The morning horn blared three times in rapid succession, followed by two long notes.
Tomas Reed was awake and reaching for his sword before the second note faded. Twenty-three years of soldiering had taught him the language of horns. One blast for sunrise, two for formation, three for officers' call.
But three quick and two long? That was the signal for imminent danger.
"Up," he barked at Corliss, who was already stirring. "Something's wrong."
They had returned to camp at dawn, reporting their failed mission and lost comrades to a grim-faced Lieutenant Dorn. The captain had been taken directly to the field surgeon for his wound. Tomas had barely finished cleaning his equipment and settling into his bedroll when the horn sounded.
Outside their tent, the camp had erupted into controlled chaos. Men rushed to positions, sergeants bellowed orders, and the support staff hurried to secure supplies. Tomas buckled on his sword belt and swept his gaze across the activity, looking for patterns that would tell him what they faced.
Lieutenant Dorn stood atop an overturned supply cart, surrounded by squad leaders. His face was taut with tension as he gestured northward.
"Reed!" The call came from Sergeant Wills, a burly veteran with a salt-and-pepper beard. "Get over here!"
Tomas joined the gathering of soldiers around the sergeant. Most were experienced men who had survived multiple campaigns, though he spotted a few fresh faces among them, eyes wide with barely contained fear.
"Listen up," Wills growled. "The northern watch post reported strange lights from the Howling Crag last night. This morning, they found this."
He held up what appeared to be a broken spear shaft, its wood warped and twisted as if it had been melted and resolidified. Dark ichor stained its surface.
"Dungeon break," someone muttered, and a ripple of unease passed through the group.
Tomas felt his stomach tighten. Dungeons were old magic, remnants of the Ancient Wars. Pockets of corrupted reality where monsters spawned and treasures formed from the ambient mana. Most were stable, contained by natural barriers that kept their denizens imprisoned.
But sometimes, those barriers failed.
"The Crag dungeon has been stable for decades," Wills continued grimly. "Until now. Lieutenant Dorn believes the Demon King's resurrection has destabilized the old wards. We've got reports of at least three different monster types already sighted in the forests between here and the Crag."
"Any civilians in the area?" asked a soldier named Harn.
"Two settlements," Wills confirmed. "Riversbend and Oakhollow. About forty families between them. We're sending runners, but..."
He didn't need to finish. Everyone knew what a dungeon break meant. Monsters wouldn't wait politely for evacuations to complete.
"What about the Heroes?" asked one of the younger soldiers, hope evident in his voice. "Can't they seal it?"
Sergeant Wills spat on the ground. "The Four are at the Shadow Gate, dealing with one of the Demon King's generals. We're on our own."
The hope in the young soldier's face crumbled. Tomas wasn't surprised. It was a common pattern—the Heroes handled the grand threats, the prophecy-level dangers, while ordinary soldiers dealt with everything else.
"We're forming four companies," Wills continued. "Alpha and Beta will evacuate the settlements. Gamma will establish a defensive line here to protect the camp. Delta will scout the affected area and, if possible, locate the breach point in the dungeon barrier."
Tomas already knew which company he'd be assigned to. After twenty-three years, sergeants knew which tasks suited which men.
"Reed, you're Delta. Take Corliss, Varn, Mira, and Jenks." Wills fixed him with a hard stare. "Find the breach. Mark it. Don't engage unless necessary."
"Don't worry," Tomas replied dryly. "I've never been one for unnecessary engagements."
Some of the soldiers chuckled, tension momentarily broken. Tomas's reputation for caution was well-known, often mocked by newer recruits until they saw how many cautious men survived campaigns that claimed the bold.
As the group dispersed to prepare, Tomas methodically checked his equipment again. Extra water. Dried rations for two days. Bandages. Flint and steel. Rope. A small vial of antivenom purchased from a hedge witch three campaigns ago. The silver dagger he kept strapped to his left forearm—useless against human opponents but vital for certain monsters.
Details. Always the details.
"Ready for some monster hunting, Reed?" Mira appeared at his side, adjusting the straps on her leather armor. A wiry woman with close-cropped hair and a scar across her jaw, she was one of the few in the company who had been serving longer than Tomas. "Just like old times at the Black Marsh."
"I remember you getting treed by a mud-crawler at Black Marsh," Tomas replied. "Had to wait three hours for it to lose interest."
"And I remember you hiding in a hollowed log while a pack of dire wolves sniffed around." She grinned. "We've both lived to tell the tales, which is more than most can say."
Varn joined them, bow slung across his back, still looking tired from the previous night's failed mission. "Any idea what we're dealing with, Reed? You've seen more dungeons than most."
Tomas shrugged. "Howling Crag was primarily wind and earth elementals, last I heard. But a breach changes things. Could be anything now."
"Wonderful," Varn muttered. "I love surprises."
Corliss and Jenks completed their scouting party—Corliss with his massive frame and equally massive axe, Jenks with his nimble movements and collection of throwing knives. A decent group for reconnaissance, Tomas thought. Experienced. Cautious. No heroes looking to make a name for themselves.
Lieutenant Dorn approached as they finished their preparations. His left arm was bandaged where an arrow had grazed him during a skirmish the previous week.
"Reed," he acknowledged. "Your orders are simple. Find the breach, mark it with these—" he handed over three small crystals on leather cords, "—and get back here. The crystals will resonate with the dungeon's energy and help us locate it precisely."
"And if the breach is active?" Tomas asked. "Still spewing monsters?"
