Chapter 21 - The Drow’s Lair
Windlecrag and Kalo stood side by side, their hands outstretched as they wove their magic together. The hobgoblin’s fingers traced ancient runes in the air, leaving a faint ember-red glow, while Kalo murmured words in an arcane tongue. The wild heath around them stirred, the air itself seeming to shift.
A dark trail materialized before them—footsteps, deep and unnatural, pressing into the earth though the ground had long since settled. Shadows clung to the prints like ink spilled across the land, refusing to fade.
Lukan narrowed his eyes. "A tracking spell?"
Windlecrag grinned, his sharp teeth flashing. "A hunter’s spell. It reveals the footprints of the wicked. And your wizard here gave it sight beyond what I could alone."
Kalo nodded, then turned his attention skyward. “Now, let’s give our broom the same vision.”
With a flick of his wrist, a tendril of magic shot up, wrapping around the hovering broom. Its bristles crackled with arcane energy, then it shuddered and darted forward, whizzing above the heath like an arrow. Through its enchanted sight, the Drow’s path was unmistakable—like a trail of fire winding through the thick bramble and dense undergrowth.
The group pressed on, following the spectral footprints, though the land resisted them. Thorny vines clawed at their clothes, thick brush tangled their steps, and the air grew heavy with an unnatural stillness. Lukan grimaced as a branch tore across his arm. Kalo muttered a curse as he stumbled over a hidden root. But Windlecrag?
The hobgoblin laughed.
He bounded ahead, clearing obstacles with an ease that belied his stocky form. "I have roamed these lands for years," he called over his shoulder. "Guarded them, watched them. But I shied away from battle. Thought it was enough to observe. Now, I see my mistake." His expression darkened, but the fire in his eyes only burned brighter. "I let evil dig its roots deep into my beloved land. I will not make that mistake again. The Drow must be torn from this place—root and stem."
The sun had begun its slow rise when they finally reached their destination.
The broom soared above them, its enchanted vision casting the ruins below in eerie contrast. From high above, the Drow’s lair was revealed in full—a sunken temple, half-buried in the land’s embrace, its shattered stone arches jutting from the earth like the ribs of some long-dead beast. A spiraling descent of crumbled staircases and cracked platforms led down into the depths, where the true lair lay hidden beneath the ruin’s surface.
The broom twisted midair, then dove, spiraling downward in a graceful arc before coming to rest beside Kalo.
"We’re here," Lukan murmured, stepping forward.
They moved cautiously, their steps echoing as they crossed the threshold into darkness. The sanctuary swallowed them whole, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and something older, fouler—magic, left to fester.
Far below, in the lair’s black heart, a figure stood before a wide crystal basin filled with swirling liquid. The Drow, clad in flowing black robes, dipped his long fingers into the pool, watching the images that danced across its surface. His pale lips twisted into a grin, then stretched into an unnatural, open-mouthed laugh—high, manic, ringing through the hollow corridors like a blade scraping against bone.
His violet eyes flickered. He had seen them.
"Come," he whispered, his voice slithering through the dark like a living thing.
Then, louder—mad, triumphant, dripping with malice:
"Come and be unmade! Your magic will bleed into my veins, and your souls will rot in the dark!"
The crystal pool rippled, its waters darkening. And in the depths of the ruin, the shadows began to move.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 22 - A Game of Tag
The descent was treacherous. The stone steps, slick with time’s decay, crumbled underfoot as Kalo, Windlecrag, and Lukan moved deeper into the ruin. A faint purple flame flickered along the walls, casting long, shifting shadows that danced like specters waiting to embrace them. The air grew colder with every step, thick with the scent of damp stone and something more—something ancient, acrid, and wrong.
Lukan, the otter, twitched his whiskers. “I don’t like this.”
Windlecrag smirked. “Then you’re paying attention.”
No sooner had the words left his lips than the shadows above them stirred. A pair of gleaming red eyes snapped open, watching, waiting—then, with a screech that sent ice down their spines, Dregar struck.
