Dragonheart Core

Coseth wished he had something a little more eloquent to bring to the table, something to make all the girls at the tavern swoon as he drawled through a story of his exploits, but his first and most pressing thought was this thing is horribly ugly.

Because, gods above, it really was.

Sprawling and squat, it crouched before an open den on the second floor, nearly as tall as his chest. He could see hints of its toad-esque appearance, bits of gray-green skin, but everything else was covered in plated metal like an armoured knight from legends of lore.

Coseth just couldn't remember any knight he'd read about having a face only a mother could love. Squashed like a rotten pomegranate, covered in flat sheets of metal like a battering ram, ugly little eyes and a broad, toothless mouth.

The merchant's son in him told him other things as well, noting the high quality iron the toad was armoured in and the glint of earthen mana behind its glossy eyes, but Coseth really couldn't get past how terrible the thing looked.

He peered around his sheltering rock wall, arrow already pulled tight to his cheek; his mana circulated through his eyes and presented the easiest weak points; gaps for mobility around the joints of its limbs, between the pebbled iron around its eyes, the thin line of its open mouth.

Ever a gambler at heart, he took the hardest shot.

The toad shrieked as an arrow popped through its maw, spearing right through its ugly mouth and ignoring all its fancy armour; looked like it didn't appreciate iron on both the outside and inside. A right shame.

Coseth barely had a moment to appreciate his rather flawless kill before the action continued.

"To me!" Kentra roared, slamming her bare feet against a relatively clear section of ground; lightning crackled up her legs and exploded her jump forward, not so much kicking the stone-backed toad trying its damndest to flee so much as introducing her heel to its intestines. It popped in a shower of scarlet.

Her magic was an odd one; she could enhance her basic abilities with lightning, vastly improving her reflexes and strength beyond a regular enhancer, but at the cost of also unleashing said lightning across her body. If she wore armour, hells even too thick of clothing, the lightning remained trapped against her skin. She was already covered in the twisting remains of scars to show she'd learned that particular lesson.

So, even in a full untamed dungeon, she wore a loose, billowing tunic and short trousers. No gloves, no boots, not a scrap of armour.

And she was still killing things faster than him.

Blasted kids.

Birrin stood behind, blindfold securely over his eyes as he threw out great loops of mana, seizing indiscriminately at the minds of their opponents and throwing them off course. Kentra whirled to follow his step, lashing out as constrictors and toads shuddered under his mental assault, only to be properly physically assaulted as her lightning-enhanced feet kindly knocked them out of their stupor and into death.

Beyond them, back to back as normal, Sarissa and Kriya kept to the far wall; Sarissa in front, her serpentine hood spread wide to flash the eye-like markings underneath and her fists raised, covered in cragged limestone. Kriya behind, her dappled scales flashing rhythmically as she called up a healing spell, fingers gleaming a pale red.

Coseth dug his arrow out of the toad's corpse and notched it, mana swirling as it guided his hands into a better position; the fletching almost grazed Kentra's shoulder before exploding through the rat about to leap off the wall at her. She barely reacted.

Four years they'd been a team, scraping through various cities in search of anything that paid—Calarata was the latest in a long line of fallen opportunities, thankfully one that didn't pay as much attention to what other, more prim-and-proper adventurers demanded. Coseth was greying at the temples, they didn't have an even blend of ranged and physical brawlers, for all their age and experience only half of them had made the jump to Silver.

Why would Calarata give a shit? Warm bodies were warm bodies, and this team had warm bodies that were at least competent. Coseth's age or Sarissa and Kriya's ancestry didn't get more than a single glance before they were free to scour the tavern boards for opportunities.

So now they whirled their way through a dungeon and hunted for a greater prize.

"Fuck off," Kentra barked, lashing out with a second kick to decapitate another armoured toad—Coseth took a quick, preening moment to notice that his had been much larger than hers—and shaking off the iron pebbles digging into her skin. "Fuck, I hate these things. The second I get my hands on the core, I'm forbidding it from ever making them again."

"Have to say I agree," Birrin muttered, snapping his fingers twice; two charging rats abruptly fumbled to a stop, eyes clouded, and Coseth took them out with a single arrow. "The raid-frenzy is particularly annoying with them."

Sarissa hissed, hood spreading wider, and slammed her rock-encrusted hands together; a spire of limestone burst from below her feet and stopped the slow, lumbering charge of a half-grown emerald green crab, spearing through its carapace with a distinctive crunch. Kriya peered around her, amber eyes wide.

The room echoed hollowly in the absence of any active threats, canal gurgling with lazy rapids and bone white leaves rustling overhead.

The sisters padded over, Sarissa idly letting her stone gauntlets fall off with a roll of her shoulders. "I say we push on," she said, voice lisping and catching on the softer sounds—her and Kriya's naga ancestry was still very fresh in their bloodline, impossible to ignore. If they'd waited a few more generations to be born they might've only had a few scattered scales, the slitted pupils, maybe the fangs; instead, nearly half their bodies were covered in dappled red-gold scales, hair replaced by a cobra's hood, mouths twisting awkwardly around what should have been their native language.

