As Zeus turned slowly, the creaking of his movements mirrored the weight of tension in the air. His gaze fixated on the devil, Raphael, standing at the entrance of the mausoleum. The massive iron doors loomed behind Raphael, now warped and bent as if something monstrous had torn them from within. The metal, pitted and aged, looked like the withered skin of an ancient being.
Raphael, draped in the flickering shadows, spoke with his usual cadence, weaving a taunting melody of words. His voice was a haunting echo, dripping with mockery as he recited his foreboding rhyme:
"Our hero thought but of treasure ahead,
Did not consider the peace of the dead...
Through the dark he went creeping,
And awoke what was sleeping...
A new grave they dug, which she herself fed."
He paused, his eyes gleaming with expectation, clearly waiting for a retort from the group. But no one spoke. The silence was heavy, not out of fear, but because all eyes were on Zeus, whose immovable form stood like a statue. His aura, menacing and unreadable, cast an eerie stillness over the scene.
Wyll, knowing more about devils than most, took the lead. He stepped forward. "A warning? Don't tell me you're concerned for us," he said, trying to sound confident.
Raphael's smile curled, sharp and dangerous. "Merely protecting my investments. I've grown quite fond of you all—if only in my own way. I thought it only fair to warn you about the dangers ahead." His gaze flickered to Zeus for the briefest moment.
"We can handle ourselves," Wyll replied, but the crack in his voice betrayed him. Minthara’s death still haunted him, and Raphael's keen ears picked up on it.
The devil’s smile widened, predatory and knowing. "Intrepid as ever. But it would be pointless to try to stop you. Instead, I offer preparation. Consider it... setting the stage."
"Then paint us a picture," Wyll responded, though there was an underlying wariness.
Raphael's voice softened into a serpentine whisper. "Down in the dark, a great drama plays out, suspended in time. Its actors remain, trapped in their endless, tired scenes. But if you, in your boldness, creep through the dark and wake what sleeps… more than just your graves will be filled."
Zeus, spoke for the first time, his voice vibrating through the group like an earthquake. "Explain further."
The devil’s playful demeanor hardened for a moment as he realized Zeus was not one to be toyed with. "There’s a creature in the shadows. Infernal, like me—yet infinitely more dangerous." His voice dripped with venomous spite. "Should it escape through those very doors you're about to swing open, you'll unleash carnage incarnate upon this realm."
Zeus’s stillness was unnerving. "What kind of creature?"
Karlach, a seasoned warrior who knew the ranks of devils well, stepped in. "What is it then? A Logokron? A greater Narzugon, or maybe an Orthon?"
Raphael let her speak, then waved it away. " If you meet it, kill it. No hesitation. No bargaining. Strike first, strike true, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll walk away with your soul intact."
Zeus's voice cut through the air again, deeper, darker. "You're still withholding something."
The smile dropped from Raphael's face for a second, a flash of irritation. But he quickly regained his composure. "This creature and I have history. I'll admit, it would be in my best interest to keep it sealed away. Let’s just say I would rather not… reacquaint myself with it."
The tension was palpable as Raphael’s words lingered. There was a strange silence as if even the wind dared not stir. Then, with a devilish grin, Raphael continued, "But if you heed my warning: strike fast, and strike first. Do not hesitate. It will not."
He turned his sharp eyes to Zeus for only a moment.
There was a moment of eerie quiet before Raphael’s expression changed, his smile returning in full force. He turned his attention to Astarion, who had remained uncharacteristically silent.
"And as for you, dear Astarion. Once the beast is slain, I’ll consider it payment enough to translate the scars etched upon your skin."
Astarion raised a brow, skeptical. "A fairer deal than I expected," he quipped, though there was no trust behind his words. He knew well enough never to fully believe a devil’s promise.
Raphael feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. "You wound me, spawn. I always deal fairly. Slay the beast, and everything will be revealed."
With that, the devil dissolved into a swirl of smoke and fire, leaving behind only the faint, acrid scent of sulfur that clung to the air.
Shadowheart, turned to Astarion. "You really believe he'll keep his word?"
Astarion flashed a sharp smile. "I trust a devil more than a vampire. At least you know what they want."