"Then you retreat and report. We'll need the Heroes for an active breach."
Tomas nodded, pocketing the crystals. "Understood."
"One more thing," Dorn added, his voice lowered. "We've had reports of... unusual monster activity. Coordinated movements. Tactical retreats. Almost as if..."
"As if they're being directed," Tomas finished grimly.
The lieutenant nodded. "Keep your eyes open. This may be more than a simple dungeon break."
As Dorn walked away, Mira raised an eyebrow at Tomas. "Coordinated monsters? That's new."
"Not entirely," Tomas replied, recalling old campaigns, old horrors. "During the Blighted Year, before the Heroes came, there were rumors of monster packs being controlled by the Demon King's lieutenants."
"Well, that's a cheery thought to start our journey," Varn muttered.
They set out an hour later, moving north through sparse woodlands toward the Howling Crag—a massive limestone formation riddled with caves and wind tunnels that created an eerie moaning sound during storms. The dungeon entrance was said to be deep within those caves, a shimmering portal leading to twisted landscapes where reality bent to ancient magic.
The day was clear, which Tomas counted as their first piece of good fortune. Clear skies meant good visibility, and good visibility meant fewer chances for ambush. The second piece of good fortune was the wind direction—blowing toward them from the Crag, carrying any scents or sounds that might warn of approaching danger.
They moved in standard scouting formation—Jenks ranging ahead as point scout, Varn and Mira on the flanks, Tomas and Corliss forming the core. Every half hour, they would pause while Jenks climbed a tree to survey the path ahead.
It was during their third such pause, roughly two hours from camp, that they found the first sign of the dungeon break.
"Reed," Jenks called down softly from his perch in a tall oak. "You'd better see this."
Tomas climbed up beside him, moving carefully to avoid unnecessary noise. From their elevated position, they could see a clearing about half a mile ahead. The grass in the clearing had changed color—from the normal green to a sickly purple that seemed to pulse faintly, even at this distance.
"Mana corruption," Tomas murmured.
Jenks nodded. "Spreading outward from the Crag, looks like. And those shapes at the far edge..."
Tomas narrowed his eyes, focusing on the dark forms moving at the boundary where normal forest met corrupted clearing. They were roughly the size of large dogs, but their movements were all wrong—jerky and insectile, with too many limbs.
"Scuttlers," he identified. "Low-tier monsters, but dangerous in packs."
"How many you count?"
"At least a dozen. Maybe more in the trees."
They descended and shared their findings with the others. Varn notched an arrow to his bow, his expression tense. "Scuttlers aren't from the Howling Crag dungeon. They spawn in dark, enclosed spaces."
"Which means the breach is drawing in monsters from other dungeons," Mira concluded grimly. "That's... unusual."
"This whole situation is unusual," Tomas replied. He studied their surroundings, considering options. "We'll skirt the clearing. Follow the treeline east, then circle north. Adds time but keeps us away from the scuttlers."
No one argued. They adjusted course and continued their careful advance, now even more alert for signs of danger. Twice they froze as shadows passed overhead—massive winged shapes that Tomas couldn't identify at a distance, but which were certainly not natural birds.
The corrupted areas grew more frequent as they approached the Crag. Patches of purple grass. Trees with bark that sweated a glowing blue sap. Streams that flowed uphill instead of down. The natural world warping as dungeon reality leaked into it.
By midday, they had reached the base of the Howling Crag itself. The limestone formation towered above them, honeycombed with dark openings. No wind blew today, so the formation was silent rather than howling, which somehow made it more ominous.
"The main dungeon entrance is on the north face," Mira said, consulting a small, worn map. "About halfway up. Used to be a guard post there, but it was abandoned years ago when the dungeon stabilized."
"We should be able to see signs of the breach before we reach the entrance," Tomas added. "Corruption follows the path of least resistance."
They began circling the base of the Crag, moving carefully over the rocky terrain. The air grew noticeably warmer, humid in a way that felt unnatural. Tomas felt sweat beading on his forehead, running down his back beneath his leather armor.
It was Corliss who spotted it first—a fissure in the stone face, no wider than a man's hand, from which poured a viscous purple mist that clung to the ground like oil on water.
"There," he rumbled, pointing with his axe. "That's new."
Tomas approached cautiously, keeping well back from the mist. The fissure ran from ground level up about ten feet before narrowing to a hairline crack. The stone around it had changed texture, becoming almost fleshy, with visible pulses running through it like a heartbeat.
"That's not the main breach," he decided. "Too small. But it's connected to it."
"Like when a dam starts to fail," Jenks suggested. "First a few small leaks, then..."
"Then catastrophic collapse," Tomas finished. "We need to find the main breach before that happens."
They continued around the base of the Crag, now finding more fissures every few hundred yards. Some leaked mist, others a glowing liquid that hissed when it touched normal stone. The corruption was spreading visibly, patches of altered reality expanding before their eyes.
And then they turned a corner around a large boulder and found themselves face to face with the aftermath of slaughter.
A dozen soldiers in the king's colors lay scattered across the rocky ground, their bodies twisted and malformed as if the very substance of their flesh had rebelled. Some had extra limbs erupting from torsos. Others had skin that had hardened into chitinous plates. One man's face had split open like a blooming flower, revealing rows of needle-like teeth within.
"Gods," Varn whispered, his face pale. "What happened to them?"
Tomas knelt beside the nearest body, careful not to touch it. The uniform insignia marked them as part of the northern border patrol. "They got caught in a corruption wave," he said grimly. "Direct exposure to raw dungeon mana. Warps living tissue."