Coseth couldn't help but be somewhat jealous, at times. If his face was covered in scales, gods only know how many more fools he could have swindled into parting with their dear coins in gambling dens. A merchant son's charisma only went so far.

Kentra grinned, sharp and bright. "Hells if we don't. We'll have to cut a clean exit to avoid the Dread Pirate but with a dungeon core under our belt, there's no fucking rules that'll keep us pinned here."

Her grin was matched by them all.

It'd been a spur of the moment choice, rallied by First Mate Lluc's speech under the borwood tree, but oh, the thought was a lovely, wonderful thing. Take a dungeon core and you were promised power above power, strength above strength; whether they took it to Leóro and claimed the title of High Lord and the royal position that came with it, whether they graduated from adventuring party to legends, whether they took claim over the dungeon and welcomed adventurers from all over Aiqith to pay them tribute for the chance to test their mettle.

Coseth found he rather enjoyed those fanciful thoughts. Sometimes, he thought that losing his fortune in seedy alleys and being forced to pick up adventuring just to keep his head belonging to him instead of debtors was one of the better things to happen to him.

"We've made it through four rooms so far," Birrin said, ever the studious planner. His blindfold crinkled as he absentmindedly rubbed at his temples. "Judging by the lack of other parties we've encountered, I'd say this is a branching floor, presumably joining back together at the entrance further down; if this dungeon is as young as the First Mate said, it might only have three floors. We'll have to move if we want to stay ahead."

"Now you're speaking my language," Kentra barked, lightning crackling around the edges of her eyes. Wonderful intimidation tactic. "If it keeps being just toads and rats, no matter their evolutions, we'll breeze through this shit."

She made to take a step forward, coming closer to the group. Coseth's eyes burned.

His Bronze enhancement was built around aiming, guiding his hands and eyes to the perfect position to loose his arrows, but his natural vision was still leaps and bounds above others; he watched the moss just beneath her foot shift, splaying down like the ground had melted away, and he'd barely registered the thought before he slammed both hands over her chest.

Kentra choked out whatever air he'd shoved out of her, stumbling back; his bow had still been in his hand and the end clattered against her skull, string tangling in her hair before she ripped it out. "The fuck, Coseth–"

Using the tip of an arrow, he crouched and jabbed at the moss. It passed through without impact.

Well then.

Coseth slung his bow over his back to free up his hands and stuck another arrow into the moss, prying it apart; its billowing strands parted begrudgingly, tangled around each other in intricate knots, but certainly not strong enough to hold any manner of weight.

Because beneath the moss that clung to the edges of the floor, a hole some seven feet deep loomed. Coseth bit back a hiss.

Neatly situated at the bottom, over a dozen wooden spears jabbed outward with charcoal-sharpened tips.

Lovely.

Kentra's retort died.

Birrin stepped forward, making sure no one was in his direct path of sight before lifting up the edge of his blindfold, peeking at the hole. "That's not a dungeon-made trap," he said, lips drawing back in a frown. "Too crude, but effective."

Coseth rather thought that an excessive number of jagged spears didn't necessarily count as crude, but he'd trust the Silver here.

Kentra scowled. Her inability to wear boots without causing even more damage to herself had that annoying little habit of being even worse in unsafe terrain—and with whatever monster was whipping these things up, that most definitely sounded unsafe. "Fuckers," she scoffed, glaring at the hole like it'd slept with her mother.

Which, fair. It was only sheer dumb luck that they'd avoided stepping on that in their wild race to clear the room of active threats; only Sarissa and Kriya, with their scales, might have come out of the situation relatively unscathed. Fleshy humans with equally fleshy feet would not have the same chance, and they weren't exactly well-paid enough to afford armoured boots.

Something the dungeon core would solve, if they got there.

"We'll have to be vigilant," Birrin said, tugging his blindfold back down. His lips were thin. "They're small holes, but we can't rely on them staying that shallow. Kentra, if need be, you could leap out before hitting the bottom, and Sarissa can build the rock out if we encounter one; unless we want to leave them for adventurers coming after us. Coseth, do you think you can spot more?"

Sometimes, Coseth wondered why he let a kid over fifteen years his junior lead him, and sometimes he was plenty happy having someone else make the plan.

"Probably," he said, because there wasn't a need to bedazzle his abilities in a team he trusted. "It'll depend on how hectic the scene is."

Birrin nodded. "We'll have to hope that's enough. Stay close. Sarissa, do a pulse of the ground before we enter to see if you can find any. Kriya, do you think you can heal a fall into one without exhausting yourself?"

No response.

Sarissa's slitted pupils flashed. "Kriya?"

