text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, fantasy, action]
  
  The book was in someone's possession. They wouldn't keep it locked away, far from their dwelling quarters. If what Richter said is true, and so far it has been, the book is something to be used, not tucked away. You take the staircase leading up, stepping on each stair as not to tire out your legs. Using the bannister would help, although you'd rather keep an arrow nocked. Up and up it rises, twisting, sending your climb into a slight lean to adjust for the non-linear route.
  
  You climb to the very top. After reaching it, you stop for a few moments to catch your breath. Your legs, still affected by the journey here, get some well-needed rest. Whatever lies in wait will be best confronted with fresh legs—well, as close to that as possible.
  
  As you're about to continue on, something catches your attention. A small scratching noise, perhaps a shuffle of boots, echos softly from a nearby room. From the top of the staircase, a series of rooms line both sides of the walls, their doors wide open, all leading towards a large pair of double doors. Ensuring your arrow is still nocked, you creep forward, ears trained towards the source of the sound.
  
  It's coming from the first room on the right. Drawing closer, you can tell the rooms are various studies and libraries, not residential like you first assumed. Heavy layers of dust gather on their desks and bookshelves, cobwebs almost as common as tomes themselves. No ally is to be found here. Only threats.
  
  You burst into the first room, bowstring drawn. Movement on the floor. Arrow released. The familiar scrape of your bowstring touches your fingers as you release, the arrow's feather lightly tickling your cheek as it's sent towards its target. A small rat lies skewered on the floor, your arrow almost traveling completely through the rodent, if not for hitting the stone floor beneath.
  
  A piercing screech fills the room, causing you to drop to a knee, both hands placed against your ears in defense. Papers fly from desks, books fall from shelves. Banshee's wail. Tormented soul. Pain. The screech tapers off, ending with an agonized whimper, the strength of the outburst turning soft. Wood creaks, hinges in desperate need of oil squeal. The large double doors open of their own accord.
  
  Picking up your bow from the floor next to the dead rat, you nock another arrow and stride towards the open doorway. Your presence is noticed; there's no point in attempting subterfuge now. Best to appear confident, sure of yourself. However, you still check each room as you pass by. Just because you mean to walk through the double doors doesn't mean danger isn't still present. Could be a trap. Could be. You walk through the open doorway.
  
  Small steps lead to a throne in the center of the room. An intimate setting, rather than a grand throne room. Perhaps meant for judging a small council, your best guess, considering the rooms leading here. A corpse sits on the throne, his body long into decay, the few long strands of hair remaining fall underneath a dust-covered crown, which once shined with splendor. Now, it's a dull yellow, fitting for the wearer. You take the first step. The corpse moves.
  
  Bones cracking, a groan escapes through his mouth where his lips once were; they've long since decayed from attachment. You pull back to fire an arrow. Dead eyes meet yours, framed by the remnants of long strands of hair.
  
  "Do it," the corpse whispers, a voice strained, soft, only loud enough to hear in total silence.
  
  > hold back
  You hold back. The sudden power of the screech vastly differs from the corpse in front of you now. His words speak with awareness—and the willingness to die. His obvious stance on what he wants you to do brings a certain hesitancy.
  
  "Do it," the corpse repeats. Again, strained.
  
  You lower your bow. A multitude of questions pour into your mind. You settle on one, more of a two-word comment. "You're alive."
  
  The corpse makes a choking sound. Laughter? "No, no. Not alive," he says. "But not dead yet either. Much like this place."
  
  "You guard the book then," you question, again more as a statement.
  
  "The book. It's what all seek. Your friend is close to discovering it."
  
  Katia. So she's alive. "Where is she?" you ask.
  
  The corpse gazes into the air. His eyes, dark orbs, roll back in their sockets. "Mmm. She's in the lower levels. Those in her force, some lost to the cavern. Soon they will join this place in dying life."
  
  Her force? One thing at a time. The book is on the lower levels. Instead, you traveled to the very top of the keep. Still, there is much to learn in the present situation. The object of your journey may lie below, but that does not mean there is not anything to be gained by coming here first.
  
  "Who are you? Tell me what you know of the book," you reply, noticing a detail previously missed. The corpse's wrists are bound in chains, the same for his ankles. Once a king, bound to his throne, now a prisoner to the crown.
  
