The arcane knight looked along the canyon and brushed back her long blonde hair. She rolled her broad shoulders and put her pen to the leather journal she always carried and wrote:

  “Travel Journal of Dame Albrina Sunforge.

  Entry title: Everdark Canyon, Would Visit Again (With Better Light)

  The Everdark Canyon lives up to its reputation in a very polite, almost apologetic way. It does not plunge you into darkness outright. Instead, light simply loses enthusiasm. Sunlight slides down the canyon walls and only reaches the bottom at noon, thin and diluted, like a guest who arrived out of obligation rather than interest. The rest of the time, the canyon glows on its own.

  Giant blue fluorescent flowers cling to the stone walls in dense clusters, pulsing with a soft inner light. The glow is steady, cold, and faintly aquatic, as though the canyon borrowed it from something that lives far below the surface of the world. Armor edges catch the light beautifully. I would recommend this location to anyone interested in dramatic silhouettes or existential reflection.

  I find the canyon oddly calming. Dame Lyssien disagrees, but Dame Lyssien disagrees with many correct things.”

  Lyssien walked several steps ahead of the group, moving lightly despite her armor.

  Their expedition’s leader, Sir Corven Ashmark gave Albrina an impatient signal to follow. “We are here to identify the origin of the mutated mimic-land-octopus,” he said. “This is an investigation, not a sightseeing tour.”

  Albrina sighed, stowed away her travel journal and followed the group again.

  Behind Sir Corven, the five squires followed in a tight cluster, chainmail clinking softly with every step.

  Rellin tilted his head, staring at the glowing flowers.

  “These would look excellent etched into arcane plate armor,” he said. “Blue glow lines along the pauldrons.”

  “You are not getting custom arcane plate armor,” Mira replied. “You will be lucky to get arcane plate armor at all.”

  “I will get it during the Great Hunt,” Rellin said confidently. “When I’ll be knighted in the field.”

  “Chainmail is historically known to be reliable and highly protective,” Tomas said.

  “It is empirically known to be uncomfortable,” Rellin answered.

  A low buzzing filled the canyon air as they advanced.

  Far ahead, near the canyon’s distant end, worker were-bees drifted between the glowing flowers. They harvested luminous nectar with calm diligence. None of them acknowledged the group.

  Elsha slowed slightly. “Are they aware of us?”

  “They are always aware,” Dame Lyssien replied. “They simply do not care unless disturbed.”

  Sir Albrina waved anyway. “I admire their focus.”

  Sir Corven Ashmark cleared his throat. “We will avoid the nest entirely. I do not wish to explain to the Order how we angered the hive.”

  Bran stopped walking. His shield rose a fraction. “There is something wrong with that wall,” he said.

  Dame Lyssien halted immediately. “Specify.”

  Bran pointed.

  At first, there was nothing. Just stone and glowlight. Then dame Lyssien shifted her angle, and the stone wall seemed to flicker. Moving her head she could see a narrow tunnel entrance, hidden in a crevice. As she drew nearer and put her spear forward cautiously, the illusion fractured.

  The inner part of the entrance was covered in intricate carvings of runes with several matte-black crystals placed strategically. Thick roots had grown through the ancient camouflage enchantment. The spell still tried to function, but from a certain angle, it failed.

  “That enchantment seems extremely old,” Ashmark said.

  “How old,” Mira asked.

  “Those runes aren’t the ones I studied at the Order,” Tomas replied quietly. “This predates standardized arcane construction. So, they’re at least from the age of the Cathurian Empire. Maybe even older.”

  “That usually means important,” Albrina said, smiling. “It could even be a quest-trigger.”

  The tunnel was smooth, deliberately shaped. Rune channels lined the walls, clogged with root growth and broken crystals. The air inside was dry and preserved.

  The chamber beyond was wide.

  Broken eggshells lay scattered across the stone floor. Massive. Thick. The outer parts marred by many deep scratches on the outside.

  “These eggs did not hatch,” Tomas said. “That’s claw- or toothmarks on the outside.”

  Three mummified froglike creatures the size of oxen lay in triangle of circles deeply engraved into the floor. They contained the same kind of runes like at the entrance.

  The group took an hour to search the cave and use their knowledge skills to the fullest.

  Sir Corven Ashmark knelt beside one of the shells. “I think this was a stasis enchantment. There’s a lot of runes meant to control or stop and runes of time and stillness,” he said. “The mummified monsters seemed to be meant as guardians. Any disturbance should have woken them.”

  Rellin frowned. “Are these some kind of frog monsters?”

