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The air hung thick with the stench of damp stone and ancient rot as Kael edged deeper into the crypt, his torch sputtering against oppressive darkness. Each step echoed like a death knell—one misplaced boot and the floor’s crumbling traps would swallow him whole. Shadows danced mockingly across walls etched with forgotten runes, their warnings blurred by centuries of decay. He pressed on, fingertips grazing cold stone until a glint pierced the gloom ahead. There, wedged between the skeletal grasp of a long-dead guardian, lay the Relic of Arantha—its surface alive with swirling hues of starlight. A trapdoor groaned beneath the corpse; Kael lunged, snatching the artifact as the ground gave way. Stone screamed, dust choking the chamber, but his grip held firm. The relic pulsed warm in his palm, its power humming through his veins like a promise kept.