As one, they all spun—the first fucking rule of being an adventuring party was to protect the healer—but Kriya was just standing there, her dappled scales glinting in the reflected algae-light. Her eyes were closed, arms tight to her side, her hood unflared and pressing against her neck. Healing mana hazed around her hands, still ready whenever they needed it.

But she was just standing there.

Sarissa stepped forward, waving a hand. "Sister," she tried again, but Kriya didn't react; Sarissa glanced back at Birrin, the only one of them with any mental prowess, but he just shrugged. Coseth felt his brows draw low over his face.

Untamed dungeons were dangerous for more reasons than just death; strange and unfamiliar creatures lurked in their depths, ones with powers unknown and untested. If there was something that was trying to take their healer, they were in serious trouble—and maybe it was targeting her since she was still Bronze, easier to combat, which would mean that Coseth was next and he was rather uncomfortable with that whole thought.

Sarissa reached out, rocks crawling up her arms, and lightly nudged Kriya's shoulder.

She jolted, eyes flying open; something pale flashed over her gaze, twining around her slitted pupils, but it fled the next second. Kriya made a soft sound, hugging her arms closer to her sides. "Sorry," she whispered.

"It's fine," Sarissa said, ever the protective sister. "What was that?"

Kriya tapped her fingers together, frowning at the ground. Mana sparked at every touch. "I don't know," she finally settled on, words lisping more than normal. "Just a… feeling, I guess. Like someone was calling my name."

Birrin visibly perked up. "Do you think there's a source of healing mana here, then?"

Coseth couldn't help his own blink. That made a very appreciated amount of sense—mana of similar types tended to… react to each other, rebounding off and echoing through the spiritual plane. It was dampened here by the dungeon's pure mana, but if a dungeon would have anything suitably powerful enough to reach out, healing mana made perfect sense.

Sarissa flashed her fangs in a facsimile of a human smile. "If there is, it might be enough to get you to Silver."

And oh, that would be very welcome. Having a Silver healer in their group would open many, many doors.

Coseth was always fond of having open doors. It tended to help.

He'd reach Silver, one day. Pushing forty that he was, it was a miracle he'd even reached Bronze with how late he'd started his journey, but he was nothing if not determined to push even further beyond. There were mountains yet to climb and gold yet to claim.

This dungeon would help skip a lot of those tedious steps. Which meant they were wasting time. Sarissa spent another moment whispering something to Kriya, probably an encouragement, and the youngest member of their group nodded back and let her hood flare, twin eyes glaring at their surroundings. Coseth unslung his bow, abandoning two splintered arrows and dropping the rest into his quiver. He hadn't had to use his dagger yet and he was rather hoping things stayed that way.

"Forward," Birrin said, tugging his blindfold more securely over his eyes—no reason to summon illusions if he didn't have to. "Diamond stance."

Kentra immediately strode to the front, rocking back on her heels even as she inspected the ground before with a more wary eye—Coseth to the left, Birrin to the right, and Sarissa as the tank in the back. Kriya tucked herself in the middle, close enough to touch any of them should the need arise.

Her eyes were distant, though. Cloudy.

Coseth shook out the thought. They had other things to focus on.

-

The dungeon's presence was far from comforting.

Nicau uncurled from his algae-bed, movements only half his own; some ancient hunger awoke in his chest, thrashing and starving, fingers curling into claws and mana rising like oil up his throat—and then he remembered the sensation and grappled for his Name, letting the cool presence of Nicau smooth over the edges of his fury, relax the iron building over his shoulders.

And then the call increased.

Nicau swallowed a hiss, teeth biting through his lips; the last time he'd been aware of this, the dungeon had reached out with one invigorating call, inciting the raid-frenzy, but that'd been it. There was something more alive for this one, more desperate—the dungeon kept calling him to hunt, to hurt, to defend. Its voice echoed through his bones.

But he was Nicau, was Nicau, and his mind was his own.

He wrenched his control back with trembling fingers.

Outside, other kobolds had no such defense; they charged, shrieking and warbling, to pour out of the den. Nicau stood on only slightly unsteady feet and peered outside his little room, watching meat and materials drop uselessly to the ground as kobolds snatched at weapons, golden eyes burning with passion.

Another invasion, it seemed. One bigger than before.

Nicau was not terribly pleased with that information.

He grabbed his spear just for the familiar comfort and exited his room, pressing tight to the wall so dozens of kobolds who hadn't already been on hunting parties could swarm out the den. They had traps now, and fire-sharpened spears, and Nicau was still working on trying to build their armoury to include actual weapons built for real damage—slow going, to put it lightly, considering he'd been a pigeoncatcher and not a blacksmith—but there was still something tight in his chest as he watched them rush out. He didn't want them to die.