  “Yes,” Tomas said quietly. “Hoarderscales, to be exact.”

  Mira stiffened. “Hoarderscales are just backstory lore,” she said. “They are the reason the Golden Age of the Cathurian Empire ended.”

  Everyone looked at her.

  “Does no one read the promotional material? Or watch the game trailers? They were said to be exterminated to the last. Hundreds of archmages needed to sacrifice their lives to power the ritual that finally defeated them. That’s backstory. They’re not something that simply crawls out of a cavern.”

  “That is also what the academy teaches,” Ashmark said. “However, I heard rumors of a hoarderscale reemergence far to the south, near Mulnirsheim.”

  Dame Lyssien turned slowly toward him. “You did not mention this before.”

  “I did not believe it at the time,” Ashmark replied. “I believe it now.”

  Sir Albrina folded her arms. “So, the protective enchantment failed, the mimic-land-octopus found the eggs and ate them.”

  “And inherited their adaptive traits,” Ashmark said. “Growth and levelling by aging and eating. And constantly evolving.”

  Rellin stared at the shattered shells. “There’s no more left to eat, so no chance of other monsters getting an upgrade.”

  “Yes,” Ashmark said calmly. “But we need to check if the land-octopus left a nest or something. There will be trouble with these things, mark my word.”

  He straightened and cleared his throat. “I’m sure that will be an important theme for the following plotlines. And now I finally have an idea for my coat of arms!”

  Dame Lyssien closed her eyes. “You don’t mean a frog with a sword through his head or something? Please say you don’t.”

  Ashmark’s hands followed the outline of the shield he imagined. “An unfurling scroll from which the froglike monsters of past’s fate rain down. And my heraldic motto will be fitting: ‘Plot lo vult!’.

  Sir Albrina clapped enthusiastically. “I support this wholeheartedly.”

  “You cannot be serious,” Mira said.

  “I am entirely serious,” Ashmark replied. “It represents ancient lore falling upon us without warning.”

  Bran nodded once. “It is accurate.”

  Dame Lyssien exhaled slowly. “You had worse design ideas. Now let’s get serious again. We found what we’ve been looking for. Now let’s get back to report and then get to Wildeguard to get our bearings before the start of the Great Hunt.”

  While retreating from the cavern Tomas, one of the squires, paused to inspect one of the engravings on the floor. “Wait, there’s something different with this inscription. It’s glowing slightly, maybe one of the enchantments is still active?”

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  He bowed down to touch the line of runes.

  Sir Ashmark whirled around, trying to stop him, but it was too late.

  As soon as Tomas’ hand touched the active enchantment, security measures triggered. Lines on the floor lit up. Most faded again quickly when they reached the empty stasis circles.

  One raced up the ceiling, where an enchanted circle flared to life. Moments later, a circular part of stone dropped down and shattered on the floor, sending splinters and fragments everywhere.

  A loud croaking sound followed. Green lighting crackled out of the hole, then a vaguely humanoid figure descended, an unsettling fusion of scholar and predator.

  His body was massive and broad, built for powerful leaps rather than grace, with long, muscular legs folded slightly as he hovered. The skin of the hoarderscale sorcerer was thick and mottled, a deep marsh-green broken by darker patches and faint scars that spoke of old battles. It glistened subtly in the crystal light.

  His head was unmistakably amphibian: wide-set, bulging eyes with molten-gold irises and slit pupils that scanned the cavern. A heavy brow ridge cast shadows over his gaze, giving him a perpetually judging expression. His mouth was broad and thin-lipped. Primitive robes draped his frame, cut to accommodate his inhuman proportions.

  A heavy chain rested across his chest, bearing a faceted green gemstone that pulsed in time with the magic holding him aloft. One hand gripped a staff carved from twisted wood.

  The arcane knights stood petrified only for a moment. Then Sir Ashmark barked his orders. “Enemy caster! Defensive formation!”

  Most revenants hated following orders, but those had not made it long within the arcane order. The eight formed up with trained efficiency, the knights in front, offering cover for the less armored squires.

  Sir Ashmark identified their target.

  Adult-Hoarderscale-Elementalist, Level 9

  Scourge-Type Monster

  The froglike sorcerer opened his mouth for a loud croak and waved his staff from left to right. Blue magical energy erupted from its end and materialized into a spray of water, drenching floor wall and knights alike.

  Dame Albrina blanched, while the others just seemed confused by this seemingly useless attack. Knights in plate armor were famously weak against one type of elemental attack. And that coincidentally was vastly empowered on wet targets.

