Chapter 6: Secrets Beneath the Glen
Lira hit the slope hard.
She tumbled through damp soil and mossy stone, catching a root with her elbow and skidding to a stop in a shallow pool. Cold water soaked through her tunic. For a second, she just lay there blinking up at the roots overhead.
"…Okay," she said aloud. "Rude."
Groaning, she sat up and took stock. All limbs: present. Weapons: still tucked away, except her dagger, which now floated nearby like a very confused leaf. She scooped it up and stood shakily.
The chamber around her was... old. Not 'grandma's attic' old — this was deep time, dragon-wars-and-doom-prophecies kind of old.
Carved stone walls arched around her, tangled with roots and glowing faintly with blue light. Spiral glyphs and dragon shapes curled through the stone, most half-buried or cracked. A heavy silence hung in the air — not the silence of emptiness, but of expectation.
And in the center of it all… was the staff.
It stood on a pedestal of black stone, bone-white and twisted, wrapped in silver wire. Three carved dragon teeth crowned its head, each pointing in a different direction like a trident that had lost a fight with a necromancer.
Lira squinted. "You are either the coolest wand in the world, or I just found the magical equivalent of a cursed meat fork."
She stepped forward, boots squelching softly. The closer she got, the colder the air became. Not freezing — just… still. Like the breath before a scream.
> "You shouldn't be here."
She whipped around, dagger raised.
At the far end of the chamber stood a figure. Robed. Tall. Not solid — more like smoke and light, held together by memory.
"You're not one of hers," it said. The voice was male. Tired. Deep. "Not a soldier. Not a servant."
"Nope," Lira said, adjusting her ponytail. "Just a kender with bad luck and above-average curiosity."
The figure drifted closer, feet never touching the ground. Its face was hard to see, blurred like a half-remembered dream.
"That is the Staff of Bones," it said. "It was forged to bind death itself. In the wrong hands, it becomes a beacon."
Lira glanced at the staff. "A beacon for… what? Lost puppies? Hungry ghosts? Discount necromancers?"
The spirit didn't laugh. Figures.
"For all that should have stayed buried," he said darkly.
Lira frowned, stepping back. "So… I should probably not touch it?"
"You already have," he replied.
She blinked. "No I haven't—"
She looked at her hand.
It glowed faintly. Not from the staff, but from the runes beneath her boots. The pedestal pulsed once, softly. A sound echoed through the stones — not a chime, but a heartbeat.
"Oh no," she whispered. "Oh nope nope nope."
The chamber began to shake.
Above her, stone cracked and dust rained down.
Back in the clearing… something had noticed.