In the back, staff clutched tight in her claws and strings of bones and jewels hanging off her horns, Chieftess barked commands. Only older kobolds had the mental fortitude to fight against the dungeon's call in order to listen, the younglings rushing out with no sense nor strategy, but several dozen stayed at her side as she laid out her plan of attack. She'd truly earned the title chieftess—hells, Nicau was the human here, and she was leading them with more grace than he'd ever had.

Her golden eyes flashed toward him.

Nicau darted over, the dungeon's call raising every anxiety he hadn't even known he'd had; the kobolds parted before him, all jittering in place with blood in their eyes. They wanted to hunt.

Chieftess churred at him, a wordless greeting. He warbled back the proper response.

Fight? She asked, spinning her staff through her claws. The scarlet wood gleamed with hints of wrangled mana.

And. Hm.

That was the question, wasn't it?

Nicau was dungeonborn—sort of, it was a weird grey area and though the dungeon claimed him, he had still been born in Calarata and apparently that mattered? Again, he wasn't a scholar, he was a pigeoncatcher—and the dungeon had called him to fight. According to the Name nestled in his soul and the blessing lurking in his throat, he should fight.

But the equally strong part of him that was Nicau instead of Nicau clutched his spear tighter to his chest and reminded him what was likely outside these stone walls.

Invaders. Humans.

Fighting a hound was very different to fighting humans.

Nicau tried for a winning smile and felt it fall flat, not that the kobold would understand the gesture in the first place. "No," he said, pulling his spear closer to his chest. "I'll stay here. Defend."

Chieftess stared at him. Nicau valiantly fought the urge to crumple under her knowing gaze and failed miserably.

But then she nodded, turning back to her squad of kobolds. Maybe she thought the dungeon was protecting him as a Named, maybe she thought someone needed to defend the base, maybe she thought he wasn't ready for a proper fight. Either way, Nicau would be taking it.

He took up a stance around halfway into the main room, kicking other spears away to have somewhere flat to stand. Chieftess warbled the last of her commands into a rallying cry and the kobolds howled an echo, claws scratching at the air. She spared a last glance back at him, golden eyes bright, and led the charge out of the den.

Nicau just kind of sat there.

He didn't feel any level of heroic, even though ostentatiously he knew that it was a good idea to have someone guard the den. They had jewels and meat and weapons in here that they'd worked hard to gather, and there was no reason to lose them all. Of course, losing them all wouldn't matter if every other kobold got massacred and there was no one to eat the food or use the spears.

Nicau really didn't like that thought, so he shoved it plenty far to the side and raised his spear, glaring at the entrance to the den like it was the source of his argument. Distant sounds of combat filtered through the stone, rats squeaking and water splashing, the crack of wood against metal against stone against flesh.

Something closer.

An invader peered into the den.

Nicau felt every muscle he had tense.

She was thin, nearing willowy, with hair shorn almost to her scalp and wide, flashing eyes he couldn't quite see the colour of. Loose leather armour clung to her form, splattered with blood over one side.

When she saw him, she relaxed.

"Thank fuck," she muttered, letting her hand drop to her side, a wide flat blade he couldn't recognize the style of drooping until its tip nearly scrapped at the stone. "Thought there'd be more kobolds in here."

Nicau's eyes fell to the blood on her armour.

Had she killed kobolds? Had she been attacking them outside? With a hesitant brush of his mana he could feel that she was on the higher end of Bronze, plenty strong enough to fight them. Would Chieftess have enough of a plan against her?

She peered curiously around the den, stepping fully inside presumably to protect her exposed back; Nicau could have snapped himself in half like a dead twig. Why was she getting closer? Did she want to kill him?

"Is there anything good in here?" She asked, swinging her sword idly by her side. She was only half looking at him.

Ah. Right. She thought he was a fellow invader.

Dimly, he recognized that he'd ceased thinking of them as adventurers.

"Nothing in here," he managed. It was only a curl of mana that kept his voice from shaking like an old leaf.

Her brows lowered, eyes flicking back to him. "You've got one of their staffs," she pointed out, body still loose and unthreatened. Maybe she had reached out to test his mana, found him being unranked. There was nothing she had to fear from him.

"Are they enhanced?" She kept asking, eyes raking over the staff in his hand; scarlet wood, charcoal-sharpened tip, a few meaningless runes of protection he'd scratched over its length. "Or the wood's rare?"

Alright.

Nicau examined the situation.

She thought he was a fellow invader. She was also on the hunt for something valuable to take, which Nicau was going to make the mother of all guesses that some burnt meat and poorly carved spears weren't exactly the prizes she was searching for. But she also wasn't threatened by him, and seemed willing to continue asking him questions. Also willing to kill, if the blood on her leather meant anything. So.

Not a great situation by any stretch of the definition, but not unsalvageable.

Nicau untensed his shoulders with the force of will to move mountains and shrugged, though he never looked away. "I just picked one up. There's nothing special about it."

She raised a dark eyebrow, which. Fair. Technically, it was the truth, but Nicau was still clutching the spear like a long-lost child and hadn't loosened his grip for their entire conversation, so he wasn't doing himself any favours here.

