As the ancient stone door slowly closed under the weight of a magical spell, currents of energy flowed through the grooves along the walls and floor, forming a sealed circle of power. The outside world, a living nightmare of chaos, seemed thoroughly cut off.
Gone was the roar of the captain, the screams of the injured and dying, and the monstrous howls of creatures on the other side. All sound was absorbed by the thick stone and reinforced steel, creating an illusion of safety. Though everyone knew it was only temporary, Rebecca allowed herself a brief exhale of relief. If only that inferno outside were nothing more than a dream.
But the moment of respite was brief. She shook her head firmly, dispelling any weak thoughts that had crept in. Solid rock and steel brought no lasting safety; in fact, they only risked dulling her resolve, tempting her to cling to a fragile peace. She tightened her grip on her dimly glowing staff, hoping it would lend her a measure of courage.
From behind her, Sir Byron Kirk, the family knight, spoke up. "My Lady, the passage has been sealed. Those monsters shouldn't breach it any time soon."
Rebecca glanced back at the loyal knight. His steel armor was covered in gashes, with a noticeable dent on his breastplate, and his gray hair bore a large scorch mark—a mark that had nearly cost him his life. Only her Aunt Hetty's timely fireball had saved him from the maw of one of those creatures, narrowly exploding beside his head in a daring rescue. That fireball was both a blessing and a close brush with death, thanks to Aunt Hetty's infamous tendency for her spells to hit everything but their intended target.
Rebecca quickly lowered her gaze, concealing her exhaustion. "Thank you, Sir Byron. At least we can catch our breath."
She turned to observe the remaining members of their group: three soldiers, torches in hand, stood guard. Aunt Hetty studied the walls at the far end of the chamber, a flame hovering above her hand, illuminating the ancient carvings. Their young maid, Betty, clutched a well-worn frying pan, wide-eyed, and peering curiously from behind the soldiers.
Including herself and Sir Byron, only seven remained. Those left above had no hope of survival.
As Rebecca assessed the group, her eyes roamed over their surroundings. This stone hall was a relic of the distant past, its rectangular space filled with cobwebs and dust. Decrepit remnants of once-fine furnishings lay in heaps, their faded elegance hinting at former grandeur. The walls bore murals and reliefs, worn with time but still discernible.
Hetty Cecil studied the artwork intently. In contrast to the ornate but hollow style of the Northern nations, the decor here was solemn and dignified, bearing the unmistakable mark of the First Dynasty. The murals depicted heroic figures and the land's history, while the reliefs illustrated scenes of myth and symbols of the divine. As a learned spellcaster, Hetty was skilled in interpreting these ancient images, searching for any useful knowledge.
With her hand placed solemnly over her heart, Hetty murmured, "May our ancestors forgive us…"
"Aunt Hetty," Rebecca approached, her staff in hand. She seemed anxious, as though the weight of this place had only just dawned on her. "This is…"
"This is the resting place of the Cecil family's ancestors," Hetty said gravely. "Do nothing to show disrespect."
Rebecca swallowed, glancing around. "It seems… untouched for a long time."
Hetty's expression was serious as she replied, "Since the time when Marquis Grumman defiled this crypt a century ago, taking a sacred relic and almost bringing ruin upon our family. Since then, this place has been sealed off. The descendants of our house have known how to enter, but none have dared to do so unless facing life and death."
"We certainly are at that point now…" Rebecca sighed deeply. "The ancestors will forgive us… right?"
Hetty gave a strained smile, unable to answer. Instead, she continued her search for the mechanism to access the deeper chamber, following the murals' guidance. It didn't take long; her hand found the carved stone pillar, and with a firm push, she activated it.
With a low rumble, the stone gate began to rise, revealing the entrance to the deeper tomb.
Yet as the gate lifted, Rebecca heard a strange sound from behind it—a clatter of objects falling, followed by a stifled gasp.
"There's someone inside?!" Hetty exclaimed, her voice low but urgent. "Byron!"
Without waiting for further instructions, Sir Byron charged toward the gate, sword in hand, with the soldiers following closely. Rebecca, after a brief moment of surprise, raced after them, calling back over her shoulder to the maid, "Betty! Find somewhere to hide!"
Rushing into the crypt, Rebecca saw Sir Byron swinging his sword at a small, agile figure darting around him. The intruder wove like a shadow through the gloom, vanishing into the dark corners of the tomb, leaving Rebecca in awe of her speed and control over the shadows. It was rare to see someone capable of eluding Sir Byron for this long.
But with the soldiers closing in, and Aunt Hetty blocking the door with flames coiling around her hand, the intruder found herself cornered. She stumbled, landing awkwardly.
Rebecca could now see her clearly—a young woman, not much older than herself but slightly shorter, with cropped hair and a fine, if dirt-streaked, face. Her old leather armor suggested she was no stranger to hardship. Her most telling feature was her pointed ears, shorter than an elf's but still sharp, revealing her mixed heritage.
As soon as she hit the ground, Byron advanced, his sword at her neck, while the soldiers closed in around her, blocking any escape.
"Who are you to dare trespass in the Cecil family's ancestral tomb?" Hetty's voice shook with fury, her noble heritage seething at the violation of this sacred place. An outsider here was unthinkable. Should word of this reach the outside world, the already dwindling reputation of the Cecil family would be shattered.
Rebecca joined Hetty in glaring at the half-elf, her own anger tempered by confusion. The presence of a stranger here, of all places, was incomprehensible.
The half-elf stammered, her voice trembling, "W-wait! I haven't stolen anything!"
Byron pressed his sword slightly closer. "You have quite the nerve!"
But before he could say more, an eerie, metallic sound echoed from the black steel coffin at the chamber's center. The noise was unmistakable, halting everyone mid-motion. Rebecca's breath caught.
A second later, Rebecca broke the silence, the tip of her staff glowing with a flame as she pointed it toward the intruder. "What did you do to our ancestor?!"
The half-elf looked as though she might cry. "Wait—don't kill me! But more importantly, your ancestor's coffin lid is about to burst open!"
Her voice barely faded when the coffin began to shake, its heavy lid trembling.
"Ancestors above!" Hetty's face paled, her poise slipping for the first time in years. "Please rest in peace! The one who disturbed you will face justice…"
But the half-elf shrieked, "This is no time for that! Hold the coffin lid down before it opens!"
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, and even Byron looked momentarily stunned. At last, Rebecca sprang into action, rushing toward the coffin. But she was too late—the lid had already shifted, and a hand emerged from within, groping for purchase.
Without a second thought, Rebecca raised her staff and slammed it down on the hand. "Ancestor! Please rest in peace!!"
The hand recoiled with a pained yelp. "Ow! Who hit my hand?!"
Rebecca froze, her eyes wide. Her family's knight, her aunt, and the soldiers all stared at her, mouths agape.
Rebecca glanced down at her staff, suddenly flustered. "Aunt Hetty… was that disrespectful to our ancestor?"
But Hetty's eyes widened in horror as she shouted, "Rebecca! Get away from there!"
Rebecca hesitated. "Aunt?"
"This might be an undead resurrection!" Hetty's face was drained of color. "The corruption from the monsters on the surface could have reached his sacred remains!"
The thought sent a shiver down Rebecca's spine. As she prepared to leap away from the platform, the coffin lid flew off with tremendous force, crashing to the floor. Emerging from the darkness was a man with short, light brown hair, a commanding presence, and dressed in the attire of an ancient noble.
The half-elf groaned, exasperated. "See? Your ancestor's spirit has officially awakened."