"These aren't from our garrison," Mira noted, examining another insignia. "Must have been sent from Fort Cairnwall when they noticed the disturbance."
"And they walked right into it," Jenks added, his usual levity absent. "Poor bastards."
Tomas stood, his expression hardened. "We need to mark these small breaches and find the main one. The lieutenant needs to know how bad this is."
They used two of their marker crystals on the largest fissures, tying them to nearby rocks where they pulsed with a soft blue light, resonating with the dungeon energy. As they worked, Tomas couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched.
"Something's not right," he murmured to Mira as they secured the second crystal. "These soldiers were well-armed. Experienced, based on their gear. They wouldn't have just walked into a corruption wave without realizing the danger."
"You think they were driven into it?" she asked, glancing around nervously.
"Or led," Tomas replied.
The words had barely left his mouth when a high, chittering sound echoed from the rocks above them. All five scouts dropped into defensive positions, weapons ready.
From a cave mouth thirty feet up the Crag's face emerged a creature that made Tomas's blood run cold. It resembled a man in the same way a scarecrow resembles a man—a crude approximation with all the wrong proportions. Its limbs were too long, its torso too narrow, its head too large and covered in cluster eyes that swiveled independently. But worst of all were its hands—human-like but with too many joints, each finger tipped with a crystalline claw that glinted in the sunlight.
"Cave harvestman," Corliss identified in a hoarse whisper. "High-tier monster. Intelligent."
The creature surveyed them with its multitude of eyes, then opened what passed for its mouth and emitted another series of chittering sounds. To Tomas's horror, the sound was answered—from behind them, from above them, from all around.
They were surrounded.
"Form up," Tomas ordered, his voice calm despite the fear churning in his gut. "Back to back. Varn, you're our range. Corliss, you've got the heavy strikes. Mira, Jenks, and I will keep them off you."
They assumed the formation just as more harvestmen appeared—from caves, from behind rocks, even scuttling straight up the vertical face of the Crag like insects. Tomas counted at least eight, possibly more hidden from view.
"We can't fight this many," Jenks muttered, his knives at the ready.
"We don't," Tomas agreed. "We break through and run. That way." He nodded toward a narrow gap between two boulders that might give them a path back toward camp. "On my mark."
The lead harvestman chittered again, and as one, the creatures began to advance. Their movements were unnervingly smooth, almost elegant in their alienness.
"Reed," Mira hissed. "Look at their pattern. They're herding us."
Tomas saw it too—the way they left the path toward the gap suspiciously open while closing all other routes. They were being channeled, just as the border patrol must have been channeled toward the corruption.
"Change of plan," he said quietly. "We go that way instead." He indicated a seemingly more guarded route, where only two harvestmen blocked their path.
Varn loosed an arrow without waiting for the order. It struck one of the harvestmen in the center of its cluster eyes, causing it to emit a shrill keening sound as it toppled backward. The other creatures paused, as if surprised by the sudden attack.
"Now!" Tomas shouted.
They charged the gap. Corliss led with his axe sweeping in a great arc that forced the remaining harvestman to leap back. Tomas and Mira rushed through the opening, with Jenks and Varn close behind.
And then they were running, sprinting over the rocky terrain, leaping fallen logs and skirting patches of corrupted ground. The chittering pursuit followed, but the harvestmen seemed reluctant to commit to a straight chase, perhaps recognizing they had lost the element of surprise.
They ran for nearly half an hour before Tomas called a halt in a defensible position—a small rise with a fallen tree providing cover on one side. They all were breathing hard, and Jenks was limping slightly from a twisted ankle.
"I think we lost them," Varn gasped, one hand pressed to his side. "For now, at least."
"Those weren't ordinary dungeon monsters," Mira said, her voice tense. "They were coordinating. Communicating."
"Just like the lieutenant warned," Jenks added.
Tomas nodded grimly. "And we still haven't found the main breach. But based on what we've seen, I'd say it's massive. Possibly the entire north face of the Crag has become permeable."
"So what do we do?" Corliss asked. "We've only placed two markers. We still have one left."
Tomas was about to reply when the sound of chittering reached them again—closer this time, coming from multiple directions. The harvestmen hadn't lost them after all. They'd been tracking them, circling to cut off their retreat.
"We're not going to outrun them," Corliss growled, hefting his axe. "Not all the way back to camp."
Tomas knew he was right. The monsters were gaining on them, and his companions were already showing signs of fatigue. Varn's breathing had grown labored, and Jenks was limping slightly from a twisted ankle. At this rate, none of them would make it.
A decision formed in Tomas's mind—the kind he'd made countless times before. A calculated risk.
"I'll draw them away," he said suddenly, his voice calm despite the circumstances. "The rest of you head for the outpost."
"What?" Mira stared at him in disbelief. "That's suicide, Reed."
"Not if I'm careful," he replied, though he knew the odds were poor. "I know these creatures. They respond to aggressive movement. They'll chase the most obvious threat."
"We stick together," Corliss insisted.
Tomas shook his head. "Look at us. Jenks can barely walk, and Varn's winded. We're too slow as a group. They'll run us down before we make it to safety." He nodded at the remaining marker crystal in Jenks's pouch. "That information needs to reach camp. I can buy you time, lead them on a chase they can't resist."
Before they could argue further, Tomas veered sharply away from the group, crashing through the underbrush with deliberate noise. "Go!" he shouted over his shoulder. "That's an order!"
