it was always reminding him that it could sweep him away and kill him like it was nothing.

The forest continued all around them, rising away from the lake on a gradual slope. Birch trees of all sizes grew in the forest as the only tree, though various bushes and flowers covered the ground throughout the forest. Birds continued chirping happily, and Owin spotted a few small animals darting through the underbrush.

Compared to the second floor, looking out into the forest felt less threatening. There hadn’t been anything dangerous stalking through the woods that Owin had seen. Not like the bears and wolves on the second floor. It was a peaceful forest with aggressive creatures living in the caves and ruins.

A passageway led from the main hall to a separate room that was covered in massive, ornate stained glass windows. The whole design of the room looked different from what little could be seen outside. Owin stared at the stained glass, trying to make sense of it as Artivan stopped on the edge again, placing his hands on his hips.

“Whatever is important inside must lie within that room,” he said.

Owin kept walking, hoping to circle around the other side to see the other windows. Deciphering the shapes was difficult. There was something vaguely humanoid, and many colorful things swirling about in the biggest of the windows. Maybe a wizard?

A bit of dirt crumbled near the edge, tumbling down into the dark waters below. Owin took a step back, still staring at the window. There was a sliver of something that looked as though it could be a staff. Maybe only wizards could enter the castle?

His leg bumped into a bush. A small stick jabbed him in the leg, not even damaging his health bar. The two smaller stained glass windows on each side were easier to see. One was clearly a hobgoblin, posing and flexing. Its bright yellow hair was the easy sign, along with the cool colored skin. On the opposite side was an ogre. The massive splotch of gray in an otherwise colorful stained glass display made the ogre shape with the long, bristle hairs obvious. The center window was much larger, causing Owin to back up even farther, pushing through the bush. If his constitution had been lower, the branches would have scraped up his legs, but now they were hardly noticeable, not even leaving marks on his green skin.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Above the top of what Owin thought was the wizard’s head was a violet halo. He hadn’t seen any spells or creatures with a halo, and he couldn’t think of anything Artivan had said that would fit that description.

He took another step back. The world flipped. Owin scrambled for footing as he fell backward. He flailed and failed to grab onto anything. His head smashed into a step, lowering his health by one. His feet flipped over, and before he could recover, Owin was tumbling backward down a set of spiral stairs, constantly smashing into the wall as it turned.

It felt like a full minute before he rolled over and finally landed on his face. His health had only dropped a few points, which hardly mattered. The embarrassment was worse.

“Owin?” Artivan called, voice distant.

“Down here,” Owin called. He jumped to his feet, brushed off dirt, and surveyed his surroundings.

It was dark. Survey done.

“Down where?” Artivan’s metal armor clanked above. “Owin?”

“In the bush!”

He could hear Artivan rustling around above. The bush shook and armor clanked about. “Oh. Stairs?”

Owin waited until Artivan reached the bottom. He thought he looked casual, keeping the Thunderstrike Maul on his shoulder as he leaned on the wall, waiting.

“You fell down the stairs, didn’t you?”

“No.”

Artivan walked up and brushed dust off Owin’s hair and the back of his shirt.

“I thought I got all the dust,” Owin said.

“Yeah . . .” Artivan looked into the darkness beyond. “I finally get to use my torch, don’t I?”

“You have a torch?”

Artivan made a face Owin hadn’t seen before. He looked like he was going to laugh, but somehow still serious. The old knight pulled out a wooden stick with a bundle of thorny material on the end. “What kind of hero doesn’t have a torch?”

“Me.”

“Other than you.” Artivan smashed the bundled end on the wall. The thorn-like material sparked and ignited, throwing firelight down a long hallway.

“What is that?”

“Blaze vine. Most alchemists grow it in the outside world.” He tapped it on the wall again, causing it to spark more. “Very helpful. It burns for hours.”

“What if you need it to stop burning?”

“Water. Urine. Whatever works.”

Owin scowled. Had Artivan peed on that torch before? If so, was that the source of the slightly off putting smell coming from the torch?

Roots poked through crumbling stone bricks all down the hallway. Nothing adorned the walls. Bits of frayed carpet covered the floor, though what was left crumbled from the slightest touch.

Owin sucked in air through his nose. It was damp and musty, reminding him of the labyrinth. “Is it going to flood?”

Artivan smacked his armored fist against the wall. Some bits of stone crumbled. “Doesn’t seem like it. With the roots from the trees above poking through, water would already have a way inside.”

The hall was wide enough for them to walk side by side. The blaze vine torch burned brightly, but not strong enough to cast light to the other side, however far away that was. Artivan led again, walking confidently as his armored steps echoed.

What Owin didn’t understand was the thick layer of dust covering the floor. Things didn’t change in the dungeons. They respawned a half hour later, back to exactly as they had been before. Even the damage from Nikoletta’s fight against Charzosk had been fixed when the boss respawned. The ruins of the hobgoblin town and the dust in the hall were placed to specifically make the areas look old and ruined. But why?

“Is there anything in your history about what was before the dungeons?” Owin asked.

“Before? Nothing was before. The dungeons and humanity were made at the same time. The first humans lived in villages around the dungeons. There are some written records, and sometimes people still find some artifacts buried around one of the entrances. That’s actually why there are other forts outside the Fortress Dungeon. Vekuborg is so far away because of . . .”