  Lightning. The frog sorcerer was already turning his arm wave right to left, doubtlessly planning to use a lightning attack at them.

  She stepped forward, crossed arms before her and activated her most powerful defensive feat: “Arcane Shield!”

  A semi-transparent half dome took shape in front of her.

  Her two companions reacted instantly, dropping their weapons, bracing themselves against the ground and grabbing her from both sides. The mana-cores in their chests flared up and they added their power to hers. The size of the shield almost doubled.

  The staff was waved and as it pointed at the group, blue-white lightning arced at the knights.

  The spell struck against the shield with physical force. All three knights were pushed backward, their feet dragging against the stone for two steps until they came to halt.

  While remnants of lightning still lit the area between them and their target, the nimble dame Lyssien proved the adequacy of her name by quickstepping forward in an explosion of movement. Every bit of mana switched from powering the shield to speed. She raced by the sorcerer on his left side, not slowing down a bit. Passing him, she struck with her sword.

  The hoarderscale elementalist was surprised they still stood, let alone counterattacked and neither dodged nor blocked the strike that cut deep into his right arm and side. The staff dropped to the ground, as did the levitating sorcerer, his concentration broken.

  He tried to use his strong feet to jump backward and away from his enemies, but before he could get a grip on the ground, dame Albrina’s warhammer struck into his chest. Immediately followed by Sir Ashford’s halberd.

  An explosion of wind magic threw all three knights away. Wind and magic tendrils lifted the hoarderscale sorcerer up and back into a floating upright position. His eyes followed the three knights forming up in a semi-circle. He lifted his hand for another spell, but spasmed as the five crossbow bolts from the heavy crossbows of the squires struck his back almost as one.

  Then the knights attacked as one, each from a different angle. So, while their strikes were overpowered and predictable, the knights assumed there would be nothing he could do against the onslaught.

  They were wrong. A single croak and a gesture covered the frog-sorcerer’s hands in thick ice, which he used to block both Sir Ashford’s and Dame Sunforge’s strikes. Dame Lyssien’s sword snaked around his defense and left a deep cut along his stomach. He answered by kicking her in the chest, which lifted her from the floor and four steps through the air. The heavy arcane armor withstood the attack and the female knight stood up more annoyed than hurt.

  Sunforge used an armor-assisted jump to hoist her massive body into the air and slammed the hoarderscale to the ground. She rolled down from him and a heartbeat later Sir Ashford’s halberd came down in a two-handed, full powered strike.

  The hoarderscale tried to lift himself up again, but a coordinated barrage of attacks from the knights kept him at the floor and made it impossible for him to gather the concentration to cast another spell.

  Sunforge’s warhammer hit his leg with enough power to pulverize even a leg in plate armor. The thick muscles absorbed the strike without even cracking the bone.

  On a signal from Ashford, the three retreated, which gave the hoarderscale sorcerer the chance to sit up, only to be hit by five heavy crossbow bolts from the squires again.

  The knights immediately continued their attack. When Ashford moved to surround him and saw the bolts protruding from the monster’s back, he gave an appreciative whistle. “Nice grouping.”

  Then all continued their attacks.

  The squires hastily reloaded, but before they could prepare to fire again, the battle was over.

  Enemy defeated: Adult-Hoarderscale-Elementalist, Level 9

  Reduced XP for the enemy being in a weakened state after stasis.

  Reduced XP for numerical superiority.

  Slightly increased XP for defeating a higher-level enemy.

  Sir Ashford scoffed. “Weakened? If that lightning spell had hit us, we’d be already writing angry posts on the TPK forum. Those things are not only ugly; they are broken powerful. I hope I’ll never have to face another hoarderscale ever again.”

  They sealed the tunnel and marked its location.

  Later at camp Sir Ashmark finished the application for their team.

  Team “Knight’s Honor”

  Sir Corven Ashmark, human, arcane knight

  Dame Albrina Sunforge, human, arcane knight

  Dame Lyssien Quickstep, human, arcane knight

  Rellin, human, arcane squire

  Mira, human, arcane squire

  Tomas, human, arcane squire

  Elsha, human, arcane squire

  Bran, human, arcane squire

  * * *

  Hidden in a valley, surrounded by great autumn trees, stood the majestic Monastery of the Aether Body.

  Its pale stone walls rose in smooth, unbroken lines. Maple and ash leaned close, their canopies aflame with copper and gold, shedding leaves that spiraled down into courtyards swept clean by silent novices each dawn. The air carried the scent of cold water and incense, and beneath it all the constant babbling of many small rivers and waterfalls winding down the surrounding valley walls.