He didn't look back to see if they obeyed. Instead, he focused on making himself the most attractive target—whistling sharply, breaking branches, leaving an obvious trail. The chittering sounds behind him intensified as the harvestmen took the bait, their many-jointed limbs skittering over stone and soil in pursuit.
Tomas ran with the measured pace of a veteran who knew his limits. Not a full sprint that would exhaust him quickly, but a steady jog that he could maintain for miles if necessary. His mind worked through his options as he ran, mapping the terrain from memory.
The Crag loomed ahead, its honeycombed face offering numerous potential hiding spots. But hiding wouldn't be enough—the harvestmen would simply wait him out. He needed to lose them completely or...
An idea formed, desperate and reckless in a way that went against every instinct he'd developed over twenty-three years of cautious survival. But sometimes survival required the unexpected.
He altered his course, heading directly toward the Crag's north face—toward the dungeon entrance itself.
Dungeons operated by rules different from the natural world. Their internal geography shifted, their passages reconfigured, their dangers ebbed and flowed with the cycles of mana. But most importantly, dungeon monsters were territorial. They fought each other as readily as they fought humans who ventured inside.
If he could get inside, the harvestmen might find themselves facing the dungeon's native denizens—a distraction that could give him the opportunity to find another exit or hiding place.
It was a terrible plan. The kind that desperate men concocted when all better options were exhausted.
But Tomas Reed had not survived this long by giving up when things looked bleak.
He reached the base of the Crag and began climbing, using handholds and ledges that he spotted with practiced eyes. The harvestmen followed, their insectile bodies better adapted to vertical movement than his human form. But he had a head start, and he used it to reach a narrow cave opening about thirty feet up.
Without hesitation, he plunged inside, into darkness that quickly gave way to an unnatural purple glow. The air felt wrong in his lungs—too thick, too sweet, carrying scents that had no place in the natural world. The rock beneath his feet was warm and slightly yielding, like flesh rather than stone.
He was inside the dungeon's outer periphery.
Behind him, the chittering of the harvestmen echoed through the tunnel. He pressed forward, one hand on the wall to guide him, the other clutching his sword. The passage twisted and turned, descending deeper into the Crag, the corruption growing more evident with each step. Pulsing veins ran through the stone. Crystalline growths jutted from the ceiling, casting prismatic reflections of the ambient light.
The tunnel opened suddenly into a vast chamber, and Tomas froze at the threshold. The space before him could not possibly exist within the physical confines of the Crag—it was too large, its ceiling too high. Reality bent here, folded in on itself to create impossible geometries.
Floating platforms of rock hung suspended in mid-air. Waterfalls flowed upward into pools that clung to the ceiling. And moving through this impossible landscape were creatures just as impossible—things with too many limbs, too many eyes, bodies that seemed to shift between states of matter as they moved.
This was the true dungeon, not just the corrupted periphery. He had ventured further than intended, drawn in by passages that seemed to reconfigure themselves behind him.
The chittering of the harvestmen grew louder. They were still pursuing, adapting to the dungeon's environment more easily than he could. Tomas continued forward, choosing his path carefully, avoiding open spaces where he would be exposed. He moved from shadow to shadow, from cover to cover, using the terrain and his wits to compensate for his human limitations.
Twice he encountered native dungeon creatures—once a floating orb of crackling energy that he narrowly avoided, and later a shambling mass of stone and crystal that seemed blind to his presence as long as he remained perfectly still. Each time, he survived by being careful, by paying attention to details that would escape notice by less experienced men.
But even Tomas Reed's luck had its limits.
He had just crossed a narrow stone bridge spanning a chasm of swirling mist when the harvestmen caught up to him—three of them, emerging from different tunnels as if they had split up to track him. Their cluster eyes swiveled to focus on him, their crystalline claws clicking in anticipation.
Tomas raised his sword, backing slowly away from the bridge. He couldn't retreat the way he had come, but perhaps another tunnel...
His back met solid resistance. A fourth harvestman had circled behind him, silent as a shadow. Tomas whirled, slashing upward with his blade, catching the creature across what passed for its chest. Ichor sprayed from the wound, sizzling where it touched the stone floor.
The harvestman screeched, a sound like metal scraping against metal, but didn't fall. Its companions surged forward, and suddenly Tomas was fighting for his life, his sword a silver blur in the purple half-light of the dungeon.
He fought with the economy of movement that had served him for decades—no wasted energy, no flashy strikes. One harvestman fell, its cluster eyes shredded by a precise thrust. Another lost two of its limbs to a sweeping cut that used its own momentum against it.
But they were too many, too fast, their alien physicality granting them advantages that his human form couldn't match. A crystalline claw raked across his back, tearing through leather armor and into flesh beneath. Pain flared, hot and immediate, but Tomas pushed through it, spinning to remove the offending limb with a backhand stroke.
The fight seemed to last an eternity, though in reality it couldn't have been more than minutes. Blood loss began to take its toll. Tomas's movements slowed, his reactions dulled by pain and fatigue. A second wound opened across his thigh, then a third along his ribs.
As he staggered back from a particularly vicious assault, his foot met empty air instead of solid ground. Too late, he realized he had been maneuvered to the edge of a pit he hadn't noticed—a circular opening in the floor that led to darkness below.
Tomas teetered on the brink, his sword arm still moving automatically to fend off the approaching harvestmen. He knew, with the cold clarity that comes in moments of extremity, that he was finished. The wounds were too severe, the enemies too many, the situation too desperate even for his considerable survival skills.
