Lightning flashed overhead, sending an earth-shaking thunderclap echoing against the rocky canyon walls of Preacher’s Gorge. A small group of four humanoids hugged the cliffside as the roar of the storm sent stones and piles of snow tumbling into the abyss below them. Ice shards shredded any exposed parts of the intrepid explorers’ faces, which were mostly covered by snow blindness goggles and scarves. Their heads were enshrouded by dense hoods lined with Snarltooth fur, making it nearly impossible to tell anyone from the other. Another crack of electricity cleaved through the dark clouds overhead, backlighting a shadowy object down the treacherous path some thirty yards ahead of the group. Slowly, carefully, the party inched their way across the ledge, daring not to look down. Finally, they reached the source of the silhouetted shape: a small carved stone effigy of a monstrous beast. No, a demon.

  The frontmost explorer kneeled before the totem and produced a notebook from the breast pocket of their parka. “Swiftmeadow” was the name emblazoned on the cover of the journal. They pulled their goggles up, resting them on their forehead while lowering their scarf, revealing a fair and freckled woman’s face. She didn’t dare pull down her hood, lest the extreme conditions freeze the cartilage clean off of her slightly pointed ears. A thick lock of brown hair dangled from beneath her goggles, pressed firmly against her frozen brow. She flipped open the notebook and paged through it, pausing on a pencil render of an orb labeled, “The Eye of Chronoth.” She continued to turn, eventually landing on a page containing a detailed sketch of the very statue that leered over her. She reached out her mittened hand and wiped the snow from the pedestal, uncovering a set of runes. Old Dwarfish. She produced a pencil from the same breast pocket and began scrawling down the symbols that were still packed with snow.

  She turned to the group and shouted, “Brigna, translation!”

  The shortest of the group trudged forward and took the notebook outstretched to her. She too pulled up her goggles, revealing glowing orange eyes and ash gray skin. Geometric, knot-like patterns were tattooed across her face, centered over the bridge of her nose. The dwarfish woman scanned the page, scowling.

  “Hels Piper, my rheumatism-riddled gran could have written these symbols clearer than you,” she cursed.

  “Believe it or not, Brig, it’s cold!” Piper replied.

  “Well, maybe if you’d eat some real food once in a while, you’d actually have some meat on those shivering bones!”

  “Will you just tell me what the damned runes say, please?”

  The dwarf rolled her piercing, inferno-like eyes and went back to studying the page.

  “It’s a warning,” she said, finally, “‘Turn back, for here lies the Gate to Hel.’”

  “Dramatic,” Piper replied.

  “Aye, but not far from the truth.”

  “How far is the vault?”

  The dwarf peered down the snow-drenched path, tracing the cliffside as far as she could until it vanished into the storm.

  “Two, maybe three miles?”

  Piper sighed, a cloud of frozen breath billowing from between her lips. Her body ached from the hours of hiking, the days of rugged travel, and the months of research they had already undertaken. They had come this far. If finding what they had come for meant frostbite, the reward would be well worth losing a few toes for. The crew pressed onward.

  Another agonizing hour later, they finally found themselves standing before the mouth of a great cave: the so-called “Gate to Hel.” The group could make out the faint outline of a large circular door built into the back wall. Apprehensively, they entered the maw.

  Each member of the expedition lowered their hoods and removed their facial coverings. Alongside the brunette and the dwarf were their two male cohorts. One was Ferenze, their wykin; a bespeckled, auburn-haired Aeldrin. The other was Isaac, their hired muscle; a gruff, aging human with a thick, graying beard.

  Upon stepping into the darkness, the sounds of the storm faded, becoming little more than a whistle’s echo swallowed by the crags and alcoves peppering the natural tunnel. Piper and the others pulled flashlights from their packs, flicking them on and shining them deep into the shadows. The door, like the statue they encountered, was of dwarvish make. The light of the lamps shimmered against the masterful iron craftsmanship, which was accented with bronze and inlaid with gold. More runes lined the outer edge of the barrier.

  “More helpful words of warning?” Isaac grumbled, still blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  “If I could read it, I’d tell you,” said Brigna.

  “I thought you were an expert in old dwarfish,” he replied.

  “It’s not dwarfish,” she revealed.