  Terraced paths wound upward like the coils of a resting serpent, guiding visitors past meditation gardens, open training squares, and pools so still they reflected the sky. Even from afar, one could feel the serenity. But that wasn’t all it was.

  To those who knew, the monastery was not merely a place of prayer or study. It was a crucible. Within its tranquil halls, bodies were honed into vessels worthy of power, and minds were taught the ways mana could be directed to enhance the body. Many entered seeking strength. Few remained long enough to understand what the Aether Body truly asked in return.

  The Cellarer stood at the open refectory doors, hands folded within his sleeves, a man whose days were measured in sacks of barley and simmering hours. Below him, the lower hall breathed with motion.

  Young monks fought barefoot on the ancient stone, their strikes sharp and controlled. Palms met shoulders with dull, disciplined force. Elbows cut the air, guided by brief surges of mana that arrived like lightning and vanished just as fast. One monk burst forward in a sudden acceleration, speed flaring through his legs for a single heartbeat. Another answered with a jump that cracked the air, mana compressed beneath his heel, lifting him just long enough to turn gravity into an ally.

  Sweat gleamed. Breath rasped. Bruises bloomed under skin like dark petals.

  Brother Halvren joined the Cellarer in silence, the archivist’s eyes following the motion below. For a time, they simply watched. A trio flowed together without words. A feint high, a burst low, a vault that carried one monk clean over the others before he landed and struck, stopping a finger’s width from bone. Control held, iron-strong.

  Halvren spoke at last. “How many of the contestants are revenants?”

  The Cellarer did not look away from the hall. “Our quiet life of contemplation thankfully attracts very few revenants,” he said. “A dozen have found our monastery, but only eight remain until now. Three have reached the rank of full monk. All of them are very competitive, they lead the current rankings.”

  Below them, an acolyte misjudged a step and stumbled. He caught himself, jaw tight, and funneled mana into his forearms just in time to absorb a heavy blow. The impact rang like struck wood. Skin tore at the impact. He grinned anyway.

  Halvren nodded. “And how many participants does the Arcane Order send?”

  The Cellarer’s gaze sharpened. He turned his head slightly now. “We have received a report by our scouts of a team of three knights and five squires. Most or all of them revenants.”

  For a moment, neither man spoke.

  On the stone floor, the bellies of the monks’ feet found the same worn hollows left by centuries of training. Mana thickened the air only in flashes, lending strength to a single strike, speed to a decisive step, lift to one perfect jump.

  The Cellarer exhaled slowly. “Then we answer in kind. Three full monks and five acolytes. They send the same number we can spare, without knowing our count. I will take that as a portent of fate. And who am I, to deny fate itself.”

  Below, the bell chimed, soft and precise. The fighters disengaged at once and bowed to one another, sweat dripping to the stone. The hall seemed to settle, as if approving.

  The Cellarer turned back toward the refectory, already recalculating portions, already counting loaves and ladles for those soon to depart. His mind moved faster than his feet.

  He paused at the cloister window. Outside, autumn winds scoured the valley, combing through bare branches and stone alike. The brothers would march for hours through cold forest shade. Empty warmth would not suffice.

  He headed for the kitchens and caught the head cook’s eye with a small beckoning gesture.

  “Brother Duncan. Our team will be travelling for weeks through wind and chill. They will need something that stays warm in the belly. Set up the pots for campaign broth. If you begin now, it may just have enough time to set before they leave.”

  The cook frowned, wiping his hands on his apron. “Campaign broth?”

  The Cellarer had already half turned away. He stopped, blinked once, then sighed softly.

  “You truly do not know? It is what soldiers and pilgrims call travelling soup,” the Cellarer continued, “Some call it brick soup.”

  He explained that it was not soup meant to be eaten fresh. Instead, bones, roots, herbs, and salt were boiled down until the liquid thickened and darkened, then reduced further until it set into dense slabs. Once cooled, it could be cut into blocks and wrapped in cloth or waxed leather.

  On the road, a single piece dropped into hot water would return flavor and nutrients. One could then add whatever could be found along the way. A carrot, a mushroom, a scrap of meat. The soup welcomed them all.

  “It does not spoil easily,” the Cellarer finished. “It feeds many, weighs little, and can be prepared quickly. Perfect for marching monks and cold nights.”

  Brother Duncan’s expression slowly changed into a craftsman’s smile.

  “I’m starting to remember. I’ve heard of brick soup, but never made it myself. There is a recipe in one of my cookbooks. I will start at once,” he said, already reaching for the largest pot.