Wyll grimaced, remembering his own deals with devils. "Devils will take everything they can—and more."
Astarion’s laughter echoed off , mocking and cold. "I’d like to see him try."
But their banter was cut short as they noticed Zeus already moving, his silent form headed for the mausoleum’s entrance. There was no hesitation in his stride, no doubt clouding his mind. As the others followed, the weight of Raphael’s warning hung in the air like a shroud, wrapping itself around their hearts as they stepped trough the mouth of the beast.
___________
As they descended the stairs into the mausoleum, the air thickened with decay and the oppressive weight of death. Bones littered the floor, brittle remains of those long forgotten. Broken pottery shards and crumbling skulls lay in scattered piles, each one a silent witness to time’s cruelty. The stench of rot clung to the atmosphere, so strong that even breathing became a nauseating task.
Shadowheart, her eyes scanning the sigils etched into the crumbling walls, spoke in a low, contemplative tone. “Sigils. Attempts to restrain Lady Shar’s power... perhaps. Failed attempts.” Her voice, though steady, betrayed a hint of something deeper.
Zeus moved ahead, his powerful frame pushing open an iron gate that groaned as if it were reluctant to yield. Just as they stepped into the heart of the mausoleum, a skull impaled on a stick began to speak, its hollow voice echoing unnervingly through the chamber.
“Nere, Z’rell, Minthara—whoever you are, leave. I shall carry out General Thorm’s will alone,” it rasped, the voice strangely feminine, yet devoid of life.
Zeus, undeterred by the macabre warning, walked further into the octagonal room where a stone coffin dominated the space. The sculpted figure of a woman, beautiful even in stone, lay upon the lid—her hands folded in eternal slumber. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the statue so lifelike that, for a moment, it seemed as though she might awaken. But death, as always, was an unshakable reality here.
At the foot of the coffin, a plaque bore an inscription:
“Here lies Melodia Thorm, beloved wife and mother. Ai armiel telere maenen hir.”
Zeus’s voice, calm and steady, cut through the silence. “The last part is in Elvish. It means ‘You hold my heart forever.’”
Karlach, eyes wide, shook her head in disbelief. “The general had a wife?”
Wyll, nodded thoughtfully. “And it seems he loved her very much.”
Gale crouched at the head of the coffin, his keen eyes spotting a weathered journal stamped with seven stars on its cover. He flipped it open, skimming its contents. His face darkened as he absorbed the words. “This is Ketheric Thorm’s journal... but why is it here?”
“What does it say?” Shadowheart asked, her curiosity piqued.
Gale’s voice was somber as he read aloud:
"How can she be gone? Where did she go? The Moonmaiden cannot be so unfeeling—so cruel. Not toward her most devoted servant. Not after Melodia.
It makes no sense. It makes no sense. I won't survive it. That much I know.
Forgetting is the only possibility. The embrace of oblivion. The reprieve of nothingness. It would not be possible for a man to survive knowing what he knows. Knowing what can be lost. Shar understands that. Hers is the only mercy I can comprehend. My mind is full of holes—yet not enough.
The emptiness.
The time.
The nothingness.
And still I remember. Still I remember it all.
There is no mercy in this beating heart.
There is no mercy in life at all."
Gale closed the journal, his brow furrowed in thought. “Ketheric turned to Shar to escape the pain, and it destroyed him. Shar’s mercy is as cruel as any devil’s pact.”
Zeus, unmoved by the sorrow in the room, pried open the coffin. Inside lay the mummified remains of Melodia Thorm, her body dressed in a simple, elegant gown adorned with the symbols of Selûne. The years had preserved her, but death had long claimed what was left of her soul.
Karlach’s voice was barely more than a whisper, her heart clearly heavy with the weight of the scene. “Was that really necessary?”
Zeus said nothing, his focus sharp as he reached toward the body. The others watched, knowing full well what he intended, but before his fingers could touch her remains, Shadowheart’s hand grasped his wrist. Her eyes, normally so shadowed by her devotion to Shar, were clear and resolute.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Her body deserves to rest,” she said, her voice unwavering, her gaze locked on his. It was a plea, but also a command—a rare moment of defiance .
