As the necrotic spray began to settle, Kyrntar realized the Morlith's twisted game wasn't just a battle—it was a message. Druvon staggered, his massive frame hunched as he groaned in pain. The acidic spray had seared through the gaps in his armor, leaving angry, blackened streaks across his shoulder and chest. He grimaced as his fingers traced the jagged burns, the heat of the necrotic acid still radiating through the metal. Meanwhile, Vikra, crouched low, pressed a hand to her thigh where a few drops had grazed her. Though she had dodged most of the attack, the skin beneath her leather armor still burned, and a faint hiss escaped her lips as she winced, her normally fluid movements now tight with pain.
As they moved to a safer corner of the chamber, Kyrntar's mind raced. The Morlith's riddle wasn't just a challenge—it was a warning. Binding, chains, misery—it all pointed to the dragon amulet. He realized with a sinking feeling that the creature had been staring at him for a reason. It knew. It had been toying with them, hinting at the darkness surrounding his companions and the amulet's influence. But they had been too slow to see it.
Kyrntar knelt between his companions, his hands shaking as he tried to gather his thoughts. Druvon sat against the wall, his breathing shallow but controlled, his face impassive despite the burn visible through his armor. Vikra, lying beside him, gritted her beak in silent agony, her body trembling as the necrotic burns spread. Her eyes, though sharp with pain, still gleamed with some sort of cynical thrill.
"I've been thinking... about the riddle," Kyrntar began, his voice tight. He squeezed his hands together, trying to keep calm, but the dread in his chest only grew. "It wasn't just about chains or misery. It was about a sacrifice."
Druvon's gaze flicked toward him, his expression stoic, though a flicker of interest crossed his face. "What are you saying?"
Kyrntar paced, his boots scuffing against the stone floor. "The Morlith—it wasn't just playing with us. The whole time, the riddle was pointing to something… more. I think it was telling us the only way to get the amulet out of here requires a sacrifice."
Druvon's eyes darkened. "Sacrifice," he repeated, his tone low, steady, as if testing the word.
Kyrntar nodded, anxiety rising in his chest. "Yeah. And… and I don't think it was just implying us. But my old team as well, though I hope I'm wrong,"
Vikra let out a strangled, painful shrill, her beak curling into a bitter smirk. She didn't need words to convey her thoughts—typical, even now, Kyrntar was hoping to see the light in the impossible.
Druvon remained quiet for a long moment, his gaze shifting between Kyrntar and Vikra. "If that's what the temple demands," he said finally, his voice calm and even, "then we face it. But we don't let it dictate who's sacrificed."
Even as he said this, Druvon winced as he inspected his acid burns, his voice low but steady. "Paladin, got anything left in you? We're going to need it."
Kyrntar blinked, snapping out of his thoughts, surprised by the question. He hadn't realized how deep his mind had wandered. "I—yeah. I've got enough."
Steeling himself, Kyrntar knelt beside Druvon and Vikra, placing his hands on their wounded skin. A soft glow spread from his palms, the divine energy flowing into their burns. Druvon's skin hissed as the acid burns began to heal, while Vikra, unable to speak, gave a weak nod of acknowledgment, her pain lessening with each passing second.
The healing drained Kyrntar, each second pulling more from him than the last. The whispers in the temple grew louder, the darkness closing in. Still, he pressed on, forcing the last of his strength into his companions until their wounds were sealed.
As Kyrntar knelt beside Druvon and Vikra, the divine energy flowed from his hands, easing their burns and soothing their pain. But with each pulse of light, he felt something darker stir within the temple. The air around him thickened, the oppressive weight pressing against his chest. The healing should have been simple, but the temple was taking more than he realized.
A cold fatigue settled deep in his bones, heavier with each breath. The dark whispers that had once been distant now clawed at the edges of his mind, growing louder as his strength waned. Kyrntar swayed, his body weakening as he realized he had given more than he intended. His companions stood, their wounds healed, but he could feel the cost—an unsettling, draining force that left him barely able to remain upright.
