Rowan studied the glowing runes etched across the ritual chamber's altar.
The design was straightforward.
A structure meant to draw in death-aligned energy and circulate it through the tomb.
Which explained the soul gems resting along the stone surface.
He gathered them all and moved on.
Soul gems were naturally formed magical crystals used to store the essence of the dead. Enchanters relied on them to imbue weapons and armor or to recharge existing enchantments. Their value depended on size and remaining energy.
Every gem here was a standard-grade soul gem, each still holding about half its charge.
That alone was worth a small fortune.
Combined with the enchanted weapons, jewelry, gemstones, and relics he had already collected, Rowan's haul was approaching ten thousand septims.
Enough to buy a respectable house in Whiterun.
And judging by the pile of corpses scattered throughout the ruin, the price of earning that money was usually paid in blood.
Rowan tied everything into a cloth sack and tossed it backward.
"Carry this."
Arvel caught it and staggered slightly from the weight.
His eyes lingered on the glittering contents.
Greed flashed.
Then died.
He had seen Rowan tear iron gates apart with his bare hands and shatter monsters with single kicks.
Trying anything stupid would be suicide.
Rowan kicked open the next iron door.
A storm of poison darts fired from hidden slits.
He caught every single one.
Then stepped through calmly.
They entered a massive burial hall.
Dozens of stone alcoves lined the walls.
Every alcove held a corpse.
All of them opened their eyes at once.
With grinding noises, the draugr climbed out.
Axes. Swords. Bows.
More than a hundred undead warriors poured toward Rowan.
Arvel stumbled backward, face pale.
Draugr were infamous.
They felt no pain.
They didn't bleed out.
They didn't fear death.
Even decapitation wouldn't always stop them.
Only complete dismemberment ensured they stayed down.
And beyond these common types existed far worse variants. Spellcasting draugr. Deathlords. Creatures capable of unleashing ancient shouts.
Arvel had once nearly died to a single ordinary draugr.
Now there were over a hundred.
He glanced at Rowan, expecting hesitation.
There was none.
Rowan walked forward.
The first draugr reached him.
Rowan kicked.
The undead exploded into fragments.
Another lunged.
Another kick.
Another explosion.
No weapons.
No spells.
Just raw force.
Each impact reduced a draugr to shattered bone and dust.
In less than a minute, the hall fell silent.
Pieces of undead littered the floor.
Rowan stood at the far end of the chamber.
"Move."
Arvel swallowed hard and hurried after him.
Any lingering fantasies about running off with the treasure were gone.
Completely.
They pressed deeper.
More draugr appeared.
Some hurled frost and fire.
Some roared with ancient power.
All of them met the same fate.
One kick.
One corpse.
Eventually, they reached a sealed stone door engraved with familiar patterns.
The Dragon Claw chamber.
Rowan paused.
He had lost count of how many undead he had destroyed.
Hundreds.
Possibly more.
If someone had come here under normal circumstances, they would have died long before reaching this point.
Arvel hurried forward, clutching the Golden Claw.
"I know how to—"
Rowan kicked the door.
Stone shattered.
The massive door flew inward.
Arvel froze.
Slowly, he lowered the claw.
Rowan stepped into the chamber.