  Piper pulled her glasses out of her pack and placed them on the bridge of her nose. She examined the lettering closely. Brigna was right; instead of the precise angles and straight lines consistent with traditional dwarven runes, these symbols were jagged, lacking any sense of geometry or symmetry. They looked as though they had been carved by talons or claws directly into the metalwork itself.

  “It’s Helscript,” said Ferenze, gravely.

  “Impossible,” said Isaac, “The vault was supposed to seal away demon artifacts. If Helscript is on the outside, that would mean…”

  “Even demons helped lock this thing away,” Brigna finished.

  Piper began furiously taking notes in her journal, holding her flashlight in the crease of her neck and shoulder. “As incredible as that sounds,” she said matter-of-factly, “The answer to that revelation is likely explained by the time in which it was built.”

  “Meaning?” pressed Isaac.

  Piper released the flashlight from its perch and panned it over the gilding on the door. “Notice the materials used here: bronze, gold, precious gems. No expense was spared in the superfluous decor. If this were built during the peak of the Infernal Wars, the dwarves would likely have been much more frugal, putting their resources strictly into the war efforts. Something tells me this door was built near the end of the wars, or even after Hel was locked away; that brief window between the end of the Third Age and the White Death.”

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  “So you’re saying the demons who wrote those symbols…” Brigna started.

  “Prisoners of war,” Piper finished, “Likely the very ancestors of the Oni.”

  “Well, congratulations,” said Isaac sarcastically, “We’ve figured out who built the door. Now, how do we go about opening the damn thing?”

  They stood and contemplated. Even Piper’s journal hadn’t said anything about how to unlock the vault. Any information written within its pages was strictly acquired from hearsay and legends. The Eye of Chronoth was supposed to be a myth; an artifact of doom akin to the villainous machinations conjured up in children’s fairytales. No credible historical records could verify that it ever existed. And yet, here they stood, mere feet from where it allegedly had been resting for over a millennium. When Brigna had approached Piper over coffee one morning with the proposition to find the Eye, Piper had asked what anyone in their right mind would have asked as well: “If the Eye of Chronoth is truly capable of the devastation that the legends say it is, why try to release it back into the world?”

  “Because,” Brig had said, “The House Collective is looking for it too.”

  If an ancient artifact with that kind of destructive power were to fall into the hands of the military, weaponizing it could have apocalyptic repercussions. The expedition suddenly became more than a pipe dream of fame and fortune; it became an essential quest for Oliida’s survival. The party’s mission was to see that the Eye of Chronoth was recovered and subsequently banished from the mortal plane forever.

  “With what little I know of Helscript,” said Ferenze, “I do know that it was most commonly used for enchantments or curses as opposed to writing.”

  “Any guess as to which of those it could be?” asked Piper, “I don’t really care for surprises.”

  “No. I suppose I could cast a protective charm on us, then try to disenchant the door,” he replied.

  “Worth a try,” concurred Brigna.

  Ferenze closed his eyes and traced his fingers through the air, green glowing magic following his fingertips as he drew. He muttered in some ancient, arcane tongue that only he understood as he performed the spell. Suddenly, halos burning in the same brilliant emerald light appeared over the heads of the party, before suddenly dispersing. The protective charm had taken effect. The Aeldrin then fumbled through the pouch slung across his torso, withdrew a utility knife, and pulled off one of his gloves.

  “Ferenze, what are you doing?” Piper asked.

  “Exactly what I said…” he replied, placing the blade in his palm and swiftly slicing it through the flesh. He winced in pain as he did so, deep red ichor dripping from the wound and onto the stone floor. He strode forward and placed the wounded hand on the door. “…Disenchanting,” he finished.

  The Helscript began to glow a bright, infernal orange, as if each phonetical gash were a window looking into the fires of Hel itself. A deep rumble could be heard, shaking the ground and dripping water from the ceiling onto the explorers; a threatening reminder of the dagger-sharp stalactites hanging precariously over their heads. The hundreds of gears and cogs that had lain dormant within the dwarven contraption for over a thousand years whirred to life, like a mechanical orchestra tuning its instruments. With sounds came movement, and soon the door began to swing forward, revealing a pitch-dark sanctum. The crew stood in silence for a moment, peering into the black abyss. Suddenly, they saw illuminated Helscript on a spherical object, seemingly suspended in mid-air. It slowly brightened and darkened in a pulsating rhythm, as though it were breathing. There, sitting on a small, pure-black pedestal, was the Eye of Chronoth.