Artivan looked down at Owin. “You don’t know where any of that is, so I’m not going to keep throwing names at you. Really, the gods of the dungeons also created us. Why do you ask?”

Owin crouched and ran his finger through the dust, letting a thick chunk build up on the end of his finger. “Where did the dust come from if things don’t age? Why are there ruins?”

Artivan lifted the torch to the crumbling ceiling. Roots shriveled under the heat and light. “A question I hadn’t previously considered, little goblin.”

“Gropnil had told me that the Malignant Spirit was an enemy of Ruvaine. One of the Lords of the Abyss.”

“Okay . . .” Artivan repositioned the torch so he could see Owin’s face. The light was harsh. “Who is Gropnil?”

“Leader of the satyrs.”

“Right. So, a mob believed this boss that always appears on the second level is an enemy of the Great Forest Goddess?”

Owin nodded. The hall ended abruptly with a black iron door that seemed to grow bigger the closer they got. “I believed it too because I was still figuring out what was happening after I awoke. Gropnil was sure the Malignant Spirit was an enemy of Ruvaine. Now, seeing this dust and the ruins, I feel like there is some story Ruvaine is trying to tell in the dungeon. If nothing ages, why make it look old if there isn’t a purpose?”

Artivan stopped in front of the door, holding the torch close. The dark metal ate the light, refusing to reflect anything back. There were designs that looked like little more than swirls to Owin. There was no handle, though it was undoubtedly a door.

“There were undead on the second and fourth floors,” he said as he ran his hand along a groove in the door. “Nothing connects the goblin caves with anything else. The scaltari don’t show up again in the Great Forest either, from what I’ve heard.”

One small design on the door stood out, happily reflecting the torch’s light. It was nothing more than a little silver ring near the top. Owin stood on his toes, trying to get even a slightly better view, but the dark metal was too difficult to see in the low light. Bulges and swirls throughout the door combined to make some design or shape that was going to remain a mystery.

Artivan pressed his fist against a section of the door, pushing in a hidden button. The door automatically slid open, grinding loudly as it moved.

“How did you know to look?” Owin asked. He hadn’t seen a thing.

“If there isn’t a handle, then the door has to open some other way.” Artivan stuck the torch through the tall doorway, revealing a steep set of stairs down. “Lower?”

“If we don’t go down, we go back up,” Owin said.

Artivan held the torch high, casting the light as far down as possible as they descended. Owin stayed right at his side, hands wrapped tightly around the Thunderstrike Maul. It was too narrow of a hall to use the hammer properly, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying. Having to go back to relying on non-magical knives wasn’t going to get Owin far. His weapons needed to get stronger as he climbed the floors or he would be overwhelmed easily. If he only had the stone knife and bolt wand still, he would have been crushed by the ogres.

They descended for nearly a minute before hitting the bottom. Torchlight revealed a room that looked uncomfortably familiar. Shelves covered both walls, placed right in front of sarcophagi that had been built into the stone walls. The center held a massive sarcophagus with two violet swirling spires on each side.

Some of the box-like shelves held skulls, though most were empty. Owin looked over them all, watching for eyes that met his own. Luckily, they were all clean, unmoving bones. Artivan crept forward, keeping his eyes locked on the center sarcophagus.

“The last sarcophagus like that one had a decayed scaltari,” Owin said.

“I don’t think we’re going to face a weak mob down here.”

The Sovereign One Rises

The entire room shook. It was like a distant earthquake that only caused the room to sway back and forth. Artivan immediately threw his torch to the side and drew his winged sword.

“Get behind me.” He looked back. “Now.”

Owin did as he was told. He stood directly behind Artivan, peeking to the side of the massive knight. Artivan shifted his stance into his defensive pose with his ruined shield out front.

The top of the sarcophagus exploded off and crashed into the ceiling where it shattered and rained stone and dust. A violet light glowed inside the sarcophagus, shining on the dust that hung in the air.

“Who is the Sovereign One?” Owin asked.

“I don’t know.” Artivan flashed white. The stones under his feet cracked with the sudden change in weight. “We move together. You’re fast enough to stick with me even when I dodge. I expect you to stay behind me until it’s your time to charge.”

Owin nodded, knowing that Artivan couldn’t see him. The knight wasn’t looking for an answer anyway. It wasn’t a question. A pulse of energy hummed through the room, shaking Owin’s ribs.

A Cursed has been summoned

The Sovereign One - 50% Awakened

Level 30

Owin didn’t use Examine. The words had appeared in his vision just like they had with the Malignant Spirit.

“This is a boss,” Owin said.

“A secret boss. I didn’t know they existed.”

A door slammed shut behind them, locking them in the crypt.

The Sovereign One floated out of the sarcophagus. Long, thick hair hung from its fleshless head. A violet halo hovered right over the top, casting its light through the room. Purple eyes glared at Artivan as another pulse of energy erupted from the lich.

It held no weapons and wore no clothes. Its body was half skin, half bone. Some strands of sinew stuck out of tears in the flesh along arms and legs. 50% awakened left the Sovereign One in rough shape.

Gray mist trailed behind its skeletal fingers as it examined its own hand. The lich looked at both hands and laughed. The deep, horrible laugh echoed in the small room. The skulls on the shelves laughed back.