“Humanssssss… Thievessss…”

  The voice echoed through the dark chamber—deep, guttural, layered with a hissing snarl. But it wasn’t just a sound. It was weight. It carried through the dust-thick air like a curse.

  From the far shadows, a figure emerged—taller than any of the beasts before. Nearly three men high, walking upright. Its limbs were grotesquely long, arms reaching past its knees. Massive claws hung like weapons, curved and thick, made not for hunting, but war.

  Its hide gleamed like obsidian—layered in plated scales that shimmered faintly red beneath the chamber’s magical fire. Eyes burned amber. Its face was distorted, twisted with jagged fangs and warped bone.

  Monstrous. But it spoke.

  “Human. Thieves. Aftree’s Ash…”

  “That,” Ysar muttered, backing a half step, “actually sounds like trouble.”

  “Be careful,” Zafran said, blade already halfway drawn.

  And then it charged.

  A blur of black muscle. The stone floor shook with every step. Elsha barely had time to raise her twin blades before it was on her.

  She caught its first strike—steel clashing with claw—but the force was monstrous. The impact launched her off her feet, slamming her into a column with a crack of stone.

  “Elsha!” Ysar shouted, knives flashing from his belt. He leapt forward, tossing blades mid-run. They hit the beast—but bounced off its armor-like hide.

  Nothing.

  He ducked the counter-claw, slashed with his blade—but it scraped uselessly against the beast’s scales.

  “Damn it—!”

  Zafran was there, intercepting the next blow with a wide parry. Sparks flew. The pressure of the impact forced his feet back many steps.

  “Get her out!” he barked.

  Ysar didn’t hesitate. He dashed in, grabbed Elsha, and dragged her from the beast’s reach. She was conscious—hurt, but rising fast.

  “I’m—okay,” she muttered, shaking her head clear. “Just… need a second.”

  Zafran kept the monster busy, sword in constant motion. But he couldn’t land a clean hit. It was fast—too fast for its size—and worse, intelligent in its anger.

  Karin raised her hand, fingers trembling. But the chamber was too narrow, the air too heavy. Fireballs would be suicide.

  No room. No airflow.

  She shifted her grip, changed her stance.

  “Focus” She murmured to herself.

  A spear of fire steamed from her palm—thin, glowing, shaped by control and desperation. It hissed forward, straight into the beast’s eye.

  The hit didn’t kill—but it made it scream.

  And it turned.

  Not toward Zafran.

  It charged her.

  The whole beast threw itself forward, abandoning everything else. Zafran’s sword slashed at its flank, but it didn’t stop. Didn’t slow.

  Straight at Karin.

  Karin froze—then forced herself to hold steady. But her feet betrayed her, slipping half a step.

  The roar filled the room.

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  And Zafran moved.

  His boots struck the ground—and something shimmered faintly beneath. In the next instant, he vanished forward, leaping high, impossibly fast.

  The air cracked as he soared—sword glowing faintly, limbs taut with power. He twisted mid-air, above the beast’s charge—

  And came down like thunder.

  His sword slammed into the back of it.

  CRACK!

  The monster crashed to the floor, its momentum broken, claw swiping inches from Karin before slumping.

  His sword break, also an armored scale on the beast too.

  Zafran landed in front of her, pushing her gently behind him.

  “Now!” he roared.

  Ysar, already moving, lunged from the side. He leapt onto the beast’s back, blade driving into the exposed muscle left by Zafran’s strike.

  But it wasn’t deep enough.

  “Too shallow!” Ysar growled, pulling back.

  The beast shrieked and twisted, flinging him off.

  It turned—swiped.

  Ysar dodged the first claw, but the second came faster. His feet tangled, slipping—

  And Elsha was there, blades raised.

  She caught the blow, steel-on-claw again, sparks flying.

  Both of them were launched back from the impact—rolling through the dust, coughing.

  “Thanks,” Ysar muttered, groaning.

  “Pay me later,” Elsha said, wincing but standing.

  The beast roared again—but staggered. The fire spear had left a burn. Zafran’s strike had peeled back the armor.

  And Karin, still behind him, stepped forward.

  Not running.

  Channeling.

  Another spear of fire bloomed—longer this time, hotter, honed to a razor’s edge by sheer will. It pulsed in her hand like a living thing, vibrating with restrained fury.

  She whispered nothing.

  She released it.

  The lance of flame streaked through the air, driving into the exposed wound Ysar had failed to reach.

  It hit deep.

