Half a minute later, Garrik reached the doors. He stopped, his gaze flicking from the buckled metal to the remains of the sentinel.

  Then, without hesitation, he took a step back—and kicked the doors open.

  They collapsed with a loud clang, sending a thick cloud of dust swirling into the air. Garrik coughed once, waving a hand in irritation as he stepped inside. His eyes swept the room, his sharp gaze scanning every shadow, every corner.

  But there was no one.

  The only things in the room were himself—and the ruined sentinel.

  Meanwhile, Bones dragged himself through the cramped ventilation shaft. As he crawled forward, he cast a final glance through the slats, catching one last glimpse of Garrik before turning away. Worming, he made his way over the shut doors and into the next room. His escape had been pure luck—he’d barely spotted the vent in time, tucked away in the corner above a shelf. Murdok had given him a boost before being dismissed, allowing Bones to squeeze inside just in time.

  Bones’ robes dragged through the dust-choked vent, sweeping up cobwebs as he crawled forward. Tiny legs skittered along the edges—spiders, mostly. Some ventured too close, slipping beneath his robes, creeping into unwelcome places. He pushed forward, refusing to dwell on the sensation as he neared the vent ahead.

  Reaching it, he wedged his fingers between the rusted slats and pressed down. The corroded bolts gave way with a brittle snap, and the vent cover slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the floor below.

  He went still, his focus sharpening as he listened for any sign of movement beyond the steady hum of the facility. When nothing came—no footsteps, no startled voices—he eased himself through the opening and dropped down into a crouch, landing soundlessly and surveying the room.

  Dust hung in the stale air, coating every surface. Rows of metal cabinets, drawers, and shelves lined the walls, their contents obscured beneath layers of neglect. A storage room. He cast a brief glance over the rusted tools and forgotten apparatus but found nothing of interest.

  He gave his robes a few sharp shakes, dislodging lingering webs, then brushed away the worst of the grime. The once-dark fabric was now streaked with sickly hues of gray and murky green.

  His attention shifted to the panel beside the door. He pressed it, expecting little, and was unsurprised when nothing happened. Exhaling in mild frustration, he tilted his head back, eyes settling on the empty opening above—the same narrow gap he'd just squeezed through.

  Returning to the cramped ventilation shaft didn’t sit well with Bones at all, but there was no other choice. Murdok helped him reach the opening again, and after steadying his nerves, he hauled himself inside. His robes, freshly freed of cobwebs, gathered a new layer of them almost immediately, much to his growing annoyance. The shaft turned right, then continued in a long, straight path before angling left.

  By now, he had covered a lot of ground, but a gnawing thought crept in—what if he hit a dead end with nowhere else to turn? What if he got stuck inside this facility, buried in its maze-like ventilation? He shook his head, pushing the thought away. The ventilation system wasn’t a foreign concept; it had to lead somewhere. And even if the worst came to pass, he could stay wedged inside for a day—or even a week—until the raiders finished their business.

  His fears seemed justified when a dead end loomed ahead. A flicker of dread coiled through his core—until he noticed a dim light filtering through the vent slats below. As he hurried forward, his gaze flicked upward, spotting where the shaft continued at a steep incline before turning his attention back to the vent leading below. He pressed his fingers against the rusted frame and pried it loose, this time ensuring he kept a firm grip. Lowering his head through the opening, he scanned the dim chamber below, taking in the space upside down.

  Rows of tubular tanks lined the walls at the far end, their contents obscured by the murky light. His curiosity stirred, but he shoved it aside, first sweeping the area for sentinels. Finding none, he dropped down soundlessly and took in his surroundings.

  This chamber was larger than the previous ones, lined with rows upon rows of shelves. Most stood barren, coated in dust, their only occupants stray roots and thick webs. Others, however, held circular glass containers of varying sizes. Bones stepped closer to one, peering through the cloudy surface. Suspended in the viscous yellow liquid inside was a severed claw—lizard-like, cut clean at the wrist. He tapped the glass lightly. The claw twitched.

  Bones jerked his head back.

  His gaze flitted to the other containers. Now wary, he took his time studying them. Limbs, organs, and other dismembered body parts floated in the same thick, yellow substance—some rotten, some eerily preserved as if freshly severed. The more he saw, the clearer it became: whatever experiments had taken place here had birthed something grotesque.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  He moved on, weaving through the shelves until the looming tanks he’d spotted earlier came fully into view. They towered above him, standing between two-thirty and two-forty centimeters in height—wide enough to hold a person or something worse. Their thick glass was reinforced, resistant to scratches and extreme temperatures. Of the twelve he counted, only three remained intact. The others had been shattered or torn open from within.

  A withered corpse hung halfway out of one broken tank, its remains limp and half-spilled onto the floor. A few tanks down, he spotted another gruesome scene—something had clawed its way free, leaving only tattered remnants of flesh behind.

  When he reached the last three untouched tanks, he stopped. These were still sealed, filled to the brim with the same murky yellow liquid that preserved the severed limbs in the jars. Stepping closer, he pressed his skull near the glass, peering through the thick haze. At first, he saw nothing but swirling, muddied yellow—then, faintly, the shape of something submerged. The hardened, rough skin of a creature barely stood out against the liquid.