The bat-thing came like a blade of darkness slicing through the dim light, its leathery wings folded inward as it plunged from the ceiling with deadly precision. Its talons struck Lukan’s temple before he could even cry out. The force of the impact sent him tumbling backward—his head colliding with the jagged steps.
“Lukan!” Kalo lunged forward, but the otter lay motionless, blood trailing down his temple.
Windlecrag snarled and threw out his hand. A coil of red flame shot from his fingertips, crackling like molten chains as it lashed toward Dregar. The bat shrieked, twisting its body midair to avoid the burning magic, its wings beating furiously as it darted upward toward the ruins above.
"The broom!" Kalo shouted, pressing two fingers to his forehead, his golden rune igniting. “Hunt it down!”
The enchanted broom shuddered as the command took hold. Without hesitation, it rocketed skyward, cutting through the darkness like a streak of golden fire.
The Chase
Dregar was fast—his wings slicing the air as he weaved through the ruins, using every broken arch and shattered column as cover. He hugged the stone, vanishing into the crevices of the spiraling walls, emerging only in flickers of movement to keep ahead of the broom’s relentless pursuit.
The broom twisted through the air, unburdened by weight or fatigue, its bristles humming with Kalo’s magic. It moved like a predator, adjusting its trajectory at impossible angles, darting through gaps no larger than a handspan.
Dregar veered sharply, dipping into a yawning chasm where the ruins had collapsed into the earth. He plunged through the debris, his black form melding with the darkness, pressing against the walls to break the broom’s line of sight.
For a moment, the ruins fell silent.
Dregar clung to the ceiling, his breathing quick, his crimson eyes scanning the emptiness. Had he lost it?
Then, a sound—so faint, so deadly.
A whistle.
The broom came screaming through the darkness, hurling toward him like a spear of light.
Dregar shrieked and tried to dive away, but the broom was already shifting. Its form twisted, bristles stretching, its wooden shaft reshaping—transforming into the Heatherblade.
The silver sword caught the bat mid-flight, piercing straight through its chest. Dregar let out a gurgling screech as his body convulsed, black smoke pouring from the wound like ink in water. His wings crumbled into ash, his body shriveling, twisting—until the last of him collapsed into writhing tendrils of darkness, curling inward before disappearing entirely.
Silence returned.
For a moment, the Heatherblade hovered, its silver blade gleaming. Then, with a shimmer, the weapon shifted back into the broom, its wooden handle falling into a slow, lazy spin before drifting gently back toward Kalo. He caught it with a firm grip, exhaling softly.
Windlecrag let out a low chuckle. “Well… that was satisfying.”
Kalo ignored him, kneeling beside Lukan. Sprig Kalos asp coiled protectively around his shoulder, its tiny tongue flicking in agitation. The otter’s breathing was steady, though blood still trickled from the wound on his temple.
“He’ll be alright,” Kalo said, voice tight with relief. He adjusted Lukan, making him as comfortable as possible against the ruined stone. “We can’t take him with us like this. He’ll be safer here.”
Windlecrag nodded grimly. “We finish this quickly and come back for him.”
Kalo stood, gripping the broom tightly. He spared one last glance at the unconscious otter before turning away.
Together, he Sprig and Windlecrag continued their descent.
The Bottom of the Stairs
The last step crumbled underfoot as they reached the temple’s true depths. The chamber before them stretched into darkness, broken pillars and shattered statues littering the floor. Pools of black liquid shimmered in the low purple glow, reflecting their ghostly images back at them.
And then—he stepped into view.
The Drow stood in the center of the chamber, his black robes flowing as if moved by an unseen wind. His dark skin gleamed in the dim firelight, his violet eyes alive with cruel amusement.
A slow smile curled his lips.
“You come battered and broken,” he murmured, his voice like silk wrapped around a dagger.
His gaze flicked to Lukan’s absence, then back to Kalo and Windlecrag.
“You should have run while you had the chance.”
The shadows behind him stirred.
The Drow raised one hand—and the darkness answered.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
