As the evacuation efforts stabilize, Master Asphyr takes charge of Aethyr’s recovery. Noticing Aethyr’s hurried attempts to heal himself with herbs and basic green magic, Asphyr steps in, his mastery evident. Gently but firmly, he takes Aethyr’s hands, signaling for him to stop. With practiced precision, he applies a series of potions and potent balms, which instantly start soothing the raw sting of his wounds. Rumors whispered among the soldiers suggest that Asphyr's abilities extend far beyond ordinary healing—some claim he could even revive someone with just a fragment of bone, though few believe it fully. Without exchanging words, Aethyr and Asphyr share only a look and a nod, a mutual respect forged through years of training.
Meanwhile, Armborn stands guard, his keen eyes scanning for any lurking threats, while Hestla keeps a vigilant watch for ambushes. With all patients now stabilized and escorted to safety, a package arrives for Aethyr—a fresh set of armor from Eorlund, the master blacksmith of legend. This new armor is crafted with mobility in mind, sealing fully from head to toe, but designed to be as light as it is protective. Each joint is reinforced, yet flexible, allowing Aethyr full range of motion, vital for the treacherous terrain he will face below. He feels a surge of strength and determination as he fastens the final piece. Before he descends, Hestla tosses him a crossbow loaded with bolts. “Bring it back when you’re done, or I’ll crack your ribs myself,” she says with a smirk.
Descending to floor 49, Aethyr steps into a strange, ominous chamber. The air is thick with toxic fumes, and a slick film coats the stone floors. Small pools of venomous sludge bubble ominously, while intricate traps line the walls. Thanks to Eorlund’s design and layers of purification enchantments, Aethyr’s armor shields him from the poisonous substances and allows him to maneuver with ease.
As he ventures deeper into the labyrinthine corridors, Aethyr encounters a seemingly dead-end room—a large, vaulted chamber devoid of life or movement. At the center stands a massive dwarven statue, its stone face grim and unyielding. Beside it, a sconce sits in a shadowed alcove. Aethyr strikes flint to light it, but no flame catches, as though the torch itself resists ignition. Searching for clues, he notices a carved dwarven inscription on the statue’s base:
“Hazdûn Anarak dal Khorin, zara gan môr-thûl ra anakhrâ. Threnûn lor'dûl, gan rashûr tavuk.”
Pondering the cryptic text, he translates it slowly: “One must honor the flames of the ancestors; only through tribute will the path reveal itself.”
With this clue in mind, Aethyr examines the area around the statue more closely. He spots a small, hollowed basin near its feet—likely a place for offerings. He digs into his satchel, pulling out various items, unsure of what will appease the ancient dwarven mechanism. Finally, he places a vial of fine dwarven ale, a rare find he’d saved for emergencies, into the basin.
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The room rumbles slightly, and the sconce flickers with a faint, ghostly blue flame. But the passage still does not open. Searching his memory, he recalls a teaching from the dwarven lorekeepers: “Dwarven ancestors value elements of both fire and earth.” Thinking fast, he places a polished gem, one he found from the upper levels, into the basin alongside the ale.
With a loud click, a hidden compartment in the statue opens, revealing an ancient dwarven pickaxe. The inscription near it reads:
“Lârdûm Arkun dal-Mazurak, îlân faruk'dûn gâlur.”
Translating, Aethyr reads, “With strength of earth and flame’s might, carve the path.”
Understanding the hint, Aethyr hefts the pickaxe and strikes the floor directly in front of the statue. As the pickaxe hits the ground, the stone splits, revealing a spiral staircase descending to an unseen depth below. Gripping his new weapon tightly, he steps forward, prepared to confront whatever awaits on floor 50.
The scene at the infirmary was one of somber disbelief. Rows upon rows of stretchers arrived, each carrying victims pulled from the depths of the dungeon. Some of the rescued were unrecognizable, their bodies twisted by the effects of strange magic and dark mutations—yet their souls, somehow, remained intact. Their eyes flickered with the remnants of their humanity, bearing silent witness to the horrors they had endured. The skilled hands of the magical medics moved swiftly over those in the worst condition, administering treatments and chanting healing spells with quiet urgency.
Word of the dungeon’s captives spread through Ashmark like wildfire, and soon, families gathered in grief and shock. For many, there was at least some solace in the certainty of knowing their loved ones’ fate. The pain was deep, but closure was a cold comfort to those who could now mourn. Yet for others, the torment was not over. Families sat beside their injured kin, who trembled with lingering fear, eyes haunted by memories they dared not speak aloud.
Overseeing it all, the Jarl of Ashmark, Kym, stood silent and pale. His expression betrayed his horror as he looked upon the faces of his own kin, the elves of Ashmark, laid low by the treachery of the very mountain they had revered for generations. The mountain they once adorned with offerings had, in grim betrayal, claimed more of them than he could count. His mind reeled with the scale of it, the sacred turned profane, leaving behind a shadow on their very faith.
Clenching his jaw, Jarl Kym vowed to secure Ashmark as it had never been secured before, a fortress of protection against whatever malevolent forces lurked within the cursed dungeon. He could think only of the brave young warrior, Aethyr, who had dared venture so far into the mountain's heart. Kym’s gaze hardened with determination; he needed Aethyr’s report—needed to know the truth about the darkness festering within the stone walls of their sacred land.
Meanwhile, far below, Aethyr continued his descent down the endless circular staircase to the 50th floor. Shadows clung to the narrow stone walls, and a chill began to thicken the air with every step. The silence was unnatural, as though the darkness itself was listening, waiting. Each twist of the stairwell seemed to drag him further into a void untouched by light or hope, the walls closing in with an almost suffocating stillness. The sense of foreboding deepened, an ancient and malevolent presence lurking just beyond the shadows, its gaze fixed upon him.
The descent was like a dark ritual, each step sealing his fate and binding him to the unknown horrors that lay ahead.
To be continued…