Beaten to bloody shit, but still truckin’, baby, I scaled the last few feet of the outside of the lighthouse and slipped in through the window at the top, collapsing in a heap on the floor.

I lay there for a moment, sprawled out on the cold stone. Just catching my breath. Even with my boosted Constitution, I’d put myself through a lot. The steady rhythm of my heartbeat pounded in my ears, the only sound in the otherwise-quiet room.

Slowly, I pushed myself up to a sitting position and took a look around.

The lighthouse was empty, its interior untouched by time or the outside world. But there was a beauty in its silence, an ancient allure that was impossible to deny. The walls were made of stone, weathered but solid. They held the weight of centuries within them, whispering tales of the past, of those who had manned this place and kept the coast safe from danger.

A spiral staircase wound its way up the middle, reaching for the sky, ending in a chamber high above that must’ve housed the great beacon once. The setting sun cast long, dramatic shadows across the room, painting a picture of surreal tranquility.

From far below, I could hear the city stirring. They were hounding the place, desperate yet too afraid to enter. Their superstitions and fears held them at bay, keeping them from pursuing me into the heart of the lighthouse.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. Superstitions. Funny things, really. The things people would believe to make sense of a world that was fundamentally chaotic and unpredictable.

Shaking off my musings, I started my descent. The staircase seemed to go on forever, spiraling downward into the bowels of the lighthouse. Each step was worn smooth by countless feet over the centuries, creating an oddly rhythmic pattern as I made my way down.

As I descended, the ambiance of the lighthouse changed. The light from above dwindled, replaced by a cool darkness that seemed to pulsate with an eerie energy. The walls became slick with moisture, glistening in the scant light. The air grew colder, thicker, the silence deepening as I ventured farther below.

My heart pounded in my chest as I rounded a corner and caught sight of a shape in the distance. My hand instinctively went to my pique, my senses on high alert. But then the figure moved into the light, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

It was Virgil.

“Goddamn, Virgil, you scared the shit out of me,” I breathed, collapsing against the wall.

He grinned, a lopsided smile that somehow seemed to fit his rugged features.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he drawled in that cowboy style of speech he had. “Just barreled a pair o’ sentries tending to this place.”

I shook my head, chuckling despite the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

“Well, good job. Now let’s move.”

We continued our descent, Virgil leading the way. After what felt like an eternity, we came upon a door. It was old, made of heavy wood and iron, and it creaked ominously as we pushed it open.

Beyond lay a tunnel, a pristine path of gleaming marble that stretched on into the darkness. We walked on, the light from our torches dancing off the polished stone, illuminating strange symbols etched into the walls.

At the end of the tunnel was another door. Pushing it open, we stepped into a large chamber. My breath caught in my throat at the sight before me.

In the center of the room stood a massive obelisk, the kedge. Its black surface seemed to absorb the light around it, creating a void in the heart of the chamber. But that wasn’t what took my breath away.

Around the obelisk, covering the walls of the chamber, were symbols. At first glance, they looked like runic magic glyphs, and my heart dropped. But then, as I moved closer, squinting at the patterns, I realized they were something else.

They were…messages. Prayers, requests, and pleas from people long gone, their identities lost to the sands of time. They had left their mark on this place, their belief in the power of the obelisk etched into the very stone itself.

They had believed in this place, had asked for its protection. And now, their voices echoed through the centuries, their pleas still as urgent as the day they were first written.

It was humbling, and a little terrifying, to stand in the presence of such ancient hope. I felt a strange sense of reverence for these long-forgotten people. Their world might have been different, but their fears, their desires, were the same.

Protect this place. The words rang in my ears, whispered by the ghosts of the past.

And as I stood there, surrounded by the echoes of a bygone era, I couldn’t help but wonder.

What would they think of me, the stranger who had come to destroy their sacred relic?

Would they hate me? Would they understand?

I didn’t know. But one thing was clear.

I had a job to do.

And come hell or high water, I was going to do it.

Man, this increased Charisma was really doing a number on my emotional intelligence. Never in my life would I have considered anything like this. Or before, when I was being chased through the streets by all those motherfuckers—I probably would have just pulled out my wand and started blasting. Now, though . . .

We approached the kedge. It was resonating with me, somewhere deep inside my body. And not in a philosophical way, either. No, that shit was in my small intestine now, turning the previous pylon into . . . uh, dreams.

I stared at the kedge. It was more than just a physical reaction. It was like a primal pull, tugging at something deep within me, drawing me closer. It was a thrumming, a pulsating rhythm that seemed to sync up with my own heartbeat. Like those dumbass kids in Jumanji fucking around with the board game, I could hear it calling out to me. Beckoning. Whispering.

The whispers grew louder, rattling in my fucking skull, building into a crescendo that threatened to drown out everything else. I reached out, my hand trembling, drawn towards the obelisk. The clamor was reaching fever pitch, the kedge calling, screaming . . .

And then, just as my fingers were inches away, a voice cut through the chaos.

“No.”

I froze, my hand hovering in the air. The voice was a cold, sharp contrast to the deafening cacophony of the kedge. I spun around, heart pounding.

Virgil didn’t hesitate. His crossbow was already aimed and firing, the bolt cutting through the air toward the speaker. It was the curly-haired woman, her dangerous smile firmly fixed in place; she swatted the bolt away like a house cat batting at a piece of wayward string. A ripple of unease ran through me.

Before we could react, she raised her hand, and Virgil was flung back against the wall, held there by some unseen force. I couldn’t see what was holding him, but I could see the strain on his face, his body pinned like a picture of Paris on some highschooler’s vision board.

“Let’s. Chat,” she said.