There is no conversation as they follow Fetch, sniffing the stone flagstones like a bloodhound. Like she is searching for something she knows she will find, but not where or when. It is cold here, colder than Amalthea thinks it should be, but she does not voice her concern aloud; the quality of the silence feels sacrosanct, somehow, and she dare not be the one to break it. 

Fei, silent as ever, trails after Fetch, an afterglow of Maggie's ghostly torch. The Hand clutches a length of charred wood, black through and through, a piece of charcoal that should, by all rights, crumble at the slightest touch. But it does not. Nor does the flame consume its fuel; it is the exact same size and shape as it was when Maggie lit it. This is one of Fetch's treasures, a relic scavenged from the remains of bygone adventurers; a soul torch, lit only by the living, for the living. It is a weapon as much as it is a light, for the dead things of the Dungeon do not dare approach, fearful of the flames that will consume them, dissolving them, absorbing them. 

It is not a flame, as such, but it is difficult to explain how a flame is not a flame, and Fetch is not one for such explanations. All they know is that they have nothing to fear from the soul torch, but the dead do.

Thiel, sensitive ears pricked for the slightest sound out of place, cocks his head, pausing midstep. Fetch hears the change in his gate, and whips her head around to stare at him, eyes glimmering in the flickering light of the soul torch. 

"You hear it," she says, turning to approach him, shouldering past Oberon. He glares at her, but follows her as she backtracks her steps.

Thiel shakes his head, unnerved despite himself at the intensity of Fetch's gaze. He glances once at Amalthea, pleading, but she cannot answer for him. "I hear...trickling."

Fetch seems pleased. "Good. You lead the way, then." 

"You don't know?" Amalthea interjects, concerned. Fetch shrugs, flicking her tail.

"Who ever knows anything?" she counters. Amalthea looks away, defeated as always by Fetch's cryptic words. It grates at her, sometimes, the way Fetch will never answer a direct question with anything but half-truths and riddles, but then, if Fetch knows the secrets of the Dungeon, perhaps it is better they do not get the answers they seek. Sometimes, knowing is more painful that not knowing. 

Thiel leads them to a shimmering line of liquid, caught in the narrow line between two stones, a dark, tiny river stinking of death and secrets. Fetch's lip curls, her ears flattening against her skull, but she says nothing, and her silence is more terrifying than any of her mysterious warnings. 

Fei and Maggie lead the way, one wisp, one soul torch, both as hesitant as the Coursers as they edge their way across the stone floor, following the trickle upstream until they can see other rivulets, other flagstones outlined in death. 

The stink of decay reaches them long before they find the source, putrid and choking, dark liquid spilling out of a cracked stone box, its lid ajar. 

Amalthea pauses, wondering about that trickle. For all it is viscous and disgusting, it's fresh, still liquid. What happened here?

"Feh." Oberon snorts in disgust, shaking his head. Amalthea has to agree; the smell is thick and strong here, and the contents of what is clearly some kind of burial place are not pretty, either. In fact, the whole casket is filled with the dark stuff; it's caked on the walls where the mysterious liquid has gone down, but it is still appears more than half full. Curiously, Amalthea takes a step forward, bending closer to examine the dark surface. 

Thiel shoves her aside. "We don't know what's in there!"

"Maggie," Fetch calls. The Hand recoils, giving Fetch a thumbs down as best as it can with the torch still in hand. Fetch shakes their head. "Light it."

Maggie's relief is palpable; Fetch isn't asking it to touch the liquid. Shaken free of her curiosity, Amalthea can see the reasoning behind Fetch's order; whatever is in there is dead, and the soul torch will burn it. 

The Hand touches the ghostly blue flame to the dark surface of the liquid, and instantly, flames billow up with a hollow thump. Maggie barely gets clear in time; they all retreat as the flames begin to march through the crack, along the surface of the spilled liquid. A bony Hand appears through the flames for an instant, groping for something to hold onto, and then dissolves into black ash; dark shapes flee into the shadows above, trailing blue embers. 

As the death-liquid burns, the air is filled disconcertingly with the scent of saltwater.