  A sudden whirring sound echoed through the walls.

  Bones stiffened, instinctively scanning his surroundings. The sound had been absent for a while now, and its return sent a prickle of unease down his spine. He braced himself, waiting for some hidden mechanism to activate—perhaps a sentinel emerging from the walls.

  Instead, a sharp click rang out, followed by a faint hiss as the tank released pressure. A seam split along the reinforced glass near the top, and the entire pane began lowering into the base.

  The yellow liquid drained rapidly, streaming into the narrow gaps between the stone tiles—channels likely designed for that exact purpose. As the last of the substance gurgled away, the body inside tipped forward, collapsing face-first onto the floor with a wet thud.

  Bones took a cautious step closer. The creature was just shy of his shoulders in height, its form lean but sinewy. Long fingers ended in claw-like nails, its scalp nearly bald, with elongated ears tapering into sharp points. Its head lay turned away from him, keeping its face out of view.

  Crouching beside the body, Bones reached out.

  Just before his fingers brushed its skin, something shifted. Patches of its dull yellow flesh darkened, spots spreading like ink through water. The color deepened, merging and crawling across its entire body—until its skin faded into a yellowish-brown, like a withered autumn leaf.

  As if what he had just witnessed wasn’t alarming enough, the muscles began to deteriorate, and the entire body rapidly withered until only a husk remained. Bones rose to his feet, his mind working hard to process what had happened. The only clues he had were the preservation liquid and the sudden exposure to air. What chemical reaction had caused this, he hadn’t a clue.

  Minutes passed as Bones examined the remains and the now-empty tank until he heard the same whirring sound. Turning to the next tank in line, he watched in anticipation. As soon as the whirring stopped, the tank opened, and the liquid began pouring out, just as it had from the previous one. Bones didn’t wait until the end. He stepped forward and, placing a hand on the creature’s head, stored it before it could topple over.

  He did the same with the last creature—an unfortunate thing he guessed might have once been a goblin—ensuring he gained something from his risky venture in the facility, aside from the obvious skill levels.

  Beyond that, he found nothing worth taking. The containers filled with preserved monster parts briefly crossed his mind, but he dismissed the thought. He had no desire to lug around jars of floating limbs and organs in his inventory. The chamber was sealed, with only one way in and out, and that was now tightly shut. That left Bones with two choices—return the way he came, back into familiar dangers, or climb up the ventilation shaft. Neither option was appealing, but he already knew which one he would take.

  With his light frame and little space to maneuver, Bones slowly wormed his way up the shaft. It took effort, and the minutes stretched unbearably long, but after roughly twenty minutes of wriggling, he reached a point where the shaft leveled out. No longer fighting against gravity, crawling forward became far easier.

  That was when he heard them.

  Voices, faint at first, echoing through the metal passage. Bones stopped, listening intently.

  “Raiders,” he whispered, somewhat relieved. He knew there were more people inside the building besides the two werewolves, Garrik and Varek—the ones he wanted to avoid at all costs.

  As he inched closer to the vent ahead, the voices grew clearer. Two gruff voices spoke in turn, raising questions about how long they were supposed to wait and what would happen if one of the golems broke in. Then, another voice interrupted them, warning the others to stop talking nonsense before Garrik or Varek overheard.

  “Come on, Cornell, don’t tell me you’re not thinking what everyone else is thinking? I talked to Mannis, and he agrees with us. Dwarven golems—and now there’s talk of an intruder? This isn’t what we signed up for.”

  A pause followed before the raider named Cornell rebuked them, telling them to do what they were paid to do. Another voice—presumably Mannis—called to him, and Cornell left, his footsteps fading into the distance.

  The two remaining raiders fell silent, then reluctantly resumed rummaging through the cabinets.

  Bones proceeded until he reached the vent and stopped to observe them below. Just as he had heard, they were searching noisily, with no concern for how much of a racket they were making.

  Timing his move with the sounds of their rummaging, he carefully dislodged the vent. The action went unnoticed. He turned it sideways, pulled it up through the opening, then immediately set it back in place. The vent was larger than the opening, allowing it to rest securely on top without falling through. He positioned it this way so he could swiftly remove it if an opportunity arose to dispatch the raiders—or if he chose to act.

  Now ready, Bones focused on the raiders.

  One had scruffy hair and a scraggly dark beard, his face lined with grime and exhaustion. His mismatched armor consisted of layered leather and steel plates, the pieces haphazardly strapped together, likely scavenged over time. A massive greataxe was strapped to his back, the blade nicked and well-worn.

  The other was bald, his thick eyebrows forming a permanent scowl. He wore similar patchwork armor, though his was bulkier, weighed down by reinforced bracers and shoulder guards. A pair of daggers were sheathed behind his lower back, positioned for a quick draw, while a saber rested at his hip, the hilt wrapped in worn cloth.

  They were rough, seasoned men—the kind who had seen enough battle to survive but not enough to grow rich from it.

  Bones remained still, watching, waiting.