For a brief second, Zeus hesitated. A silent battle of wills passed between them, but then, with a flicker of decision, tendrils of flesh lashed out from his arm, consuming the body in an instant. The act was cold, almost mechanical, and it left the room feeling emptier than before.
“Nothing,” Zeus stated flatly, his gaze sweeping the chamber.
The mausoleum stretched out before them in the shape of a cross, with the central platform where they stood as its heart. To the left and right, adjacent rooms beckoned with the promise of more secrets, but it was the left that drew Zeus’s attention. A foul energy emanated from that direction, pulling him forward.
As he entered the room, the first thing his eyes fell upon was the symbol of Myrkul, god of death, constructed out of bones on the floor beneath him. Without hesitation, he lifted his foot and brought it crashing down, the stone cracking beneath his heel as the symbol was destroyed.
Ahead of him, lying atop a tomb, was a skeleton draped in ancient rags, its body surrounded by piles of bones. Even the walls bore grotesque sculptures made of skulls and ribcages, twisted into blasphemous forms of worship.
Karlach spat in disgust, her voice filled with revulsion. “Ketheric dishonored the bones of his ancestors to make totems dedicated to Myrkul. Twisted bastard.”
Zeus stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he picked up another book resting near the coffin. Its cover was blackened and worn, and he tossed it to Gale.
"Forgetting evades me in this infinite darkness. Balthazar is my only source of the barest comfort—the thought that, perhaps, she might be brought back to me.
If oblivion can fail, what defense have we against death? None, except its mastery.
Balthazar's words have never felt more promising."
Gale closed the book with a grimace. “Never trust the words of a necromancer,” he said, his tone heavy .
The room felt colder now, as if the very air had been drained of hope. Everywhere they turned, there were only remnants of despair, of a love lost and a soul broken. Without a word, Zeus turned back toward the central chamber, leaving behind the desecrated bones and the haunting echoes of Ketheric Thorm’s madness.
Zeus walked into the room to the right, the shadows clinging to his form like a cloak as he entered the dim space. Another symbol of Myrkul lay on the floor, and with a decisive step, he crushed it, the stone cracking beneath his foot as the twisted emblem of death shattered into dust.
This room was different. Unlike the others, it had a strange, grim order to it. Shelves lined the walls, filled with dusty books and scrolls, as though whoever had once been here had cared for knowledge as much as for death. A large coffin had been repurposed, its lid transformed into a desk, piled high with books and trinkets. Zeus’s eyes scanned the room before settling on a scattered pile of tomes to his right. Something about the disarray caught his attention.
He bent down, rifling through the mess of pages until his fingers closed around another journal—this one plain, undecorated, and worn from years of use. Without a word, he tossed it to Gale, who caught it and opened the first intact page.
Gale read aloud, his voice thick with unease:
"Melodia would understand, if she knew my aim. She too, I believe, would have turned to Myrkul under such conditions as these. Our darling will live again. What kind of man would I be if I didn't raze the world entire for her sake?"
Karlach frowned, her brow furrowing as she looked to Gale. “Her? Who is her?”
Gale shook his head, flipping through the rest of the journal’s pages. “There’s nothing more,” he muttered, his voice carrying the weight of unanswered questions.
Their attention shifted as Zeus, standing at the far end of the room, pried open a small briefcase. Its contents spilled onto the stone floor, revealing various herbs, glowing gems, and something unexpected—a cloak.
The cloak was simple, gray, but the embroidery around the neck shimmered in the dim light, golden patterns that radiated outward like rays of the sun. Zeus’s tendrils of flesh, wrapped around the cloak, consuming it briefly before resewing it onto his body in a disturbing display of his power.
He held the cloak for a moment before turning to Wyll, his voice as commanding as ever. “Wyll, come here.”
Wyll approached without hesitation, and Zeus handed the cloak to him. “It’s enchanted,” Zeus explained, his tone flat. “It creates a shield around its wearer after casting a spell in melee range. Use it well.”
Wyll carefully took the clock and wrap it around himself.
The room was eerily silent as they began searching through the shelves, but nothing of real significance was found. Their eyes fell on a blood-stained book resting on the coffin-turned-desk. Gale inspected it, noting the familiar marks of necromantic research. His voice took on a grave tone as he observed its contents.
