“What is the matter, Seamus? Stuck between a rock and a hard crate, eh?”. Aeron’s voice sliced through the tension with amusement. “You look like one of the barrels has sprouted legs.”

“Aeron, I swear, if you keep this up…” Seamus grumbled, wedging himself through the small opening of the gate.

“That’s no way to talk to a friend who is about to return your lost property.” Aeron juggled Seamus’s wallet from hand to hand. “Found this on your not-so-drunk friend.” He tossed it to Seamus. “Thank me later.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Seamus grumbled. “But we don’t have time for this. I think I hear voices ahead.”

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Aeron squeezed through the crates nimbly, falling into step beside Seamus. Together they descended the long, narrow tunnel, the air growing colder and thicker the deeper with every step. Seamus led the way, his enhanced vision still bright. Harsh, sarcastic-sounding laughter echoed through the tunnel.

“Sounds like your quarry is having a disagreement.” Aeron hissed. They reached a heavy door. “I can’t make out what they are saying. That is not Old-Elven I think, but something close.”

More shouts, followed by the crash of something shattering. “Whoever it is, they don’t sound happy.” Seamus tested the door. It was locked tight. Another crash came from inside, louder this time. “We need to move. She’s in trouble.”

“So, do we knock, or do we crash this party?”

Seamus tested the door handle. “Locked.” A loud boom reverberated from the room. “We’re crashing.”