He shrugged again, like that would help.

"And why are you in here?"

Another fair question. Nicau would really appreciate if she would stop asking those. "Keeping out of danger. I'm not strong enough to go deeper."

Her lips thinned. "Strong enough to make it past the first floor."

Ah. Logic. He hated it.

She stepped forward, and oh, that was a little more of a prowl than a step. Her eyes were fixed on him, blade picking up until the tip was no longer in danger of blunting itself against the stone and more in danger of blunting itself against his ribs. Which.

Nicau tried for another smile.

"You know, I don't think I remember seeing you before," she said, practically purring. Her eyes were coldly sharp. "And while you're plain, you're not plain enough to slip by me."

Nicau took a brief moment to be offended.

"Now, what are you?" She hummed, drumming her fingers over the hilt of her blade. "Shapeshifter? Mimic?"

Nicau fought the urge to take a step back. The situation was crawling pretty rapidly from bad to very bad, and he wasn't much in the mood to see if it could get worse. "Neither," he said, nose wrinkling. "Just a human."

His grip tightened on his spear. Her eyes snapped to the movement and suddenly her own blade was raised, crossed in front of her body, and the scarlet over her side was a whole lot more glaring than Nicau'd thought it was previously. In a blink he was back in the still-unnamed jungle, the hound slavering before him, danger pressing down on him and an equal force pushing out from within.

Because for all that he was still weak, he wasn't defenseless.

Nicau inhaled and felt the mana in his soul coil at the motion, tugging it up in tacky, loose strands until it filled his throat, bristling at the edges of his teeth. Something flashed over her skin, an enhancement technique he really didn't have the time to analyze, and she raced forward. Speed blurred under her feet, sword barely a whisper as it cut through air.

Nicau stood his ground. "Stop!"

The mana exploded from his mouth in the raw scorch of fire—her left leg seized even as her right continued, charge thrown wildly off course. He threw himself to the side as she clattered past him, speed enhancement used against her as she skidded against the ground. Not a full stop, only half—but half was enough.

Nicau stumbled back upright, knuckles white around his spear. Some thirty feet away, she staggered onto her feet, leather ripped from the nearly impressive slide she'd done against the stone—her left leg twitched, still shaking the last of his control, and her eyes were furious slits. "You little shit," she hissed, wrenching her blade back up. "That's the last thing you'll ever do."

Some wild laugh built in his throat. Nicau welcomed any chance to keep her talking so he could rebuild his mana and let it out, a wheezing little thing that sent her hackles stabbing into the ceiling. "Funny," he said, and meant it.

She snarled and charged.

No speed enhancement this time, eyes locked on his; so Nicau inhaled, opened his mouth like he was about to shout, and waited. Her movements stiffened, preparing to catch herself from another loss of control even as her sword swept for his throat–

Well. He'd taught Chieftess things. Time to use what she'd taught him.

Nicau ducked, spun, and slammed the side of his spear against her knees.

She howled as the wood cracked, both of their momentums combined for as devastating a hit as it could be; her feet flew back as her chest fell forward, barely missing him as she tumbled once again to the ground. But this time Nicau staggered upright first, spinning around, mana already thick in his throat– "Stop!"

Halfway through flipping herself over, she froze again. Maybe it was only one leg again, it didn't matter—because Nicau sprang forward and kicked her sword out of her hand, standing over her with his cracked spear raised and poised.

Her eyes were wild and wide. "That's not human magic," she managed.

Nicau felt the grin settle sharply over his face. "You're right."

Then he plunged the spear through her neck.

She died in a wet gurgle of blood.

Nicau then promptly dropped his spear, staggered a few steps away, and threw up.

Half the actual contents of his stomach and half the condensed anxiety their conversation had given him; Nicau got off his knees with a low groan, hands clammy and pale. There was scarlet splattered over his lower legs, every sensation tugging at his nerves like they were on fire, his head aching.

He'd killed someone.

He'd killed someone.

It wasn't a thought he was unfamiliar with—Calarata didn't exactly have room for bleeding hearts in a city of pirates and desperados—but he'd only watched others die before. Never been the one to do the deed himself.

Except he had, hadn't he? What else could he call leading all those hungry souls to the dungeon's maw?

Nicau, with neither his mother or father's family name to hold, had killed someone, and he'd done it successfully, and he'd done it with magic.

His throat still smarted and burned from the mana he'd shouted, but it was a welcome pain, a reminder that he'd done that. An invader—one with proper mana, he thought, though his heart had been beating bad enough he couldn't be sure and now they were dead so it wasn't like he could check—with weapons, and armour, and strength. But he'd been the survivor.

The hound had been one notch under his belt. But Nicau had reached out, bloody and victorious, and taken another.