"These are notes of a necromancer," he said, flipping through the pages. His gaze lingered on a small, hastily scribbled note in the margins of the tome, almost hidden in the shadows.
"General Thorm's orders were clear: in order to find what lies beyond this mausoleum, one must walk in his own footsteps, deed by deed. 'From splendour, to tragedy, to infamy,' as he put it."
The signature was simply: B.
Astarion, who had been leaning against the wall, crossed his arms and smirked. “Is that supposed to be a riddle?”
Gale closed the book and sighed. “I’m not sure, but I have a feeling we’ll find out soon enough.”
They pressed on, venturing deeper into the mausoleum until they came upon a large stone table. Lying atop it, drawn with spidery precision, was a hand-drawn map of a place Gauntlet of Shar. The labyrinth of chambers and passageways sprawled across multiple levels, with a massive statue of Shar dominating the central hall. Scrawled in the margins were notes, written in a jagged, shaky hand—Balthazar’s.
"Intact wing – proving grounds?
Ruined wing – something present there. Strange sounds reported.
Rats. Why so many damnable rats???"
“Take it,” Wyll suggested, his eyes watching Zeus, who stood a few steps ahead, his mind seemingly elsewhere.
The party gathered around Zeus, their attention drawn to the room beyond—a space dominated by a coffin, its lid ajar, bathed in the flickering light of candles. The warm glow of the flames seemed almost out of place, contrasting sharply with the cold death that permeated every stone of the mausoleum.
Astarion, crouched by the statue on the coffin’s lid. His voice cut through the silence. “Wait a moment... does anyone else think this statue looks like Isobel?”
Shadowheart stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she studied the figure. “You’re not wrong. There’s definitely a resemblance.”
Karlach crossed her arms, her brow furrowed in thought. “Could Isobel be Ketheric Thorm’s daughter?”
As the question lingered in the air, Lae’zel pointed to the floor, her voice tense. “There are traps around,” she warned, her keen warrior’s eye catching the faint raised tiles in a rectangular section of the floor.
Zeus, standing near the coffin’s foot, muttered the words etched into the plaque there. “Ssussun elgg oloth,” he read aloud. “Light slays darkness.”
Wyll’s voice broke the quiet. “Look at these murals,” he said, already standing by one.
There were two murals, one to the left and one to the right of the entrance they had come through. The first depicted Moonrise Towers, bathed in silver light. The moon above shone brilliantly, like a second sun, pushing the encroaching darkness away.
The second mural was more tragic, more intimate. It showed Ketheric Thorm, kneeling before a lifeless woman laid upon an altar. The moon, once a beacon of hope, now hung half-hidden behind the altar, as if retreating from the scene of sorrow.
Gale stepped closer, his voice low with understanding. “Splendour... tragedy... infamy,” he whispered, recalling the necromancer’s riddle.
The third mural lay ahead, just beyond the head of the coffin. In it, Ketheric Thorm stood on a darkened throne, his once proud and sorrowful figure now commanding an army of shadows. Behind him, weapons raised high, his soldiers seemed less like men and more like wraiths—creatures of pure darkness, bound to their master. Above his head hung the symbol of Shar, the dark moon casting its cold gaze over the army.
As the party stared at the mural, the pieces began to fall into place. Ketheric Thorm’s descent from a man who loved and lost, to a servant of darkness, willing to destroy the world for his own broken heart.
"Splendor to tragedy, to infamy," Gale repeated, his voice heavy with the weight of understanding. "It's the story of a man who couldn’t let go, and in his refusal to accept loss, he became a monster."
"Move back," Zeus commanded, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder.
The party instinctively stepped away, their eyes locked on Zeus as his arms transformed, shifting into massive hammerfists. With one powerful swing, he struck the mural before them. The stone shattered into dust and fragments, revealing a hidden chamber behind it.
The architecture of the secret room was markedly different—dark and purple stone glistened under an otherworldly light, its surface smooth and almost reflective. It reminded them of the eerie construction at the Grymforge, ancient and laden with secrets. Two towering statues of Shar flanked the chamber, their dark forms menacing and unmoving, watching as intruders trespassed upon their sacred ground.
