The stairs were old stone, slick with centuries of damp, and untouched since the last adventurers fled.
At the dungeon's mouth, tree roots had grown down like slow fingers, curling over broken archways and half-buried bone piles.
The guardian stepped into the open world.
Sunlight touched it.
It didn't flinch.
It only stopped — one foot on stone, one in grass — and tilted its head as the sky pressed down upon it. Light gleamed off its rust-lined pauldrons. Its armor steamed faintly as the chill interior air met the outside warmth.
Birds scattered from nearby trees, sensing something wicked had stepped out.
Behind him, the lurker hissed and flattened its body low. Its crimson scales shimmered faintly in the sun before it quickly scuttled beneath a fallen tree, staying in the dappled shade. It looked out toward the horizon, but its feelers twitched in discomfort. It belonged in shadow.
The guardian did not wait.
He began to walk.
- - -
The wind dragged in the smell of pine and damp soil. Somewhere in the trees beyond the palisade, a nightbird cried out once, then fell silent.
Two guards leaned against the crooked railing of Blackreed's western watchtower, the wood beneath them creaking like tired bones. A dented tin lantern cast a lazy orange halo around them as they passed a wineskin back and forth.
"Three days of rain and mud," grumbled the younger one — Tolan, round-faced, dull-eyed, barely twenty. "I swear this whole gods-forsaken outpost is rotting."
"You volunteered," the older one muttered. Brenn, grizzled, scar running through his brow. "Could've been stationed in Millrood."
"Millrood's boring. This place, though…" Tolan gestured at the dark horizon. "This place's cursed."
"Then stop tempting it."
They drank in silence a while, the wind tugging at their cloaks. Tolan shifted again, chewing on a sliver of dried meat.
"Did you see those adventurers?" he asked, voice low. "The ones that came back from the dungeon?"
Brenn didn't answer at first. Then: "I saw them."
"They looked half-dead. One was walking with a stick. The big one — Deren, I think — was missing a piece of his ear."
Tolan snorted. "Spent weeks crawling through a haunted ruin and came back with no loot. Not a single chest. What a waste."
"They came back alive," Brenn said. "That's worth more than coin."
Tolan scoffed. "That's why I'd never be an adventurer. Too much risk, and for what? Some rusted blade and a wound that won't stop oozing?"
Brenn turned to look at him, eyes narrow. "They go where we won't. Into places that shouldn't exist. To make sure that whatever is inside does not come crawling out."
Tolan rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright, heroes and saints—"
THUMP.
The sound came from the forest.
Not sharp, not sudden.
Heavy.
THUMP.
Brenn stood straight. Tolan frowned and leaned over the rail.
"Boar?"
"No. Boar don't walk like that."
THUMP.
Then, from the trees, a figure emerged.
Tall. Unholy. Clad in pitch-black armor that gleamed like wet stone. A helm shaped like a jagged crown. It moved slowly, but each step made the earth shiver beneath it.
And behind it — not beside, not ahead — skittered another shape. Although smaller than the tall figure, it looked more revolting than the other. Slender humanoid limbs sticking out from a giant centipede body, crimson scales and a toxic orange underbelly. Its eyes caught the firelight and reflected it back red.
Tolan dropped the wineskin.
"What is that?" he breathed.
Brenn didn't answer. His hand was already on the bell-rope.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
The ringing shattered the peace of an inn's shared chambers.
Ana shot up from her cot, her battle mace falling beside her. Captain Deren was already standing, boot halfway on, sword drawn. Ryel cursed, walking up to the window, eyes wide. Elric was still coughing softly — the poison had left him with weak lungs — but even he was reaching for his dagger.
"They wouldn't ring it for monsters," Ana whispered, panic rising. "They wouldn't—"
"Unless the walls were about to come down," Deren finished.
They rushed.
Torches had been lit hastily along the wall. Men and women shouted orders, pulled on armor over sleeping clothes, clutched bows with shaking hands.
The adventurers forced their way to the front.
"What's going on?" Deren barked at a guard.
The man only pointed.
Ryel looked past the gate — and froze.
There it stood.
Still. Silent.
The iron swordsman.
The dungeon guardian.
It had no right to be here. To exist.
Its helm tilted — just slightly — as if it noticed them.
Ana's breath caught. Her knees buckled and she had to clutch her mace to remain standing.
"No…" she whispered. "We… we killed it."
"Impossible," Elric muttered, pale as bone.
Deren's face was twisted, teeth clenched. The usually stoic leader could not help it. Afterall, he recognized the shape of something he thought he buried.
Behind the towering nightmare, the smaller creature crouched low in the grass, motionless, like a hunting dog awaiting a command that never came.
The wall had gone quiet.
Then, Tolan — still on the tower — managed to croak: "What… what does it want?"
Brenn didn't take his eyes off it.
"It might be making a decision right as we speak. But something tells me it's not going to be in our favor." - responded Elric with a pained smile.
"It might be making a decision right as we speak. But something tells me it's not going to be in our favor," Elric responded with a pained smile.
The dungeon had left its home.
And followed them.