Ancient stone columns rose like gnarled fingers from the dungeon floor, their once-pristine surfaces stained by centuries of moss, grime, and necromantic residue. Flickering torchlight cast wavering shadows against the carved walls, each relief depicting eerie scenes of hooded figures raising undead armies. The air smelled faintly of sulfur, and every footstep echoed in the oppressive silence, as though the dungeon itself was holding its breath.

Amara and Calen advanced cautiously, their senses straining for any hint of danger. The temple—long ago devoted to a necromancer’s dark rites—now served as a testing ground for adventurers daring (or foolish) enough to seek hidden treasures. Magical wards still lurked in the halls, waiting to ensnare the unprepared, and the locals’ warnings rang in both their minds: Beware the traps and the undead that roam within.

They soon discovered that magical traps were the least of their worries. Their combined spellcraft allowed them to sense and disable arcane wards, rendering runic seals inert with relative ease. But where magic was predictable in its patterns, old-fashioned gears and spring-loaded triggers were not. More than once, a seemingly ordinary flagstone unleashed deadly darts, or a hidden wire threatened to seal heavy iron gates around them.

Amara and Calen pressed forward into the dim corridors of the old necromancer’s temple, their footfalls echoing on cracked tiles. The architecture bore the mark of centuries of misuse: walls scrawled with faded runes, columns half-crumbling under the weight of time, and flickers of malevolent energy swirling in dank corners. Despite the heaviness in the air, Calen’s gaze stayed fixed on every nook and cranny, keenly alert for hidden threats.

“Watch that step,” he murmured, placing a gentle hand on Amara’s arm before she could move onto a suspicious slab of stone. “See how the mortar is slightly offset?” He pointed to a hairline gap running the width of the stone. “That could be a pressure trigger.”

Amara glanced down, heartbeat quickening. She noted the gap he mentioned, feeling a surge of appreciation for his attention to detail. “I see it. So… how do we disarm it?”

Calen gave a shy shrug. “Usually, I slip a metal shim under the tile, wedge the internal mechanism, and… that prevents it from triggering. But each trap is different.” From a slim pouch hidden beneath his belt, he retrieved a small set of tinkerer’s tools—delicate picks, thin blades, and tiny pliers. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Crouching, he slipped a narrow blade between the tile and the stone beneath. With painstaking care, he wiggled it around until he hit a snag in the mechanism. The faintest click echoed in the silence. “Like that.” He exhaled in relief and rose, beckoning Amara to step around the now-disarmed tile.

She took the tools from him for the next trap—a tripwire rigged to release a barrage of arrows from slits in the wall. “You’ll feel resistance when you push the tip of the pick in,” Calen explained, leaning over to watch. His soft voice trembled with nerves, but a focused determination underpinned his words. “Once you sense that notch, wedge the blade just… there. Yes, exactly.”

Amara smiled as another subtle click signaled success. “Got it,” she said, pride blossoming in her chest. While her warlock magic gave her raw power, she marveled at Calen’s gentle, methodical approach to problem-solving. She was learning that brute force wasn’t always the answer.

They continued down a narrow hallway lit only by the sputter of half-melted candles. Moments later, a rattling sound made them freeze. Three skeletal warriors emerged from an alcove, eyes flickering with ghostly blue light. They raised rusted swords, advancing with an unsettling clatter of bones.

Amara reacted before she could think, hurling a wave of eldritch energy that crackled with purple sparks. She braced herself for the recoil, feeling that now-familiar rush of power surge through her veins. The nearest skeleton disintegrated in a burst of bone fragments. The second lunged at her. Another quick blast shattered its ribcage, sending shards clattering across the floor.

The third skittered backward, sword scraping over stone. For an instant, it seemed ready to charge, but Amara mustered a flicker of confidence. She unleashed one more bolt—less wild this time—connecting squarely with the skull. It collapsed in a heap of dusty remains.

Calen hovered behind her, ready to mend any injuries. His expression was equal parts awe and uncertainty. “That was… impressive,” he said softly, glancing at the stray wisps of purple magic dissolving into the air.

Amara tried to quell the trembling in her hands. “I just hope I can control this better,” she admitted, recalling the terrifying moment she’d destroyed that innocent creature in the forest.

They forged deeper still, the weight of centuries pressing in around them. Mechanical traps appeared with unnerving frequency: swinging scythe blades triggered by hidden floor panels, narrow corridors with collapsing ceilings, and walls that threatened to close in if a wrong lever was pulled. Each time, Calen paused to disarm the mechanism, whispering instructions to Amara so she could learn. More than once, a sudden slip or misjudgment nearly sent them sprawling into a pit—but Calen’s calm instructions and Amara’s quick reflexes kept them safe at the last moment.

After each success, Calen’s confidence in his own worth seemed to grow, though faint doubts lingered in his eyes whenever he re-checked a trap. As for Amara, she felt a strange new camaraderie blossoming between them. Their skill sets—her bursts of raw magic and his meticulous caution—were proving unexpectedly complementary.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

A while later, they paused at a bend in the hallway, breathing heavily and examining fresh bruises from near misses. The dull rumble of distant undead echoed through the stone, reminding them the place was far from cleared. Exchanging a quick nod, they pressed on, determined to survive whatever else this cursed temple had in store, with Calen’s careful trap-work and Amara’s crackling warlock fury lighting the way.

“Careful,” Calen whispered, pointing to a raised tile a few steps ahead. Despite his apprehension, his purple eyes narrowed in focus. Amara nodded, stepping around the tile. But she missed a second trigger that caught her boot. With a shriek of rusty metal, a row of spears shot out of the wall. Amara reacted instantly, shoving Calen aside, her reflexes guided by a burst of eldritch energy. Although they dodged the brunt of the attack, one spear grazed Calen’s shoulder, drawing blood.

