The sarcophagus grumbles a few more times, burping up bloody bubbles into their faces, and their reflections slowly return to normal once the rotting soup settles. None of them say a word, but the tension is palpable; each of them wants to ask why Wraith is spared from a gruesome demise unlike the rest of them. There’s always been something wrong with it, but the doubts are starting to grow out of control with each run-in they have with him.

Is he real? Is he even alive? Or maybe he’s a figment of their collective imaginations, conjured up by the kingdom to give them some false sense of security. It knows the way around the dungeons better than most—he’s become an Eldara local legend because of it—so there are plenty of coursers eager to meet him in the caverns, ready to follow him wherever he tells them to go.

Are they all losing their minds? Is Wraith feeding on their sanity?

“I think we got what we came for,” Archimedes says after eying the coffin once more. It gurgles ominously.

Archimedes steps away from the coffin but keeps a wary eye on the pale courser, now unwilling to let it out of his sight. Wraith has always given him a bad vibe, but there’s something about his unaltered reflection that doesn’t sit right with him. Something sinister sits behind those pale eyes.

Terrifyingly of all, Wraith tracks his movement with silent curiosity.

Having lifted what they could from the workshop and the sarcophagus, they leave the burial chamber with their supply satchels stuffed with potions and old tomes. Basil spends most of the journey back trying to trade off a book emblazoned with a strange skull on the cover, attempting to pawn it off on Archimedes for his couple of potions before finally getting rid of it when Frankie agrees to trade it for one of his pendants.

They’re so enamored with trading their loot that they haven’t noticed Wraith is stopped ahead of them. Basil barrels right into the small spirit.

It nearly knocks him off his feet, and in the scuffle they’ve disturbed the enormous effigy guarding the chamber entrance. It’s eerily reminiscent of a courser, carrying a strange two-legged animal on its back, and its head is tucked in and twisted to the side thanks to whatever is shoved into its mouth. A means of control? Submission through violence. Archimedes stares up at it in awe.

And then the courser coughs up a great fireball, aimed directly at them.