The leftmost tunnel led to the black dragon's lair. Anthony hesitated at the fork in the road, eyeing the other two passages before choosing the right path.
The air here was heavier, the tunnel narrower and more treacherous—clearly not a hunting ground for giant dragons.
As for the middle tunnel? That would have to wait for another time.
The party clustered around the archmage. None understood why he'd chosen this route, but with no map, no familiarity with the terrain, and the only pocket watch in his possession, they had no choice but to follow his lead.
In this lightless, unforgiving place, obeying the strongest among them was their only option.
The tunnel sloped downward, the footing growing precarious. Every step demanded caution. Beyond the torchlight lay absolute darkness—one misstep, and their bones might never be found.
No one wanted to die here.
"Adventuring sucks!" The little witch grumbled under her breath, her mood foul since the forced skinning.
This wasn't the grand adventure she'd imagined. Where were the knights and princes? The valiant battles against evil dragons, the riches and renown? Instead, she got blisters, exhaustion, and silence.
Her legs ached. Her feet burned. The others—mage and bard alike—marched on stone-faced, as if untouched by fatigue. No one spoke to her.
Frustrated, she muttered to herself.
"I want Mom's apple pie."
"I miss Hither's warm sun."
"Damn the drow. Damn Menzoberranzan. I'll blast them to pieces!"
"..."
Anthony had long since tuned her out.
But he didn't stop her. He knew this was her way of coping.
They weren't creatures of the Underdark. The darkness stole their sight, magnifying fear. Any shadow could hide a monster ready to strike.
Worse, they were barely through the first day of a three-day ordeal. Exhaustion gnawed at them. They needed rest—soon—or tomorrow would break them.
The unrelenting dark. The ticking clock. The lack of information. It was torture for a party of newcomers.
The men bore it silently. Lolo? She diluted her terror with chatter.
Many women did. A coping mechanism.
But for the men around her? It was agony.
The little witch's misery grated on Anthony, stoking his own bitterness.
Fifty years as a "dutiful son" to a temperamental female dragon. Years more toiling as a gladiator-slave. Finally free, just when he was about to enjoy proper food in town, score some easy loot, and bed a few elf maidens. - now he gets dragged into this Overdeity's Trial Grounds.
What kind of life is this? Even a dragon has its limits!
And shouldn't a party of newcomers' first instance be some simple quest like zombie hunting? Why were complete newbies being thrown against drow - mid-tier antagonists in the Forgotten Realms hierarchy?
This was practically a death sentence.
His teammates weren't much help either. The so-called veteran barely qualified, and the rest? Useless baggage, every last one of them.
The worst kind of baggage too - disobedient and high-maintenance.
Still, Anthony couldn't quite bring himself to abandon them. They were teammates after all, and someone needed to play cannon fodder on this journey.
No, he needed to teach these guys a proper lesson.
Anthony's eyes narrowed to slits.
After a brief respite midway, the teammates numbly continued their descent. When the tunnel finally leveled out and opened into another underground world, the sight that greeted them was nothing short of breathtaking—utterly alien and fraught with peril.
Clusters of faintly glowing fungi. Towering stone pillars of varying heights. Enormous subterranean plants unlike anything they'd seen before.
At least they'd escaped that seemingly endless tunnel.
Anthony cleared his throat, signaling the party to halt. He produced his pocket watch—the hands pointed to six. "We stop here. Make camp and rest."
In this world devoid of nightlife, six was already late. Even in summer's longest days, dusk fell by eight. When darkness came, common folk spared no candles for merriment—bed became their only entertainment.
Sun up, work. Sun down, sleep. That was life for most. Many had never even seen a timepiece.
The announcement of rest drew collective relief. Between battles and forced marches, exhaustion ran deep.
The open cavern felt less suffocating than the tunnel. With sleep imminent, spirits lifted slightly.
Knightly instincts prevailed. Several men volunteered to scout for an ideal campsite—somewhere defensible for proper rest.
Underground camping offered one advantage: abundant walls. A three-sided nook was easily secured.
Yoda unpacked three fabric tents supported by aluminum poles. With practiced efficiency, they took shape.
"Modron merchants sold these. Enchanted tents from Azeroth—woven from magic-patterned cloth. The spellwork blends them into surroundings."
Another marvel of the Trial Grounds.
Next came goose-down blankets. "Three tents. Six blankets. Share." Yoda sighed. "We had proper gear before the mind flayers... Even bags of holding."
The mood soured. If seasoned veterans had fallen here, what hope did they have?
Anthony suppressed a groan. Way to crush morale, goblin. Some leader.
Dagger voiced the obvious: "These sleep two. There's seven of us."
Silence. Mental calculations ensued.
Tegal's thoughts raced: The Archmage deserves his own tent. The women can share. That leaves four men—plus a goblin—in the last.
He shuddered. Master Yoda's intellect didn't mitigate his stench. Battle-sweat made it worse.
Lolo, ever pragmatic, broke the deadlock: "We need night watches. The Master prepares spells—he's exempt. Rotate shifts. Off-watch takes the spare tent."
Anthony remained silent, letting them scheme.
Zad frowned. "What about you two?"
"We'll take last watch."
Better than someone sleeping on stone.
Then Anthony spoke: "I don't need sleep. Take the tents."
Yoda blinked. "The watches?"
"Unnecessary. Magic traps will alert us to danger. Rest. Tomorrow's march will be long."
No one argued. A bonfire was lit. Rations distributed. The flames eased tensions.
Yoda eyed the fire uneasily. "It might draw monsters. Douse it when we sleep."
Lolo hugged her knees, staring into the flames.
Tegal countered, "Underdark creatures see in darkness. We don't. No fire means ambushes. And the chill—we'll wake sick."
Yoda fell silent.
"Leave it to me," Anthony said.
Surprise flickered. The Archmage usually watched coldly as they fought, calling it "training." Resentment had simmered.
But now? Perhaps he wasn't so heartless.
Lolo peeked at him, then looked away.
Soon, only she and Anthony remained by the bonfire.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asked.
Is she trying to seduce me? He studied her. Pretty, yes. But built like a sapling. Not his type.
Unaware, Lolo hesitated. "My feet hurt."
Anthony hadn't expected that. Her calfskin boots were stylish—fine for town, not trekking.
"Blisters?"
"I don't know. Agony. I tried removing them, but—"
He sighed. "Let me help."
She flinched as he stood. What's he doing? Her mind raced. It's too soon—
Then his fingers glowed. Thick, shimmering grease oozed into her boots.
Grease spell, modified. His own design. Lubrication. Pain relief.
The Little Witch squeaked as the slick warmth coated her feet. Her face burned. She tugged weakly, but his grip was iron.
"W-what are you—?"
"Helping." He jostled the boot, spreading the grease. "Better?"
"Y-yes. Cool. Tingly." Her cheeks rivaled the fire.
With a deft yank, the boot came free.
A wave of heat—and stench—hit Anthony. His nose wrinkled.
Gods above.
Lolo turned crimson. "I'm s-sorry—"
"Injuries happen. No apology needed."
"N-no, I meant—the, uh—"
"Next time, skip the risky spell experiments."
Her entire body flushed. She covered her face. Why isn't he using a potion? Why is he holding it—
Anthony examined her foot.
Delicate. Pale. Soft as silk. Or it should've been.
Instead, blood crusted the torn stockings, flesh raw beneath.
How did she march on this?
"The stocking comes off. Or healing magic will fuse it to your skin."
A whimper. She clenched her thighs.
Rip.
The fabric tore free. Lolo paled but bit her lip.
"Done. Next foot."