After twenty-three years of warfare, countless battles, and innumerable close calls, Tomas Reed had finally encountered a situation he couldn't survive.
As the nearest harvestman lunged for him, Tomas managed one final, defiant slash that severed the creature's crystalline claw. Then he fell backward into the pit, darkness rushing up to meet him. His last conscious thought was a mixture of regret and acceptance. At least the others might make it. At least his death might mean something.
The sensation of falling seemed to last forever, the air rushing past him, the purple glow of the chamber receding above. Then impact—not as hard as he'd expected, but hard enough to drive the remaining breath from his lungs. He lay on his back, staring up at the distant opening, watching the silhouettes of harvestmen peer down at him before losing interest and moving away.
Cold began to seep into his limbs. His vision narrowed, darkened at the edges. The pain from his wounds became remote, theoretical rather than immediate.
So this was death. Not so terrible, in the end.
As consciousness faded, Tomas thought he saw a faint crimson red glow coming from somewhere to his right—a different quality of light than the purple corruption of the dungeon. But he had no strength left to turn his head and investigate.
Darkness claimed him, and Tomas Reed, the unremarkable soldier who had survived against all odds for twenty-three years, finally surrendered.
Mira led the remaining scouts through the forest, her jaw clenched tight against the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Behind them, they could still hear the sounds of pursuit—but those sounds were moving away, following Tomas instead of them.
"We can't just leave him," Jenks insisted, glancing back for the dozenth time.
"We have no choice," Mira replied, her voice harder than she intended. "He made his decision. We honor it by completing the mission."
"Reed knows what he's doing," Corliss added, though his tone lacked conviction. "If anyone can survive this, it's him."
They all knew the odds. One man against that many monsters, leading them toward the dungeon rather than away from it—it was a sacrifice, not a tactical retreat. Tomas Reed had traded his life for theirs, and they all knew it.
They pushed on toward the border patrol outpost, each lost in their own thoughts. Varn scouted ahead with his bow ready, while Corliss brought up the rear, his massive axe held at the ready. They moved as quickly as caution allowed, aware that other monsters might still be roaming these woods.
The outpost appeared just as their stamina was beginning to flag—a sturdy stone structure built against a sheer cliff face, with a wooden palisade protecting its approach. The gate stood open, which wasn't a good sign.
"Careful," Mira cautioned as they approached. "Could be monsters inside."
They entered the outpost cautiously, weapons ready. The main yard was empty save for signs of a hurried evacuation—discarded equipment, an overturned cart, a cold fire pit with a cooking pot still hanging above it. The door to the main building stood ajar.
Jenks scouted ahead, peering into the building before signaling the all-clear. Inside, they found more of the same—evidence of the border patrol leaving in haste, but no bodies, no blood. A good sign.
"They must have evacuated when they first noticed the dungeon activity," Mira suggested, checking the supplies left behind. "Smart."
"Fortify the gate," she ordered, assuming command in Tomas's absence. "Varn, take the watchtower. Corliss, help me barricade the doors and windows."
As they worked to secure the outpost, a heavy silence hung over the group. No one spoke of Tomas, but his absence was a presence in itself—a void where his calm, steady leadership should have been.
"Reed," Varn called down from the watchtower, his voice tight with emotion. "We've got company coming. Lots of it."
Mira bit her lip at the instinctive use of Tomas's name, then climbed up to join Varn. Her heart sank at what she saw. A wave of monsters was moving across the landscape toward the outpost—not a random wandering, but a deliberate advance. At their center was a floating figure—a creature with the upper body of a woman and the lower body of a massive spider, her pale skin glowing with eldritch light.
"A Spider Priestess," Mira identified grimly. "Mid-tier commander. Dangerous."
"How long until they reach us?" Jenks asked, joining them in the tower.
"Minutes," Varn replied. "Maybe ten, if we're lucky."
Mira studied the approaching force, trying to think as Tomas would have—calculating odds, weighing options, formulating plans. They had limited ammunition, limited supplies, limited stamina. The outpost was defensible but far from impregnable. Without reinforcement, they could hold out for hours, perhaps a day if they were extremely fortunate.
But reinforcement wasn't coming. Not in time.
The bitter irony wasn't lost on her. They had survived Tomas's sacrifice only to face death here, in this forgotten outpost.
She looked at her companions—three good soldiers who now looked to her for leadership. They deserved better than this. They all did.
A memory surfaced—something Tomas had mentioned on previous missions. A contingency he'd learned about from eavesdropping on officers.
"The signal crystals," she said suddenly. "This outpost should have them."
The others looked at her in confusion.
"Emergency signal crystals," she clarified. "For direct communication with the Heroes. Every border outpost was issued them after the Demon King's resurrection."
"Even if they have them, the Heroes are at the Shadow Gate," Jenks pointed out. "Days away, fighting one of the Demon King's other generals."
"Not all of them," Mira replied, hope kindling as she recalled more of what Tomas had told her. "The Healer—she maintains a teleportation circle at the capital. If we can get a signal to her..."
It was a desperate chance. But as Tomas would have said, there were acceptable and unacceptable risks.
They found the crystal in the commander's quarters—a polished blue stone the size of a fist, set in a metal housing with intricate runes carved along its surface.
"Do you know how to activate it?" Corliss asked as Mira examined the device.
"Blood and intent," she replied, recalling Tomas's words. "Blood of a loyal soldier and clear intent of purpose."
Outside, the sounds of approaching monsters grew louder. The spider priestess would be upon them soon, with her horde of lesser creatures.