Kyrntar slumped against his sword, the metal trembling under the weight of his body. His once proud posture now hunched, shoulders sagging as his chest heaved, each breath labored, and his legs quivered like they might give out at any moment. His eyes, normally sharp and alert, were glazed with exhaustion, dark circles forming beneath them.
Druvon, towering over him, raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "Unwise, paladin," he rumbled, his deep voice carrying a mix of amusement and respect, "to leave yourself so vulnerable for the sake of strangers."
Kyrntar's lips twitched, barely able to form a response. His voice came out as a weak, breathless mutter. "Shut up," he managed, his defiant words lacking their usual strength, but holding onto what little pride he had left.
Druvon shakes his head with a stoic smile. In a smooth motion, he bends down and, with great care, effortlessly scoops Kyrntar up into his strong arms. His movements are so precise and gentle that Kyrntar barely feels the shift. Druvon hoists him up onto his broad shoulder with the same ease as lifting a feather, allowing Kyrntar to rest.
"You'll need your strength for what's ahead," Druvon says calmly, continuing forward as if nothing had happened. Vikra, walking beside them, chuckles softly to herself, amused by the dynamic between her two companions.
Kyrntar, now resting against Druvon's shoulder, is too tired to argue and simply closes his eyes for a brief moment of respite.
As the party moves deeper into the heart of the temple, the air grows colder and thicker with an unnatural stillness. Kyrntar, still resting on Druvon's massive shoulder, begins to stir slightly as they approach a set of massive, towering doors carved with intricate, ancient symbols. The heavy stone is cracked in places, yet the doors radiate an ominous presence that fills the chamber.
Etched into the surface of the door is another riddle, twisted and foreboding, reminiscent of the Morlith's cryptic words:
Binds and chains are but a surprise,
Voices in your head cannot lie.
Druvon pauses for a moment, his eyes scanning the riddle with clear distaste. "What a terrible trick," he rumbles, his voice low. "Even your own thoughts can mislead you."
Kyrntar lifts his scaley head for a second, and lays it back on the loxodon's shoulder, "If I see another riddle I'll throw up,"
He glances over at Vikra, who stands silently to the side, her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she gazes at the towering door. Her expression betrays no emotion, but there is a quiet tension in her stance, as if she, too, senses something sinister beyond the stone threshold.
Without waiting for further contemplation, Druvon presses his large hands against the door and gives it a forceful push. The stone grinds against the floor as the door slowly creaks open, revealing a darkened chamber beyond. The air that rushes out is stale, thick with the smell of dust and something far more ancient—far more malevolent.
As Druvon pushed the door open, the room greeted them with an overwhelming, palpable sense of dread. The air inside was thick, humid, and heavy with the stench of rot, as if death itself clung to every stone. At the heart of the chamber, Marra stood in a pool of vile, sickly green water that shimmered unnaturally, as though something within it was alive, writhing just beneath the surface.
Her once-gleaming armor was now loosed and cracked, hanging from her twisted frame like a cruel mockery of the warrior she used to be. Her hair, no longer tied back in the way of battle, hung in wild, tangled strands, framing a face that was no longer human. Her skin had taken on a sickly hue, and her eyes burned with a malevolent glow, black veins crawling up her neck like snakes slithering in secret. In one hand, she gripped a blackened mace, the weapon dripping with a dark, congealed fluid. But it was her other hand—twisted into an unnatural, claw-like shape, blackened and pulsating with a bone-chilling cold—that truly horrified them.
Around her neck, the dragon amulet gleamed with malevolent energy, its dark light pulsing in sync with the faint, sinister rhythm of her breath. Each beat of the amulet echoed like the thudding of a heart, filling the chamber with the oppressive weight of an ancient evil, as if the very walls were watching them, waiting for their next move.
A wicked smile spreads across Marra's face as her eyes lock onto Kyrntar, who instinctively pops a stamina bottle to steady himself, as he slid off of Druvon's back though the sight of her corrupted form sends a wave of shock through him.
The air around them grew colder, and Kyrntar could feel the dragon amulet's pulse matching his own heartbeat.