  Before anyone could dare to approach the demonic orb, the Aeldrin wykin let out a gasp of pain and fell to one knee. “Ferenze!” exclaimed Piper, rushing to his side.

  The man clutched at the hand he had cut to perform the ritual, where Piper could see his skin turning an abhorrent, rotting black. She had to act fast. She laid the man on his back and began peeling off his outer layers, exposing the skin. The curse was spreading rapidly, now more than halfway up his bicep. If it were to reach his heart, there would be no saving him.

  “Cut it off!” Ferenze wailed in pain, “Cut it off!”

  “Isaac!” Piper yelled, “Get over here and help!” But her cries for help seemed to fall on deaf ears. Isaac strode into the vault, a smile on his face as he reached out and cupped the Eye with both hands. “ISAAC!” Piper screamed, ripping a piece of her scarf and tying it around the dying man’s arm in a makeshift tourniquet. Brigna pulled a large knife from her pack and kneeled over Ferenze, a look of sickened reservation plastered over her face as she realized what she was about to have to do. She motioned to Piper’s journal.

  “Put it in his mouth,” she ordered. Piper nodded and did as she was told, placing the leather-bound booklet between the Aeldrin’s jaws. Piper closed her eyes as Brigna raised the dagger. This was going to be messy.

  Horrid screams of muffled agony and the sound of steel sawing through tendon and bone rang throughout the tunnel. Piper could feel her hands become damp and warm as blood poured from the severing wound. After a few excruciating seconds, Piper opened her eyes to see the man lying beside his withered black appendage, his clothes and body soaked in his own mortal fluids. He breathed rapidly, eyes wide as he went into shock.

  “Isaac, you son of a bitch!” Brigna roared, “Put that bloody thing down and help us!”

  Isaac turned to the group, without so much as a hint of surprise or distress, as if he had just remembered that they were there. He looked down at the freshly amputated arm and its mangled former owner before shaking his head in dismay.

  “Sorry you had to endure that, mate,” he said, pulling the revolver strapped to his side out of its holster.

  “Isaac…” warned Brigna.

  “What are you doing?” Piper asked shakily.

  Without warning, Isaac aimed at the already half-dead Ferenze and shot a hole directly into his forehead. The two women screamed as blood, brains, and bone fragments sprayed out the back of the Aeldrin’s skull. His body fell limp and lifeless. Piper and Brigna sat stunned by what had just transpired. Confusion turned to realization, then to rage as Brigna stood to face the traitor. Her knife, still dripping with the blood of her dead colleague, was poised to attack. Isaac raised an eyebrow smugly as he turned to her and pointed the gun in her direction.

  “I’d recommend putting that down,” he said, “I’d hate to see you both die before you even leave the cave.”

  “The Hel is that supposed to mean?” Piper growled.

  Isaac motioned to the cave entrance, where there now stood nearly a dozen silhouetted men in ragged garb, brandishing blades and guns. Raiders.

  “So you’ve been a raider this whole time?” asked Brigna, begrudgingly dropping the knife and allowing it to clatter to the red-stained floor.

  “Close,” Isaac replied with malicious flippancy, “Mercenary. Do you have any idea how much the House Collective was willing to shell out for this thing?” He tossed the demonic artifact between his hands as though it were a toy.

  “Isaac,” Piper pleaded, “If you do this, you put millions of lives at risk. You know what kind of devastation that thing can cause. No amount of money is worth that on your conscience.”

  “I think I’ll sleep just fine,” he said, striding toward the exit of the cavern, “By which, I mean I’ll be sleeping in the palace I’m about to spend my early retirement in. Good luck to you both. I wish you the best at the slave auctions.” He turned one final time, repulsively eyeing up the two women like they were fish in a seaside market. “Though no offense, Ironhorn, I’m sure Miss Swiftmeadow will fetch the higher coin.”

  With that, he left, and soon the raiders were upon the two remaining explorers, binding their wrists and legs. Piper looked in desperation to Brigna before having a burlap sack pulled over her head. In the darkness, she felt a strong jolt as she was hoisted over the shoulder of some brute and carried back out into the frozen helscape. Piper Swiftmeadow and Oliida itself: doomed by greed.