Somewhere, he knew he should feel more emotions. As much as death was a part of life on Aiqith, that invader could have been him, someone just as full of dreams and aspirations. Maybe shame, or horror.

Instead, Nicau burned with pride.

-

Goodness.

Ealdhere remembered being a boy, a slip of a thing in the sprawling Darlington Manor, and the first time he'd seen his mother's laboratory. It was a mystic thing full of potential and mysteries, great iron-clad machines that hissed and spat steam, vials full of foul-smelling liquids or preserved bodies of fantastic beasts, plants and minerals and elements by the mountain. He'd never been so excited to learn.

There was something similar here.

He crept forward, smile stretching to his ears, cheerily ignoring Jorge's hissed command to stay low as he beheld the beauty before him. His well-ironed pants were sopping wet from the splash through the pond on the first floor, blood splattered over his sleeves that he knew would be hells to get out, even an odd twinge in his ankle from a mistimed step over a rather rowdy stone-backed toad—ŝtondorsaj bufoj—that Neus had taken care of like the delight she was.

He felt wonderfully alive.

The second floor opened its welcoming arms before him, alight with the sound of rushing water and the rustle of leaves in wind—but what wind? He was many hundreds of feet below the surface, standing in a mighty cavern of stone, but still he felt a humid breeze kiss his cheek, saw the flicker of mist skimming over the surface of the canal. Light bloomed overhead, some variant of green algae that had spontaneously developed bioluminescence, fascinating, walls covered in familiar dens and stalactites.

But no, the real treasure stood proudly in the center of the room.

A tree.

It was a short but sprawling figure, its bark a deep ruby-red and a delight mixture between scaled and furrowed, completely at odds with its waterlogged environment. He could see pits and pockets where thorns lurked, great pointed things disguised beneath the furrowed pattern of the bark. It didn't have a multi-stemmed habit but its trunk stayed thin, held upright by a twisted collection of roots, a clear indicator of a fibrous system as opposed to taproot. He could recognize the typical pattern of a mangrove, the combination of buttress roots to hold it in place and breathing roots to take in the extra oxygen that the waterlogged bases had no access to. But it was missing several key features he'd grown used to—for one, the tree was half situated on land instead of fully in the water, rooting both in soil and stone. Its roots were also covered in thorns, though smaller than those on its bark and trunk. And its leaves! Instead of a classic green they were purely white, not even the pale shade of variegation but the uninterrupted hue that spoke to a complete lack of nutrients gathered from the sun. Utterly fascinating! However did they grow, even if their habit was stunted and limited compared to the sprawling masses of mangroves he'd seen before?

Ealdhere had never seen anything so wonderful.

If he obtained nothing else from this expedition, if he truly had to retreat to his homeland empty handed, then this sight would be enough.

"My goodness," he breathed, stepping right up to the trunk; he fumbled through his pockets, tugging out spectacle after spectacle until he eventually landed on the silver-wired set he used for close examinations. Ealdhere settled them on the bridge of his nose and leaned in, drinking greedily of the finer details of the mangrove's bark; it appeared the unevolved characteristics didn't end with its colouration. Its outer bark had strips of sapwood racing through it, full of the pipelines that delivered nutrients through the tree not yet hardened to heartwood or bark, thus unprotected. Perhaps to limit unnecessary storage in its already-thin trunk? Or perhaps its thorns were so effective it had no need to defend itself?

"Old man," Jorge snapped—he wasn't old, he was barely thirty. It was rather rude; how could his red hair ever be construed to be greying, especially alongside his spryness? Perhaps it was a compliment disguised as an insult; his knowledge of the natural world was well beyond his years. "What part of stay together are you not getting?"

"Hm?" Ealdhere glanced back to find his trio of protectors crouched around him, that same shrewd paranoia filling their eyes and tensed shoulders.

Neus stepped forward, dryad ancestry on full display as she called upon her barkskin protection, mossy hair beaded with water. "Baron," she said, because she was polite, unlike others that Ealdhere could name. "We do need you to stay between us if you wish to be protected."

Ah. It was easy to forget that this wasn't the tamed dungeons of his childhood, with guards by the dozen and even the core-holder keeping him from any overt harm—there was a reason he was pressing gold coins into these three fine fellows' hands to keep them by his side. Even if they hardly seemed as excited by these discoveries as they should have been.

"My apologies," he said, tipping his hand forward in the high-status-to-appreciated-lower-status bow that none of his companions appeared to understand. Pity. "Simply allow me a moment to collect a sample and we shall be on our way!"

His original plan had been to explore first and collect samples on the way out, but there wasn't a chance he would let any other adventurers brutalize this glorious specimen before he could come back.

Steshe rolled his eyes. Ealdhere took that as confirmation and turned back to the mangrove.

"Hello," he said, because there was certainly no reason not to be polite and if his companions weren't going to be excited, then he would simply have to share his cheer with the object of his appreciation. "You are simply the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought that the branches shifted a touch closer to him, shifting in a breeze he knew wasn't strong enough to move it.

