“My... my lords,” the woman stammered, clenching her hands in front of her chest, her eight eyes fixed on the floor, as if merely looking up and meeting their gaze would cause them to smite her on the spot. “Lord Khenemhotep is not here. He is currently in the subterranean chamber.”

  Sebekton let out a booming laugh. “Why is it every time we come for a storytelling session, he’s busy with something else?”

  The poor creature squirmed like he had just accused her personally, like the whole thing was somehow her fault and she was about to be dragged off for punishment. Viktor half-expected her to throw herself to the floor and start begging for mercy.

  Was this the same one from before? It was hard to tell. These spider-women all had the same robes, the same hairstyle, and of course, the same clusters of eyes sprawling across half their faces. Personality-wise, though, it was quite likely. The two attendants who had fanned him during the fight between Sebekton and the tomb guards had been reserved, yes, but they were not panic-stricken every time he opened his mouth. Maybe this one was just... different. Oh well, whatever.

  “What’s he doing?” Viktor asked.

  “He... he is inspecting the skeleton of that strange mutated corpse he brought back the other day.”

  Ah, the Lydorian spy. Jory, was it? Viktor had his own questions about the potion that man had consumed, so it might not be a bad idea to hear Khenemhotep’s insight on the matter.

  “You wait here,” he told Sebekton. “I’ll go and take a look.”

  “Understood, Master.”

  The corridor leading down was narrow and steep, hardly welcoming for someone of Sebekton’s size. Not that it was a joy for Viktor either. Still, he had made the choice to train this body, so there wasn’t much point grumbling about a bit of walking.

  He stepped forward, reaching for a torch on the wall, only for the woman to dart in front of him and snatch it first.

  “Let... let me show you the way, my lord,” she said quickly.

  He already knew how to get there. But fine, let her feel useful. It might help keep her from collapsing out of sheer anxiety.

  Leaving the Chamber of the Dead behind, they stepped into a vast corridor that looked like it had been designed by someone with a flair for drama and a total disregard for practicality.

  Khenemhotep called it the Great Hallway, and Viktor had to admit, it did live up to the name. The ceiling soared above in a steep vault of limestone blocks, tier upon tier, narrowing until the darkness swallowed everything. The torch in the woman’s trembling hand hissed and flickered, casting long, angular shadows that danced up the sloped walls and vanished into the void overhead. The floor dipped into a ramp, and he leaned forward slightly, his hand brushing the cold stone of the side wall for balance. He figured it would take more than a couple of minutes to walk to the end of the corridor, less than five seconds if he tripped.

  Behind him, the entrance to the chamber where Sebekton remained had shrunk to a distant black square, an open mouth slowly closing in the dark. The air, dry and stagnant, grew thicker with every step downward. Everything was still, dead still, except for the faint crunch of gravel beneath his boots, the only sound that reminded him he wasn’t completely swallowed by the place yet.

  He broke the silence. “What’s your name?”

  “Yes, my lord?” The woman jumped like something had hit her out of nowhere, and the question caught up to her a second later. “A-Akane... My name is Akane, my lord.”

  “Are you always this twitchy?”

  She flinched again. “I... I apologize, my lord. I do not mean to offend.”

  “I didn’t say I was offended.”

  “I... I...”

  Akane stumbled over her own words, trapped between the fear that agreeing with him might backfire and the dread that contradicting him could be even worse. He chuckled to himself. Why was she acting as if she were a thirteen-year-old kid who was trapped in a dark place with a spider monster? Well, maybe he should refrain from talking to her, or she might actually stumble for real and fling herself down the ramp. He hated to lose that torch.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Once out of the Great Hallway, they passed through a series of sloping, narrow, and shadowed corridors, much like the ones he had walked with Khenemhotep the other day. Before long, they had arrived at the subterranean chamber.

  The air hung still and hollow, just as he remembered, though the rows of stone slabs were gone. There was now only one slab at the center of the room, and the ancient priest stood beside it, the twin glows that hovered in his hollow sockets casting their pale light down onto the monstrous bones.

  “Sovereign of the Dungeon,” Khenemhotep said, bowing his head as soon as he noticed his arrival.

  “High Priest.” Viktor returned the greeting and walked to his side, taking in the full view of the grotesque skeleton on top of the stone.