  Choking laughter. "A man who thought too highly of himself. However great you think you are, you're nothing. You have no impact on the world. It continues long after you're gone."
  
  "You don't appear gone quite yet."
  
  "A worse fate. The living knowledge that my life held no meaning. You ask who I am. I will tell you..."
  
  Nations conquered, empire expanded, wealth overflowing. The world, his. At a young age, he knew greatness was his. History books would be filled with his name, of his many accomplishments. He was born to make an impact. He was raised to take all that he desired. And take, he did.
  
  The first-born of the king, all looked to him as their future. Thick hair grown long accompanied his princely face, symmetrical, his features sharp. The burden of the crown was something he yearned for, youthful vigor desperate for the challenge of strength. His father accomplished much; he would overshadow the man's memory with his own.
  
  His wife was chosen for him, an innocent mage, daughter of a former rival. Such is the nature of his position. Marriage, a strategic tactic meant to benefit the kingdom more than his bedchamber, not that it was filled only with their vows. Other women frequented it, addendums to the life contract. Still, despite the needs of his flesh, he loved her, and she loved him.
  
  Nations conquered, it wasn't enough. Empire expanded, stagnation occurred. Wealth overflowing, there was more to be found. Life is fleeting. All his work, for what? In mere years, he would be old and crippled. His life's work, unable to join him in the afterlife. What good is building an empire when one can't enjoy the fruits of his labor? The book, a tome of dark magic. Its power would bring him immortality.
  
  If only he knew what that meant.
  
  Its location was discovered after decades of research. The top scholars and spellcasters of the world at his disposal. His men were sent to scour the earth, given all authority to question, dispose, and interrogate those who stood in his way. Neighbor spied on neighbor in exchange for wealth. Houses were raided in the night. No citizen was safe from his search. Soon, they banded together, a revolution against his immortal rule. Vermin. He would exterminate those who stood against him. They found the cube, a map hidden within.
  
  It was protected by holy men, militant and zealous towards their god. A keep nested in-between twin volcanoes, their place of worship. His father left them alone. What danger did a secluded monastery bring, even if it was highly fortified. Little did he know its fortification was meant to guard against what lied within, rather than outside invaders.
  
  The holy men fought well. Their faith brought more than zealous ideology. Holy magic infused the monks, giving them strength far surpassing the common man. Their prayers smote thousands. Heavy casualties were suffered by his armies. In the end, they fell to his overwhelming forces, the conqueror himself leading the final victorious battle. Deep within the stronghold, he found the book. The tome of dark magic was his. Immortality was in its pages, a lasting empire never to be toppled.
  
  Betrayal.
  
  Another sought the book, and the promises it contained. Blinded by his pursuit, he didn't notice the knife at his back until it was too late. His wife, the innocent mage, enacted her revenge. A dormant hatred, silent, building over decades, made itself known. When all was within his grasp, she tore it from his fingers. His efforts, his life's mission, now hers.
  
  Passion overtook her actions. She could not be reasoned with. Her final words were an incoherent string of words, her mouth unable to keep up with the suppressed emotion. Dark magic within the book took hold, a curse from ancient times. It whispers to the mind, promising to fulfill one's deepest, darkest desire. Its manifestation is never as imagined, a lesson his precious wife learned, one shared by her husband as well.
  
  An immortal rule was his, freedom from tyranny was hers.
  
  "And so you're chained here, meant to serve an eternity on the throne," you say, your voice matching the whisper-like volume of the corpse.
  
  "Bound to an immortal rule," the corpse answers. "My greatest desire became the thing preventing my rest."
  
  "I don't seek fortune or fame," you speak. "My wish isn't to hoard great amounts of power to myself."
  
  "Mmm. Perhaps you've come to the wrong place then."
  
  "Perhaps..."
  
  "But you can end my suffering. Kill me. Set me free."
  
  > kill him
  Nodding, you take a step back. Arrow still nocked, you raise your bow into position, drawing the string, the arrow's feather lightly kissing your cheek. Dead eyes meet yours. You release the arrow. The impact snaps the corpse's head back with a sickening crack, your arrow pinning his head against the throne behind him.
  