"If you wouldn't mind too terribly, I would adore the chance to study you further," he said, fumbling in his pockets. "Nothing much, mind! Just a small cutting that I can attempt to propagate; ah, grow into a new plant. I've never seen anything quite like you before and I think it's a travesty that the wider world isn't aware of you."

Ealdhere got the distinct impression that his companions were laughing behind his back. He smiled beautifically and pulled out a wide, flat knife with notches carved near the hilt; monogrammed, of course. He'd had it made alongside his rapier.

The mangrove stayed still as he padded forward, selecting a branch freshly growing a foot above his head; white terminal buds about to break out into new leaves, wood still green—was it called greenwood when it was coloured red?—and less than the length of his arm. Plenty to grow a sample for himself.

His serrated knife made short work of the branch's base and soon he was holding something worth more than gold, though carefully with the thorns still poking around through the bark. His smile was starting to hurt his face.

"Thank you kindly!" He offered, slipping both the knife and the cutting into one of his many pockets. The mangrove, as expected, had no response.

Jorge's flail slithered over the ground, chain clattering against itself. His eyes stayed flinty as Ealdhere padded back into the center of the group, straightening his feather-lined hat and patting the filled pocket. "Onward, my friends!"

Neus exhaled strong enough to blow her mossy hair out of her face.

In a proper quartet, they moved out of the first room, weapons raised and eyes narrowed; the canal branched to the left or right and Jorge made the executive decision to avoid following the footsteps of other adventuring parties before them, stomping over to an untested room. Distant sounds of combat echoed through the twisting tunnels, the squeak of rats and distant roar of something vaguely metallic, but unlike the first floor, the silver-flecked limestone and rumbling canals muffled most sounds. If Ealdhere concentrated, he could almost imagine they were alone in the dungeon.

That was almost as exciting as the discoveries. He remembered being a young boy and raised sticks alongside his siblings, pretending to be the Last King invading the Dungeon of Leóro, dreams of being Mythril and powerful and the greatest to ever live. This was as close as he would ever be.

Five rooms later full of beautiful creatures and glorious discoveries—including dead mangroves with faux leaves, webs spun in the shape of pinnately-bound leaves, overseen by ghostly white spiders that watched Ealdhere pass underneath. Steshe, with his glowing eyes, located each tree before anyone could stray too close, but Ealdhere was already rather interested in collecting of the mysterious species on the way back out. Maybe a variant of ghostblood spiders, fantomsangaj araneoj, or icetouch spiders, glacituŝaj araneoj? Utterly fascinating. It was rare he encountered creatures he wasn't already familiar with, and he welcomed the challenge of discovery with open arms.

Something was moving in the far shadows of the next room.

Ealdhere squinted, fighting the urge to pull out another spectacle more suited for distance viewings. Steshe frowned, clicking his tongue twice in some apparent signal; both Neus and Jorge pulled up short, flail raised and barkskin extended splintered thorns.

With a hum, Steshe's mutated mana-sight lit up to double the glow, twin spotlights scouring through the misty air to lance into the next room.

Deprived of their shadows, the gathered swarm of creatures leapt for them.

Two dozen reptilian humanoids, pale red and scarlet and crimson, igneous-rock styled horns, digitigrade legs, stubby tails, blunt claws, amber-gold eyes, slightly shorter than him, wielding scarlet spears, presumably made of the mystery mangrove wood, extended muzzle, visible fangs, ridged heads, overly large scales for their small bodies–

Kobolds. Koboldoj.

It happened in a split second.

Jorge spat a curse and slammed a hand into Ealdhere's chest, shoving him back; Steshe's eyes burned like a second sun and the kobolds flinched back from the light, hooting and warbling in a serpentine tongue. Neus slammed her fists together and bark exploded over her skin, and oh, maybe that wasn't her ancestry but merely the path she'd chosen to follow, looked like an enhancement, bark for defense and also thorns and splinters for offense?

"Stay back!" Jorge barked, whistling three sharp notes; Steshe scrambled up a raised rocky platform as both Jorge and Neus took position on their side of the canal, water rushing less than ten feet past their feet. The kobolds hissed and spat but short as they were, the canal was narrow here. Behind them, to enter this room, they'd had to rely on traipsing through shallower sections—something that would require them to turn their back to the kobolds if they wanted to run. A perfect ambush.

Steshe's eyes flared and sharpened to two distinct beams, locked onto the forerunning kobold; it squawked from the light and then from the dagger suddenly protruding from its chest. Steshe grabbed another throwing knife, eyes flicking to the next target, burning through the previous algae-light like the breaking dawn.

"Drawn your rapier," Steshe commanded, his wiry frame tense as iron.

"I–" his hands were shaking. Why were they shaking? Why was this happening?