They scrambled into a corner, hearts hammering. With trembling fingers, Calen cast a healing spell on himself. White light glowed around the wound, mending the torn flesh. Amara exhaled in relief, but guilt gnawed at her. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice hushed. “I was so focused on the tile you pointed out, I… missed the second trap.”

Calen’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I-I should’ve warned you better,” he murmured, doubt creeping into his voice. I’m supposed to be the experienced one, he seemed to say silently. A Tier Four adventurer. She sensed his frustration but couldn’t think of the words to ease it.

They pressed onward, carefully navigating corridors lined with pitted sarcophagi and shadowy alcoves. The tension only grew heavier when a ragged moan echoed down a side passage. First came skeletal warriors, rattling and screeching, their empty sockets lit by malignant, flickering lights. Amara unleashed her warlock power in a burst of dark energy—wild and unstable, but effective enough to shatter bones. Calen sent healing waves to reinforce her stamina, wincing each time her magic crackled unpredictably.

Suddenly, the temperature plummeted. The oppressive presence of something stronger than mere skeletons made the hairs on the back of Amara’s neck stand up. A towering figure emerged from the shadows: a lich, its skull crowned by a half-broken circlet, robes tattered and clinging to parchment-thin skin. Its hollow eye sockets glowed with malice.

The heavy door slammed shut with a hollow clang, reverberating through the massive, chamber-like room. Amara and Calen whirled around in alarm, only to see bolts of arcane energy slither over the aged metal, sealing it shut from the outside. There was no mistaking it: they were trapped in a boss chamber.

At the far end of the room, the lich stood with a regal, terrible stillness, its hollow eyes burning with greenish necromantic fire. Tattered robes clung to a skeletal frame, and a faint cloud of deathly mist swirled at its feet.

Calen immediately stepped forward, staff in hand. “Stay behind me,” he urged quietly, trying to muster a confidence he wasn’t entirely sure he felt. Though he was the more experienced adventurer, his heart pounded with a mix of terror and determination.

Amara grabbed his wrist. “No—wait!” Fear flared in her eyes. If I unleash my power, I might hit you. She could already feel the eldritch energy pooling in her limbs, itching to be used. But a single miscalculation could level the entire room—and Calen with it.

The lich raised a bony arm, dark runes spinning in the air. Calen braced himself, voice trembling. “I’ll manage,” he insisted. “You have to back me up!”

It was all happening too fast. Amara’s heart thundered as she watched Calen, just a healer, step forward again. Something inside her snapped. “Calen, get back!” she shouted.

He froze for a heartbeat, catching the edge in her voice. Guilt and confusion flickered across his face. It sounded as though she was scolding him, telling him to know his place. His shoulders stiffened, but he stood rooted to the spot.

The lich chose that moment to strike, hurling a bolt of sickly green lightning. Calen dodged sideways, barely avoiding a direct hit. Energy crackled off the ground, scorching the stone. Panic surged through Amara. If she didn’t do something, they’d both be done for.

With a scream, Amara threw both arms out. Purple light erupted from her palms, so bright it left ghostly afterimages. She aimed high, trying to avoid Calen’s position. A thunderous explosion shattered the ceiling in a shower of dust and stone. The lich staggered, screeching, as chunks of the wall and overhead beams collapsed in a cascading roar.

“Move!” Amara shouted, leaping backward. Loose rubble hammered onto her shoulders, knocking her off-balance. One massive slab of stone slammed against her thigh, sending a white-hot jolt of pain through her body.

Calen, too, was struck by falling debris, pinned momentarily as shards of rock fell all around. The lich vanished behind a new wall of rubble, trapped beneath the collapsed section of the ceiling. Thick clouds of choking dust filled the chamber.

Wincing, Amara yanked her leg free, adrenaline spiking. She crawled over to Calen, who was still conscious but grimacing with pain. “Calen!” Her voice came out raw and panicked.

Instead of mending his own injuries, he channeled healing magic into her injured leg. Warmth flooded her muscles as the pain ebbed slightly. “Don’t worry… about me,” he whispered, breath ragged.

Amara’s eyes burned with tears. “Stop—stop doing that!” she hissed, voice cracking. Even as she chastised him, she pulled debris away from his torso. She slid an arm under his shoulder and dragged him out from the worst of the rubble.

They stumbled into the corridor outside, both of them coughing, bruised, and coated in dust. Only once they had collapsed against the wall, hearts slamming in their chests, did they dare to catch their breath.

Amara looked at the blood trickling from a cut on Calen’s temple. “I’m sorry,” she rasped, guilt twisting in her stomach. “I just—when I saw you rushing in, I was afraid… I’d hit you with my magic if I fought head-on.”

He swallowed, gaze dropping to the floor. “I thought… you didn’t think I was capable. That you wanted me out of the way.” His voice caught, still raw from the dust and hurt feelings. “I only wanted to protect you.”

She reached out, taking his hand gently. “You were protecting me. I just… panicked. My power is so destructive—I can’t stand the thought of hurting you again.”

A shaky silence lingered. Then Calen released a trembling sigh. “I should’ve trusted you would find a way. And I should’ve healed myself, too.”

Amara, head bowed, squeezed his hand. “I didn’t mean to yell at you like that… or to bring down half the ceiling,” she added ruefully, glancing at the battered walls. “Let’s… let’s get out of here, okay?”

Calen managed a weak nod, his cheeks burning at his earlier misconception. “Okay.”

Leaning on each other, they hobbled away from the site of their near-disaster, both wrestling with the mutual guilt and relief that came from their harrowing escape—and both silently vowing that, somehow, they’d learn to protect each other without tearing themselves apart.