In the center floated a massive stone disk, large enough to hold a cart, inscribed with the unmistakable symbol of Shar. At the far end of the disk, a glowing purple gem pulsed with faint energy, casting strange shadows across the chamber walls.
Without hesitation, Zeus was the first to step onto the platform. His weight shifted carefully as he tested its stability, and the rest of the party followed him, their footsteps echoing in the unsettling stillness. The atmosphere was thick, oppressive, as though the air itself was infused with the darkness of Shar’s power.
Zeus tapped the gem with his feet. Instantly, a purple flame ignited within the statues' chests, their eyes flickering to life for a moment before the platform began to descend into the abyss below, moving slowly, almost reverently. The descent seemed to take an eternity, the cold air growing heavier as they sank deeper into the unknown.
When they finally stopped, they found themselves before a massive structure, carved from the same dark and purple marble as the platform. Two golden braziers ignited, flames licking the air as they cast light on the entrance to a vast hall, its opening a perfect circle. The gold trims on the marble shimmered against the ominous stone backdrop, creating an unsettling contrast—beauty in service to the dark.
“This... this is a temple dedicated to Shar,” Shadowheart muttered under her breath, her voice thick with awe and apprehension. “It’s unmistakable but...Could it be?.”
Wyll looked at her, his brow furrowed in curiosity. “Do you know what this place is?”
She hesitated for a moment, the weight of her past and her faith clear in her eyes. “Yes... but I want to be certain before I speak.”
As they walked further, the oppressive atmosphere only intensified. Every step felt heavier, as if the temple itself resisted their presence. Zeus continued reading the inscriptions carved into golden plaques embedded in the ground, his voice breaking the silence.
“Shar, singer of the eternal night. Protector of the lost and forgotten,” he recited, his tone flat and mechanical, as though he was disconnected from the eerie significance of the words.
They descended a set of stairs, the cold stone beneath their feet seeming to draw the warmth from their bones.
“Cross from light into darkness; give your life to the shadow,” Zeus read again, his voice echoing in the hollow expanse of the temple.
Astarion, leaned toward Shadowheart. “Why is he reading everything aloud?” he whispered, his tone half-irritated, half-amused.
Shadowheart, equally puzzled, shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered back, her eyes still scanning the temple’s ominous surroundings. She found this place nostalgic ,reamending her of the temple she grew in.
Their path led them around the remnants of a statue that had been destroyed, its upper half lying shattered in their way. The temple seemed to bear the marks of some forgotten struggle, its scars still fresh in the oppressive gloom.
“Offer your pain to Shar's embrace. Hear the Nightsong,” Zeus intoned once more, his voice devoid of emotion, as if the very act of reading the words was draining something from him.
They reached a round stone door that opened on its own as they approached, the stone grinding slowly as it revealed another chamber. Zeus stepped forward and read the next inscription, almost out of habit now.
“The answer lies in darkness,” he said, his voice carrying an unsettling finality.
The room beyond was circular, dimly lit by the purple glow of runes engraved in a swirling pattern on the floor. At the center stood a human-sized statue of Shar, her form draped in shadowy robes. She held a dagger pointed down toward a stone plate, the blade gleaming in the low light. A circle of purple light surrounded her feet, casting an eerie glow on her visage. It was a place of ritual, of dark worship.
At her feet lay a golden pedestal, embedded with a gem the size of a human head, glowing with a strange, bluish-purple light.
Before anyone could take a step closer, a voice cut through the silence, low and chilling, emanating from the statue itself.
“Shar's warriors must not be caught. Must not be tricked. Only loss awaits the unworthy.”
The voice echoed in the chamber, then faded, leaving only silence in its wake. The party stood frozen, their eyes locked on the statue as if expecting it to move.
“Could that be Shar herself?” Shadowheart murmured, her gaze never leaving the cold, stone face of the goddess.
Gale stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the statue more closely. “I don’t think so,” he said after a moment. “It’s likely a spell, enchanted to play a recorded message. A warning, perhaps.”
But the words lingered in the air like a prophecy, the dark goddess’s presence heavy even in her absence. The chamber felt alive with her power, waiting for the unworthy to falter, to lose themselves in the darkness.