  The beast let out a howl that shook the walls. It thrashed, flailing, but the fire didn’t vanish—it clung, searing into flesh and scale alike. Steam erupted in violent bursts, filling the chamber with a sharp hiss.

  Karin didn’t stop.

  She pressed forward, forcing more power into the flame. Her hands trembled, her teeth clenched. The spear pulsed brighter, wider—burning with too much heat, too much hunger.

  The creature ballooned with the force, twitching in spasms.

  “Karin—enough!” Zafran barked, grabbing her wrist before the blaze consumed more than just the beast. “You’ll bring down the whole chamber!”

  She gasped—snapping out of it—nearly stumbling from the sudden drop in pressure.

  But it was done.

  The beast shuddered.

  Staggered.

  And then fell.

  Smoke drifted from its body. The chamber fell still.

  “Great job,” he said to her, looking as she blinked with excitement and relief alike.

  “…We did it,” Ysar said, blinking.

  Karin leaned back against the wall, exhausted.

  Zafran stood, sword broken in his hand, face unreadable.

  He looked down at the shattered blade, then exhaled softly.

  “Should’ve brought the other one,” he muttered, almost to himself.

  And Elsha—

  Elsha glanced at his feet.

  Just for a second, she had seen it—the glow. The strange energy around his boots when he leapt. The aura on his sword.

  Magic.

  “Augmented magic” She whispered to herself.

  But kept it to herself.

  The smoke still lingered, curling along the chamber floor like fading breath. No one spoke for a long while.

  Then—quiet footsteps.

  Zafran stepped forward first, his broken sword lowered to his side. The others followed, slow and cautious, their movements heavy from exertion.

  The chamber was vast, carved from black stone, the edges glowing faintly with the residual firelight still burning in the sconces. Pillars lined the path ahead—worn, cracked, some broken halfway down—but still standing like solemn witnesses.

  At the far end, raised on a low dais, stood a pedestal.

  Karin’s heart quickened.

  She moved faster, despite the ache in her limbs. Her boots echoed against the stone. Her eyes locked on the pedestal as they approached.

  It was ornate—shaped from smooth obsidian, rimmed in gold.

  But empty.

  No ash. No urn. Not even a trace of soot.

  Just silence.

  Karin stopped, staring.

  Ysar reached her side. “It’s…. empty?”

  “It’s never been here from the start.” Her voice was low. Dry.

  Zafran looked around, scanning the dust, the floor, the stone. “Or… someone else took it before us.”

  Elsha ran a gloved hand along the edge of the pedestal. “Yes…. the dust’s wipe away here and there.”

  Karin said nothing. Her jaw clenched.

  Her fists tightened.

  Three weeks across the desert. The trial. The blood. The fire.

  For nothing.

  No one dared speak.

  Only the wind—low and hollow—moving through the old vent shafts like a ghost.

  Zafran stepped away from the pedestal. “We need to leave,” He tells her softly.

  Karin just stood there, stared at the pedestal.

  No flicker of flame. No ash. No trace.

  Just emptiness.

  She didn’t move. Not for a long while.

  Behind her, the others waited—silent. Even Ysar, usually the first to fill a void, said nothing. The air was too still for words. Too heavy.

  Zafran stood a few steps away, watching her—not pressing, not asking.

  Finally, she turned.

  No sigh. No comment. No visible emotion. Her eyes passed over the others, unreadable.

  Then she walked.

  Past the pedestal. Past the shattered pillars. Past Zafran.

  Elsha followed without a word, boots light on the stone.

  Ysar glanced once at the empty stand, then down at the floor, lips pressed tight. He fell into step beside Elsha.

  Zafran waited until they were ahead—then gave the chamber one last look.

  His eyes lingered on the empty place where the Flame Ash should have been.

  And then he followed, the broken sword still in his hand.

  Behind them, the firelight dimmed—its glow no longer warm, but cold.

  The ruins held no answers.

  Only absence.

  Got it! Here’s a more casual and reader-engaging version of the author’s note that reflects character development and invites response:

  Whew Chapter 10 wrapped! If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Seriously.

  I hope, If you've been through all that with these four, you’ve started to feel the weight behind each character—Karin’s quiet desperation, Zafran’s unspoken past, Elsha’s sharp instinct, and Ysar’s layered recklessness. They’re more than their roles, and from here on… things start shifting.

  If you enjoyed it, or have thoughts (or theories ??), I’d love to hear from you. Comments, reviews, random reactions—all are welcome and help more than you think.

  Thanks for walking through the sands with me.