Mira pressed her palm against the crystal's surface, then used her knife to make a small cut across it. As her blood touched the blue stone, it began to glow, pulsing rhythmically.
"Heroes from the East," she spoke clearly, feeling somewhat foolish but pushing through. "This is Scout Mira Denton, Third Company, King's Infantry. We have located a major dungeon breach at Howling Crag, coordinated by a Demon Lord. Request immediate assistance at the northern border patrol outpost."
The crystal flared brightly, then dimmed to a steady glow. Had it worked? There was no way to know.
"Now we fight," Mira said simply, wiping her bloody hand on her trousers. "As long as we can. For Reed."
"For Reed," the others echoed solemnly.
They took their positions—Varn in the watchtower with his bow, Corliss at the main gate with his axe, Jenks and Mira covering the flanks, ready to reinforce wherever the defense weakened.
The first wave hit the palisade like a tide of nightmare flesh—scuttlers climbing over each other to reach the top, winged serpents diving from above, hulking brutes hammering at the gate with club-like limbs. Varn's arrows claimed many, dropping them with precise shots to vulnerable points. Corliss's axe severed limbs that reached through gaps in the barricade.
Mira was defending a section of the wall when she spotted it—a harvestman with a distinctive wound across its chest, ichor still seeping from a clean diagonal slash. The creature moved with a slight limp, favoring its right side.
"Corliss!" she called out, pointing to the wounded monster. "Look at that one!"
Corliss's eyes widened in recognition. "That's Reed's handiwork. I'd know that cutting pattern anywhere—angled upward, right to left."
"He fought them," Varn said, a mixture of pride and despair in his voice. "He actually engaged those things."
Their momentary distraction nearly cost them as the wounded harvestman launched itself at the gate with surprising force, splintering wood and forcing them to fall back.
"If that one's here," Jenks said grimly as they retreated, "then Reed..."
No one finished the thought. They all knew what it meant. Either Reed had fallen, or he was in even deeper trouble than they were.
But there were too many monsters to dwell on it. Always too many.
When the gate finally splintered, they retreated to the main building. When windows were smashed, they fell back to interior rooms. Step by step, they gave ground, making the monsters pay in blood for every inch.
In what Mira assumed would be their final stand, they barricaded themselves in the commander's quarters. Her sword arm burned with fatigue, her breath came in ragged gasps, and a broken wrist sent waves of pain up her arm with every movement. The others were in no better condition—Varn down to his last few arrows, Jenks bleeding from a wound in his thigh, Corliss barely able to lift his axe.
Outside the door, they could hear the chittering voice of the Spider Priestess, directing her minions for the final assault.
"It's been an honor," Mira said to her companions.
"Likewise," Jenks replied with a weak smile. "Though Reed would've gotten us out of this somehow."
A sad laugh rippled through the group. Tomas Reed had always been the one with the escape plan, the contingency, the route to survival. Without him, they had reached the end of their options.
The door began to buckle under the assault. Claws scraped at the wood, splintering it chunk by chunk. The furniture they'd piled against it shifted with each impact.
Mira raised her sword, determined to account for at least one more monster before the end.
And then the room filled with light—not the sickly glow of corruption, but a pure, golden radiance that seemed to emanate from the very air. The assault on the door ceased abruptly, replaced by shrieks of pain and fear.
A voice called out from beyond the barricade—clear, commanding, speaking in an accent not native to their lands.
"Stand away from the door! We will handle this!"
Mira and her companions exchanged bewildered glances. Could it be?
The next sound confirmed it—a thunderous crash followed by the unmistakable sound of a blade cleaving through multiple bodies at once. The roar of a storm contained within a limited space. The crackling of protective magic forming barriers.
The Heroes had arrived.
The door to their sanctuary burst open, but it wasn't monsters that entered. It was a young woman with gentle eyes and glowing hands—the Healer of the Four Heroes. Behind her, visible through the doorway, her companions fought with impossible skill and power. The Sword Saint moved like liquid light, his blade leaving trails of energy as it cut down monsters by the dozen. The Shield Maiden's barrier expanded outward, pushing back the horde. The Storm Caller hovered above the battlefield, lightning arcing from his fingertips to strike the Spider Priestess, who writhed in agony as electricity coursed through her inhuman form.
"You are injured," the Healer said, her voice soft but clear. She approached Mira first, perhaps recognizing her as the one who had sent the call. Her hands hovered over Mira's broken wrist, and warmth flowed into it, knitting bone back together without leaving so much as a twinge of pain. "Please remain here. We will secure the area."
With that, she moved to treat the others, healing mortal wounds with casual gestures that would have taken experienced field surgeons hours of painstaking work—if they could have saved the wounded at all.
Mira watched in silent awe as Jenks's gaping wound closed without a trace, as the deep cuts across Corliss's chest vanished beneath glowing fingers. She had heard the stories, of course—everyone had—but witnessing the Healer's power firsthand was something else entirely.
The sounds of battle outside diminished rapidly. From her position, Mira could see flashes of light through the windows, hear the death cries of monsters, feel the very air vibrate with power as the Heroes methodically annihilated what would have been an overwhelming force for any normal soldiers.
It was over in minutes.
The other three Heroes entered the room, seemingly untouched by the battle they had just won. The Sword Saint sheathed his blade in a single fluid motion, his face impassive save for a slight furrow between his brows. The Shield Maiden's barrier had contracted to a faint shimmer around her forearm. The Storm Caller's hands still crackled with residual energy, his eyes glowing faintly.