  Deep rumbling echoes softly beneath you, originating from lower levels of the keep. Wisps of dark magic shoot into the air, coming from the corpse's chest, his back bending unnaturally forward, while still being pinned to the throne. Black violet rays pour out, twisting, flying through the air like ribbons in the wind.
  
  The rumbling continues, growing louder, the very ground beneath you starting to shake. He was bound to this place. Could the place also be bound to him? Seems that way. The floor moves in a sizable quake, like being on a ship's deck during a storm. Another threatens to knock you from your feet.
  
  The dark magic pools in the air, hanging heavy like a dark rain cloud. The screech you heard upon skewering the rat appears, piercing your ears, but this time you remain standing. You need to keep moving if you're going to escape. The keep itself is about to collapse, the very structure itself enslaved to the corpse's rule.
  
  Whatever is happening in the lower levels is making its way up. Katia and "her force" are likely buried by now, the book along with them. With your current rations, there's no way you can spend weeks digging through the rubble. If anything, you'll need to mount an expeditionary team to help, which would take many weeks. That's a problem for another time. Now, you need to survive the collapsing keep.
  
  The room, filled with dark magic, is growing increasingly unstable. Blood pours from your ears. You sheathe your bow and rip of pieces of cloth from your tunic, stuffing them inside of your ears. The opponent you face isn't to be killed by arrows. Your opponent is crumbling in on itself and wants to bury you along with it.
  
  Run. Reach out. We need to escape. There's another solution. Leave this place. Reach out.Leave while you can. The power here, it can be ours. It's a prison. It's a tomb.
  
  > Run
  The entire keep is collapsing upon itself. Book be damned, Katia be damned. You need to get out while you can. You take off in a dead sprint back the way you came, dodging a few falling rocks along the way. Instead of running down the stairs, you leap in the air, landing on the stone banister with your thigh, sliding down, putting your arms in a T position for balance. You fly down much quicker, the entire journey taking a matter of seconds. Hitting the ground floor, you push from the slide, landing in a front roll to negate the impact of your building momentum.
  
  To your left and right, columns collapse, unable to keep their erect nature with the floor imploding beneath them. More chunks of rock fall from the ceiling. Thankfully, you're able to dodge them, only taking damage from a few bits of smaller chunks exploding when hitting the floor.
  
  As you reach the drawbridge, still in a full sprint, you glance back. The keep, once standing proud and tall, is nothing but a rising dust cloud. Willing yourself to continue your pace, you finally reach the other side of the bridge. Not moments later, the drawbridge collapses, mirroring the action of the keep, unable to serve its purpose, attached to a heap of rubble.
  
  Weeks you traveled to reach this destination, only to destroy it the day you arrived. It's not the ending you imagined, but at least you remain alive. That's more than some can say. The secrets of the book are buried, along with any hope at redemption. You sit down, crossing your legs over one another and take in the scene before you. Rubble, dust cloud, death. Yet, you live. The corpse, the immortal king chained to the throne didn't receive the ending he imagined. According to his story, neither did his vengeful wife.
  
  You find yourself in a place no better and no worse off than when you first departed. Some might view that as a win in itself. After all, things aren't worse. But is that how you want to live? Defined by the ability not to slide into destruction? No, stagnation is just as bad. Progress is the only way to live. Life continues on. Staying in one place is getting left behind. Like Katia. We didn't have a choice. We could have searched harder for her. What's done is done.
  
  You never reached the book, but you escaped with your life.
  
  > Epilogue: Still Breathing, Yet.
  Weeks later, rested and healthy, you arrive in a city built from a passage in the mountains. There's nothing drawing you back to Lord Tiras' city; it holds nothing for you, only threat. You never did find out who's after you. Perhaps they still are. The city you discovered in the mountains is as good as any to start over, or at least to lay low for a bit. Sheol's Passage, named for once being a key pathway through the mountain range. The city itself is a series of winding roads, serpent-like. The city, your home for the time being.
  
  Down time. Never good for the soul. Best to stay busy. Your hands stay busy, although it's mostly to hold drinks. Without a clear direction, self-destruction takes over, the need to dull the senses with ale, the need to numb the ever-present memories. For the sake of closure. Her words haunt your memory. Ale, your field medicine, helps in the moment, but makes it worse after. What you seek to avoid will follow you to your next destination.
  