A kobold in the back, with an unsharpened spear and odd bits of fur and bone dangling from their horns, raised their staff with a low, squawking howl. Some type of leader, it seemed; the kobolds charged at the command, scampering over moss and stones. Jorge slipped into a two-point stance, flail whirling over his head with the scream of clattering chains.

The kobolds reached the water's edge and flung themselves forward. Short as the gap was, a few still missed, floundering in the current, but the vast majority made it over and they were running, spears raised and beating at the air. Jorge roared, flail arcing down; in a second a kobold went from a living, breathing thing to a collection of scales and gore against the riverbank.

But there were more. There were so many more.

Steshe's mana-sight disappeared once as he took a desperately-needed blink and the kobolds hurled themselves forward. Neus and Jorge stood, back to back, and engaged.

A hit from the flail threw a kobold into another, both going down in a tangle of limbs; a bark-encrusted fist missed its target but the thorns on the edge ripped through scale and sinew alike; a dagger punished the slightest misstep and kept the kobold from climbing out of the canal; a clicked tongue and both Jorge and Neus shut their eyes, missing the explosion of light that blinded half a dozen kobolds.

Neus reared, bark growing over her fist until it was three times the size, and bashed in the side of a kobold's head—it flew back into the canal with a splash, scrabbling helplessly at the air before it slipped underneath. But her attention was split. Another kobold darted forward, jabbing its spear under her guard; the sharpened end slammed into her thigh.

She didn't scream, just a sharp inhale; the bark swarmed over her body and engulfed the spear, ripping it out of the kobold's hands and swallowing the wood, adding to the growing armour coating her form. Neus snarled and lashed out with another massively-increased fist, blasting the monster back.

Her retreat back to Jorge's side was slow, limping. As much as she'd stolen the weapon, the hit had still landed. He switched his attack to lash out in a wide half-circle, forcing the kobolds back for a second, but the leader warbled more commands and they were moving with purpose now, flanking around the back, tucking themselves behind mangroves and rocks to keep from Steshe's dagger rain. There were so many.

There's no defense against numbers, Ealdhere thought wildly, lessons from his old master burning through his brain. Section off, isolate, retreat. Never fight when outnumbered.

The kobolds knew it.

A group split and charged Jorge, claws ripping at the moss—the man snarled back, chain cracking against the air as he forced out another wide circle of free space, stepping away from Neus to avoid catching her in the flail.

A dozen kobolds immediately took the opening at their leader's hissed command and flung themselves for her.

Her barkskin ate two, three spears, tugging them into her body until she was a bristling mass of red-brown armour, glancing hits to her side and calf—but the kobolds had learned. Even that attack had been another distraction from a kobold creeping up behind with a rock clutched awkwardly in its blunt claws.

Neus ducked another hit and the kobold cracked its stone against the back of her head.

She wobbled for a second, eyes wide and fuzzy. It raised its makeshift weapon even as Steshe's eyes snapped over, dagger already in the air, and bashed her skull open.

Neus fell.

The kobold fell after, dagger buried to the hilt in its throat, but both Jorge and Steshe shouted something wordless—his flail slammed into the ground hard enough to crack the stone, blowing back a wave of kobolds, their numbers reduced by half but still the leader chirped and squawked their commands and they moved. Steshe's knives flew and Jorge's bulk fought but Neus–

Polite, kind Neus with the dryadic ancestry he'd never asked enough questions about, never talked about why she'd chosen to be an adventurer, never found her favourite flavour of tea or what she liked to do in the evenings. Her hair sprawled over the moss already in the dungeon, red alongside the green, and the kobolds were still moving forward and forward and forward–

His rapier trembled in his hands.

Jorge lurched forward but there was nothing to catch him—instead of ground the moss broke beneath his foot and he fell, disappearing through the ground, his flail scattering from his grip. There was some flash of icy blue light as he activated mana but it was too little, too late; the kobolds swarmed over whatever trap he'd befallen. A high, piping scream.

Steshe stumbled back, eyes red and twitching even through the mana—his daggers flew but now they were bouncing off scales instead of digging underneath, throws going wild or hilts impacting his opponents until eventually his hand fell to his side and there was nothing there to grasp, every dagger already thrown.

And with that, there was nothing keeping the kobolds from their charge. Steshe howled something wordless, reaching back—he tore Ealdhere's rapier from limp fingers and slashed it forward. His monogrammed name splattered with scarlet as a kobold making the daring charge met the business end that had never been used, had only been polished and pushed through forms in books, in training, in practice.

There was no practice now.

Steshe stood against the horde, lashing desperately at the kobolds, but they knew their way across the canal and through the trees without injuries, without pain, and they were upon him, and they were biting and clawing and ripping and screaming–

Baron Ealdhere Darlington, beloved of his family name, hung with awards and certifications and knowledge beyond his years. Young Ealdhere, clutching a stick, wishing to be a hero and an adventurer and a legend.

He turned and ran.

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