"The area is secure," the Sword Saint announced without preamble. "But we sensed a much larger breach nearby."
"Howling Crag," Mira confirmed, standing with newfound strength in her healed body. "The entire north face has become a gateway. A Demon Lord is directing the invasion."
The four Heroes exchanged glances, some unspoken communication passing between them.
"Please," Mira said, stepping forward. "Our comrade, Tomas Reed—he drew the monsters away so we could escape. Led them toward the dungeon. Can you help find him?"
"Into the dungeon?" The Sword Saint's eyes sharpened with interest.
"We don't know for certain," Varn said. "But that was the direction he was heading when we last saw him. And one of the creatures that attacked us had his mark on it."
"A brave sacrifice," the Shield Maiden said softly.
"That's Reed," Corliss rumbled. "Always doing what needs to be done."
The Storm Caller stepped forward. "We will investigate this breach immediately. And we will look for your comrade."
"Is there... any chance he's still alive?" Jenks asked, hope warring with realism in his voice.
The Healer's expression was gentle but honest. "The dungeon is a place of chaos and corruption. If he entered deeply enough... the chances are very slim. But we will try."
"Show us your map," the Shield Maiden requested.
Mira produced their tattered field map, spreading it on a nearby table. The Heroes gathered around it, studying the terrain with practiced eyes.
"We placed two markers," Mira added. "Resonance crystals that should help pinpoint the breach locations. Reed had the third."
The Storm Caller nodded. "We sensed them. That's how we found you so quickly." He inclined his head slightly. "Good work."
The simple acknowledgment from such a powerful being was unexpected. Mira felt an irrational surge of pride, then immediately felt foolish for it. What were their small efforts compared to what these Heroes could accomplish?
"Your garrison," the Healer asked. "How far?"
"Four hours' march south," Mira replied. "They know about the break but not its extent, nor the Demon Lord's presence."
The Shield Maiden frowned. "They're in danger. This is no ordinary dungeon breach. It's coordinated with other attacks around the kingdom."
"A diversion," the Sword Saint added grimly. "While we fought at the Shadow Gate, the Demon King moved his forces here."
Mira felt her blood run cold. The implications were clear—their small garrison, prepared for a typical monster incursion, would be facing something far worse.
"We must seal the breach immediately," the Storm Caller declared. "And then reinforce the garrison."
"What about us?" Jenks asked, gesturing to the four soldiers.
"You've done your part," the Healer said kindly. "Rest here. We'll send reinforcements back for you once we've dealt with the breach. And... we will search for your friend."
The Shield Maiden must have read something in Mira's expression. "Your intelligence was crucial," she said. "Without your markers and your message, we might not have detected this breach until it was too late. Not every battle is fought with swords."
Mira nodded, accepting her point. They had done their duty. They had survived. And Reed... Reed had done what Reed always did. He had ensured the mission's success, whatever the personal cost.
The Heroes prepared to depart, gathering by the door. The Healer created a translucent dome over the outpost with a gesture, a protective barrier that would keep them safe until help arrived.
"Wait," Mira said suddenly, surprising herself. "The villages—Riversbend and Oakhollow. There are civilians being evacuated. If this is more than a simple breach..."
"We'll divert to check on them after sealing the breach," the Healer assured her.
The Storm Caller gave Mira an appraising look. "You understand the larger picture. That's rare among soldiers."
"I learned from Reed," Mira replied honestly. "He always said understanding the larger picture helps you stay alive."
A faint smile touched the Storm Caller's lips. "A sensible man. Perhaps he still lives."
With that, the Four Heroes departed, moving with supernatural speed toward the Howling Crag and the Demon Lord that awaited them. Within moments, they had vanished from sight, leaving only the faint glow of the protective barrier to remind Mira and her companions that they had been there at all.
Jenks slumped against a wall, running a hand over the unmarked skin of his thigh where a gaping wound had been minutes before. "Well," he said finally. "That was something."
"'Something' doesn't quite cover it," Varn replied, watching the direction the Heroes had gone. "Think they can handle a Demon Lord? Even for them, that's a serious opponent."
"They'll handle it," Corliss rumbled with certainty. "That's what they do."
Mira said nothing, lost in thought. She had just witnessed the power of the Heroes up close—had seen them casually destroy a force that would have annihilated her entire garrison. Had felt the Healer's magic erase wounds that would have crippled or killed her. Had been saved by beings who could have been gods for all the difference between their abilities and her own.
And yet, she couldn't stop thinking about Tomas Reed. Unremarkable soldier. Veteran of twenty-three years of warfare. The man who had always found a way to survive.
"He's alive," she said suddenly, conviction in her voice. "Reed's alive. I know it."
The others looked at her with a mixture of hope and doubt. They all wanted to believe it, but they had seen the odds he faced.
"If anyone could survive in there, it would be him," Jenks admitted.
"The man survived the Blighted Year," Varn added. "And the Siege of Karhold. And that mess at Blackwater Bridge."
"And he always came back with that same look on his face," Corliss said with a slight smile. "Like he was mildly annoyed at the inconvenience of it all."
A small laugh passed through the group, the tension breaking slightly. They were alive, against all odds. The Heroes were dealing with the breach. And maybe, just maybe, Tomas Reed was still out there, finding his way back through impossible circumstances.
That would be just like him.
Hours later, as they watched from the watchtower, the night sky above the Howling Crag erupted with light—storm clouds forming from clear air, lightning striking in precise patterns, the very fabric of reality twisting as the Heroes worked to seal the breach.