  It was hard to believe what was in front of him had once belonged to a human. The spine had twisted into impossible curves, with thickened vertebrae jutting out like jagged spikes along its length. The ribcage had expanded unevenly, the right side larger than the left, flaring outward with sharp angles. The sternum had cracked and seemingly re-knotted itself into a crooked mess. The arms were stretched and thickened, their joints swollen and misshapen, while the fingers were fused at the tips, forming claw-like phalanges. The skull had warped, its crown split partially, the jaw protruding forward with elongated cheekbones and a pronounced brow ridge.

  This man had been dead only three days, far too little time for nature to do its work. Yet there was not a scrap of skin, muscle, or anything soft left on those bones. Viktor wondered how the priest could have stripped all the flesh so cleanly. Was it magic, or had he done it by hand in the good old-fashioned way?

  “I see that you have a great interest in this dead man. What did you find?”

  “Behold,” Khenemhotep intoned. “His flesh had been drastically changed. Sorcery had corrupted his body, reshaping it into something foul. His visage was no longer that of a man, but had been twisted far beyond recognition by the power of enchantments.”

  I can see that myself, thank you very much. Tell me something I didn’t know.

  The man’s body had undergone an extreme transformation after he drank that mysterious potion, and according to Yvonne’s confession, it had been created by the Druidesses, a group of mages who had once been part of the Emerald Order but had since splintered off. Unlike common potion-makers, these Druidesses didn’t use herbs or alchemical tricks, but instead infused magic into their brews.

  Potions, huh?

  They had always been common items that could be found in any adventurer’s kit. Anyone could easily buy them on every corner; Viktor didn’t even need to squint to spot at least five vendors around the Guild hawking the stuff.

  The thing was, anyone could concoct potions, from third-rate charlatans to well-respected alchemists. Some brewed them with traditional herbs and passed-down wisdom, some relied on the power of a Reliquary, and some just threw god-knows-what mixtures into a cauldron and hoped for the best. Sometimes they worked. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they exploded. Black powder, for example, was discovered entirely by accident. May the gods rest the soul of the poor bastard who ended up drinking that.

  But this one, it was something completely different. The result was not pretty, not by a long shot, but it worked. With his superhuman strength and ridiculous regeneration, the mutated Jory could have ripped clean through a party of adventurers before they even had a chance to draw their swords. A combination of magic and alchemy, huh? Terribly effective. Brutally effective.

  So of course, Viktor was interested. He wanted to know exactly what it could do and how far it could go.

  “This is the fruit of the magic from the sphere that lies opposite to my own,” Khenemhotep continued. “It is mighty, and it has the power to heal the sick, to ease the suffering, and to open gates to endless wonders. Yet without restraint, it may cross into realms it was never meant to tread. Woe to us, for the goddess who rules that sphere is fickle at heart. She acts on a whim, caring little for the consequences of her power. And her followers are no better, blind to the weight of what they unleash.”

  Magic from the opposite sphere of Khenemhotep’s own? Since the ancient priest served a god of death, it must be...

  “A goddess of life?” Viktor asked.

  “Verily, we call her Iseth-Ra,” Khenemhotep replied. “She rules over life itself, and with but a single thought, she may shape it however she pleases. It is a power beyond imagining, but one she wields without care. To her, life is a restless tide, a chaos of chance and change. She acts without foresight, for consequences are only fleeting shadows in her eyes. In truth, she rejoices whenever something unexpected happens, for to her, all that is fixed or certain is an abomination. The only sin she knows is stagnation, and anything that remains unchanging is an offense most grievous.”

  Sounds like a fun one, Viktor thought, but kept it to himself.

  “I’m guessing she doesn’t get along too well with your god, then? After all, there’s nothing quite so stagnant as death.”

  “They have differences, yet they are not foes. Still, her actions did bring great ruin to my world, breaking our order and undoing our ways. Yet, it was not born of malice in her heart, but sprang from her heedless hands. For she acts without thought of consequence, blind to the destruction that might follow when she turns away.”

  “Oh? You mean the Great Calamity? I thought you said it was caused by a man named Nakhran.”

  Khenemhotep let out a sigh, as deep as someone without a functioning lung could muster, his glowing orbs flickering as he cast down his gaze. Then, he turned to Viktor and spoke, “Sovereign of the Dungeon, you came seeking my tale, did you not?”

  “Yes, and Sebekton as well. He’s waiting in the Chamber of the Dead.”

  “Then let us return there,” Khenemhotep rasped. “And there, you will find the answers to your questions.”

  I take it the goddess named Iseth-Ra will also make her appearance in the story, Viktor mused as he turned toward the exit, where Akane stood still as a statue, waiting without a word. He nearly forgot she was also here.