The Silver and Gold ranks laughed when they heard the reports.
"A girl raised by monsters?" one scoffed, adjusting his polished cuirass.
"F-rank beasts playing at territory," another said. "They should be grateful we're clearing the place."
Warnings from Copper and Bronze were dismissed as fear. Embellishment. Excuses made by those too weak to press deeper.
So they descended.
Steel rang confidently against stone as the party moved past the upper corridors, cutting down goblins and skeletons without hesitation. The dungeon did not resist at first. No traps. No ambushes. Only silence — heavy, watchful.
Then the Silver rank stepped forward alone.
It happened too fast.
A ripple in the air. Stone lifting without touch. A pressure so immense it crushed breath from lungs. He didn't scream, couldn't. His body was thrown sideways like a broken doll, armor folding inward as if struck by an invisible hammer. He hit the wall once, twice, and did not rise.
The dungeon went still.
The Gold ranks froze, eyes wide, instincts finally screaming what pride had silenced.
"This—this isn't a D-rank," someone whispered.
They ran.
Not in panic, but in survival. Dragging the wounded, abandoning the dead, fleeing toward the dungeon entrance with bloodied armor and shaken certainty. Eldraxis did not pursue them. The corridors parted as if allowing their escape.
Sylvara watched from above, expression unreadable.
"They killed first," she said quietly.
Tharion's hollow gaze followed the retreating humans. "And learned nothing," he replied. "That is the most dangerous kind."
Varien did not raise his voice when they told him.
He listened. Every detail. Every inconsistency. The fear beneath the bravado.
"A Silver rank died," he repeated calmly.
"Yes, Guild-master."
"And you survived."
"…Yes."
Varien exhaled once. Then he stood.
"I'll go."
Protests followed, Gold ranks insisting they accompany him, officers warning of risk — but Varien raised one hand. The room fell silent.
"If this dungeon wanted us dead," he said, "it would not have let you return."
He entered Eldraxis alone.
The dungeon shifted as he crossed the threshold. Not hostile — curious.
When Sylvara stepped into view, Varien stopped.
She was not a monster.
A young woman, pale skin bathed in crimson light. Hair fading from gold into shadowed black. Eyes like fresh blood against snow. Too young to be what she was, and yet the weight of the dungeon shifted subtly around her presence.
Not protecting her. Answering to her.
"I am not here to fight," Varien said at last, placing his great sword tip-down against the stone.
"Then why," she asked, voice calm and measured, "did you send people who slaughter my family?"
Varien held her gaze.
She did not threaten him.
Did not posture.
Did not need to.
"I misjudged this place," he said finally. "And the one who stands at its heart."
Sylvara's eyes flicked briefly toward the shadows behind her — where stronger presences watched, waited.
"You are not my enemy," Varien continued carefully. "But neither are you something this kingdom can ignore."
"Then think wisely," she replied.
Because the next choice you make will decide who I become.
Varien left Eldraxis without drawing his blade.
By nightfall, whispers spread through Cindralis.
A dungeon with a ruler.
A girl with monster guardians.
A place the guild could not simply clear.
Far away, in candlelit halls, the Church received its report.
And for the first time in centuries, The Blood Moon was spoken of again.
Varien did not return to Cindralis immediately.
He stopped at the ridge overlooking Eldraxis, where the land still bore the scars of old magic — stone fused, earth hollowed, the faint red glow pulsing deep beneath the surface like a buried heart.
A ruler, they would call her.
The guild would demand answers.
The nobles would demand control.
And the Church…
Varien exhaled slowly.
She was fifteen.
Raised by monsters.
Bound to a dungeon that responded to her presence as if she were its keystone.
And yet she had not attacked him.
That alone set her apart from every threat he had ever faced.
If the kingdom learned the truth — that Eldraxis was not merely active, but claimed — there would be calls for purification. For crusade. For erasure dressed up as mercy.
They would force her to become the very thing they fear, he thought grimly.
No.
That would not happen while he still drew breath.
Varien's decision settled heavily but firmly in his chest.
The dungeon would be sealed again — officially.
Restricted access. Classified above D-rank, above C-rank, above anything most adventurers could touch.
And Sylvara…
She would need protection that did not look like a cage.
A sponsor, he thought. Someone with authority enough to silence questions and strength enough to deter threats.
Someone who could walk between guild, crown, and Church — and survive the politics of all three.
Varien's jaw tightened.
If that must be me, he decided, then so be it.
Eldraxis was her home.
And if she ever walked into Cindralis, it would be by choice, not chains.
The candles burned low in the Hall of Quiet Benediction.
A lesser priest knelt before the raised dais, hands trembling as he held the sealed report.
"A dungeon long thought dormant," he read aloud, voice tight.
"Monsters displaying coordinated behavior. A human presence at the core. Female. Adolescent. Authority observed."
Silence followed.
Then a bishop spoke.
"A girl," he repeated softly. "Or something wearing one."
Another voice, older, colder. "And the Blood Moon?"
The priest swallowed. "Whispers only, Your Grace. But the dungeon's mana… it bears similarities to pre-Redaction records."
That did it.
The candles flickered — not from wind, but from unease.
"So," the archbishop said at last, fingers steepled, "it stirs again."
"Do we intervene?" the bishop asked.
The archbishop's eyes narrowed.
"Not yet. If the guild-master has already placed himself between the truth and the public, let him shoulder that burden."
A pause.
"But send observers," he continued. "Quiet ones. And retrieve every surviving text that mentions the moon before the curse."
"And if the girl is—"
"Connected," the archbishop finished. "Then she is either a blasphemy to be erased…"
His gaze hardened.
"…or a relic we failed to destroy."
Far below, Eldraxis pulsed once — slow, steady.
And Sylvara slept, unaware that the world above had finally begun to turn its full attention toward her.
King Altheryn Viremont read the report twice.
Once in silence.
Once aloud.
"A dormant dungeon reawakens. Silver rank casualty. Guild-master intervention. Human presence confirmed."
He set the parchment down carefully.
"Thoughts?" he asked.
The chamber was small — trusted nobles only. No priests. No heralds. No audience.
"A dangerous anomaly," one lord said at once. "If the Church is correct—"
"The Church is often correct," Altheryn interrupted calmly. "And just as often incomplete."
His gaze shifted to the final lines.
The Guild-master withdrew without bloodshed.
That was the part that interested him most.
Varien was not a man who retreated lightly.
"A girl," another noble said, voice low. "Raised by monsters. Claiming authority over a dungeon."
Altheryn folded his hands.
"Or a young woman," he replied, "who was never given the chance to belong anywhere else."
Silence followed.
"The guild will want to contain her," he continued. "The Church will want to redefine her. And the nobles will argue over who benefits most."
"And you, Your Majesty?" a lord asked.
Altheryn's expression hardened — not with anger, but resolve.
"I will not order the execution of a fifteen-year-old because our ancestors failed to erase a god properly."
That earned a sharp inhale from more than one throat.
"Watch the guild," the king concluded. "Watch the Church. And if Varien chooses to shield her…"
A pause.
"…see that he is not forced to do so alone."