  Senses all but departed, your elbows rest heavy on the bar top. Your only company is a gathering of empty tankards. Still, the drink flows. The bartender isn't one to stop because you're at your limit. No, the bastard only cuts off those without coins. A heated conversation pulls you from...whatever you were doing.
  
  "I'm telling you, that man took my coin purse!"
  
  "Are you sure you didn't leave it behind?"
  
  "I think I'm capable of knowing what I bring with me."
  
  "Fair enough. But it's long gone by now."
  
  The words come from a man and a woman, obviously together, but likely not for long. The man wears a scraggly beard, and the woman's skin had certainly seen better days. The burden of life wears heavy on them, the very one that weighs heavy on your shoulders as well.
  
  "Which way did he go?" you inject yourself into the spiraling conversation.
  
  "Uh, that way," the woman points.
  
  Without a response, you slap enough coin to fit the bill along with a generous tip onto the bar top, packing up your things sitting next to your barstool. What you feel is not a sense to play the hero, it's not even for the benefit of the woman's coin purse. It's the hunt, clean and simple. Purpose. Direction. Down time, it's never good for the soul. Funny how staring into the bottom of an empty cup can remind you of that fact.
  
  You take off in the direction that the woman pointed, feeling the cool night breeze against your face. Your hair, tied in back, enjoys the rush of air, a few strands coming loose in the sudden movement. The city streets are mostly empty. You spent more time in the tavern than expected. Not the first time. Probably won't be the last time. Footsteps other than yours fill the night air. The thief, scours the city streets like a rat in the sewer. The thrill of the hunt spurns you on, despite your inebriated state.
  
  The footsteps echo from down an alleyway. You rush in, arrow nocked, bow drawn.
  
  "Little late to the party, it appears. Hmm. I don't remember sending you an invitation."
  
  Two figures are in the alley. One on the ground, another standing over the body. The one on the ground, the thief, groans softly, a dagger sticking from his back like a flag triumphantly planted in the earth. The one standing, the one who spoke, wears a dark faceplate, four slits carved into the mask, the edge running above the man's chin, tracing the edge of his jaw. A black half cloak reaches to his waist, which one might mistake for a cape. His features underneath are blurred together in a swirl of darkness. White teeth shine behind the mask, a warm smile like the way two old friends would greet one another.
  
  You lower your bow, but still keep the arrow nocked. "What cause do you have for ending this man's life?"
  
  "Ha! Need I have one? You seem keen on using that little twig and string of yours. Maybe I should inquire on your cause."
  
  "He's a thief."
  
  "Aren't we all," the masked figure comments, his voice perfectly articulate, not as rugged as his exterior would indicate.
  
  "I'm not," you answer.
  
  "Maybe not in the traditional sense," the figure muses. "Hmm. But I'd be willing to bet you steal lives in exchange for gold. No, not traditional at all. You steal the most precious treasure a man possesses. Even worse, it appears your grand theft extends inwardly as well."
  
  You gesture at the fallen body on the ground. "And you are different?"
  
  "I didn't say that."
  
  "Well," you begin. "I see you have this handled. I'll leave you to it then."
  
  As you turn to leave, the figure speaks to your back. "Rooftops."
  
  "What?" you ask, not turning back around fully.
  
  "Rooftops. Next time stick to them. It's much more theatrical." Movement behind you. This time you turn to look. The masked figure completes an over-indulgent bow, like the one an actor would give after a play.
  
  Next time. Perhaps meaning is to be found here. Perhaps it can be found anywhere, should you have the desire to search. It doesn't always manifest itself in the form of evildoers, meant to be put down. There aren't always clear lines of delineation. Sometimes the decision in front of you is but a coin toss, the odds in your favor equal to those in opposition.
  
  Sometimes the best you can do is make a choice and step in that direction. One foot in front of the other. We press on. Meaning is to be found. It can be found anywhere. That depends on where we look. Not into an empty cup. It hurts. We know. It'll continue to hurt. We know that as well. But still, we press on. We press on.