"Have you ever wondered," Mira asked quietly, standing with the others as they witnessed the distant battle, "how Reed does it? Survives when better fighters don't?"
"He's careful," Varn offered. "Notices things others miss."
"He knows when to fight and when to run," Corliss added.
"And he never, ever gives up," Jenks finished. "Not while he still has breath."
A particularly brilliant flash illuminated the distant Crag, followed by a shock wave that reached them seconds later, ruffling their clothes and hair.
"I think they just won," Jenks said softly.
Varn squinted at the horizon. "Something's coming this way. Fast."
Mira tensed momentarily, then relaxed as she recognized the distinctive glow of the Healer's barrier surrounding rapidly moving figures.
Within minutes, the Heroes had returned, landing lightly in the outpost courtyard. They showed some signs of exertion now—the Sword Saint's immaculate clothing was torn in places, the Shield Maiden's armor dented, the Storm Caller's face drawn with fatigue. Only the Healer appeared unchanged, her serene expression maintained despite whatever battle they had just fought.
"The breach is sealed," the Sword Saint announced without preamble. "The Demon Lord escaped, but his forces are scattered."
"The garrison?" Mira asked immediately.
"Safe," the Shield Maiden assured her. "We sent a message ahead. They're preparing defenses for any stragglers."
"And the villages?"
"Evacuated in time," the Healer said. "Though Riversbend suffered some damage before we arrived."
Relief washed through Mira. Their mission had succeeded beyond what she could have hoped for. The breach was sealed, the civilians safe, the garrison warned.
But there was still the question none of them wanted to ask. The Storm Caller answered it before they could.
"We found no trace of your comrade," he said solemnly. "We searched the dungeon as far as we could, but the collapse of the breach has changed its internal geography. Many chambers are now inaccessible."
"So you don't know if he's..." Jenks couldn't finish the sentence.
"We don't know," the Healer said gently. "The dungeon exists in a state of flux. What was solid ground yesterday might be a chasm today. What was a dead end might become a passage."
"And sometimes," the Sword Saint added, "those lost in dungeons find their way out in unexpected places, at unexpected times."
It wasn't much hope, but it was something. Tomas Reed had built a career on defying odds that others considered impossible.
"We'll escort you back to your garrison," the Storm Caller said. "There are still dangerous creatures loose in these woods."
The journey back to camp took a fraction of the time it would have normally, with the Heroes moving at a pace that the soldiers could just barely maintain. They arrived as dawn was breaking, to find the garrison in a state of organized readiness—defenses raised, soldiers at posts, officers directing preparations for the anticipated monster attack.
Their arrival with the Four Heroes caused a stir, to put it mildly. Soldiers stopped mid-task to stare. Officers rushed to greet the legendary warriors. Word spread rapidly through the camp—the breach was sealed, the immediate danger passed.
In the commotion, Mira and her companions were largely overlooked, which suited her perfectly. They reported to Lieutenant Dorn, who listened to their account with growing amazement.
"So let me understand this," he said finally, looking at the four scouts with disbelief. "You found the breach, marked it, identified a Demon Lord's presence, were nearly overrun, managed to summon the Heroes directly, and then watched them seal one of the largest dungeon breaks in recorded history?"
"That about covers it, sir," Jenks replied with a hint of his usual humor.
"And Reed?"
The four scouts exchanged glances. Mira spoke for them all. "Missing in action, sir. He drew the monsters away so we could complete the mission. The Heroes couldn't find him in the dungeon, but... they said there's a chance he might still be alive."
Dorn's expression sobered. "Reed always was the one who came back." He sighed. "We'll list him as MIA, not KIA. And we'll keep an eye out for him."
Later, as the camp celebrated their unexpected deliverance, Mira sat apart, methodically cleaning her equipment the way she had seen Tomas do countless times. First the blade, then the hilt, checking for loose bindings, testing the edge.
Details. Reed had always emphasized the details.
From across the camp, she could see the Heroes conferring with the garrison commander. Soon they would leave, moving on to the next crisis, the next battle in their eternal war against the Demon King.
And somewhere out there, perhaps, Tomas Reed was doing what he had always done—surviving against impossible odds, finding his way back through sheer determination and stubborn refusal to die.
Before the Heroes departed, the Sword Saint approached Mira, something clutched in his hand.
"We found this," he said, holding out a silver dagger with worn leather wrappings on the hilt. "In the dungeon. I believe it belonged to your friend."
Mira took the weapon, recognizing it immediately—the backup blade that Reed always kept strapped to his left forearm. The one he'd bought from a hedge witch who claimed it was effective against spirits and ethereal creatures.
"Thank you," she managed, her throat tight.
The Sword Saint nodded once. "Your friend fought well. There were many dead harvestmen where we found this. Many more than one ordinary man should have been able to kill."
With that, he turned and rejoined his companions. The Four Heroes departed as dramatically as they had arrived, leaving the garrison to rebuild and recover.
Mira carefully tucked Reed's dagger into her belt. A reminder, and perhaps something to return to him when—not if, when—he found his way back.
In a world of dungeons, demons, and destined heroes, ordinary men and women still fought, still bled, still died. But some, like Tomas Reed, simply refused to stay down.
She would honor his memory by following his example—by paying attention to the details, by understanding the larger picture, by making the careful choices that kept you alive when others fell.
And maybe, someday, by welcoming him back when he emerged from whatever impossible situation he had fallen into.
After all, that's what Tomas Reed did. He survived.