Robin's warning hung heavy in the air. The Shadowwood Coven, an ancient cult worshipping a being of pure darkness, threatened to consume everything they knew and loved. They needed allies, powerful allies, if they hoped to defeat them.

  "Who can we turn to?" Markus asked, his voice filled with worry.

  Robin considered this for a moment. "The Keepers of the Flame," she said finally. "They are the only ones who possess the power to stand against such darkness. But they are… elusive. They do not interfere lightly in the affairs of mortals."

  "How can we find them?" Gordon asked.

  Robin shrugged. "They will find you," she said cryptically. "If they deem you worthy."

  Markus and Gordon exchanged a doubtful glance. They had encountered the Keepers once before, during the hag's attack, but they were mysterious figures, their motives unclear. Would they help them? One of them did said that he could give Gordon some pointer but nothing come from it maybe they were already forgot about it.

  "In the meantime," Robin continued, "you must learn more about the Shadowwood Coven. Their weaknesses, their rituals, anything that can give you an advantage."

  "Where can we find such information?" Markus asked.

  Robin pointed to a shelf filled with ancient tomes and scrolls. "The knowledge is here," she said. "But it is scattered, hidden amongst the legends and folklore. You will have to search for it."

  Markus and Gordon spent the next few days poring over the ancient texts, searching for any mention of the Shadowwood Coven. They learned about their history, their rituals, their beliefs. They discovered that the cult had been active for centuries, but they had always operated in the shadows, their existence shrouded in secrecy.

  They also learned about the entity the cult worshipped, a being known as the Shadow Lord, a creature of pure darkness, said to reside in the deepest, most unexplored parts of the forest. It was a being of immense power, capable of corrupting the land, twisting nature to its will.

  As they delved deeper into their research, they began to understand the true extent of the danger they faced. This wasn't just a battle against a group of power-hungry cultists. This was a war against an ancient evil, a darkness that threatened to engulf the entire world.

  One evening, as they were studying a particularly cryptic scroll, they heard a knock on the door. It was Sharon.

  "Markus," she said, her voice urgent, "there's been another attack."

  "What happened?" Markus asked, his heart pounding.

  "The cult," Sharon said. "They attacked the village of Orson. They… they took people."

  Markus and Gordon exchanged a look of horror. Orson was a small village just a few miles away. They knew some of the people there.

  "How many?" Markus asked.

  "A dozen," Sharon said, her voice trembling. "Mostly women and children."

  "We have to do something," Gordon said, his voice filled with anger.

  "We will," Markus said, his resolve hardening. "We'll find them. We'll bring them back."

  They knew they were running out of time. The Shadowwood Coven was growing bolder, their attacks becoming more frequent, more brazen. They needed to act, and they needed to act now.

  As they prepared to leave, Robin approached them, her face grave.

  "You are going to face great danger," she said. "The Shadowwood Coven is powerful, and they are protected by dark magic. The Keepers… I believe they are watching. Show them your courage, your determination, and they may yet intervene."

  She handed them a small pouch filled with dried herbs. "These will protect you from some of the cult's dark magic," she said. "Use them wisely."

  "We won't go alone," Markus said, his gaze hardening. "We'll report this to the Guild. We need more hunters, experienced hunters, if we're going to face something like this."

  "Good," Robin said, a flicker of relief in her eyes. "Strength in numbers is your best chance. And speed is essential. The longer the cult has these villagers, the less hope there is of bringing them back unharmed."

  Markus, Gordon, and Sharon hurried back to the village and presented their report to the guild master and the other assembled hunters. They described the monstrous creature, Willow's warning about the Shadowwood Coven, and the ancient symbol. They emphasized the abduction of the villagers from Orson, making it clear that immediate action was necessary.

  The guild leader listened intently, his face grim. "This is grave news," he said. "We cannot allow the Shadowwood Coven to continue their dark practices. We will gather a hunting party, the strongest we have, and we will strike at their stronghold. We will rescue those villagers, and we will put an end to this evil."

  He turned to Markus, Gordon, and Sharon. "You three have shown courage and resourcefulness. You will lead the way. Your knowledge of the forest and your experience with these dark creatures will be invaluable."

  A group of twenty hunters, armed and ready, gathered in the village square. They were a mix of seasoned veterans and younger, eager recruits. Among them were a few of the hunters who had previously mocked Brock, now humbled and realizing the true threat facing them. Even Brock, having heard the report, came forward. He looked at Markus and Gordon, a flicker of his old arrogance replaced by a grim determination. “I’m coming with you,” he said. “This is my chance to make amends.”

  Markus, still wary of Brock, simply nodded. This was not the time for old grudges. They needed every able-bodied hunter they could get.

  As they prepared to depart, Robin approached them once more. "Remember," she said, her voice low, "the Keepers are watching. Show them your courage, your determination, and they may yet intervene."

  With a final nod, the hunting party, led by Markus, Gordon, and Sharon, set off into the forest. The journey was long and arduous, the fog thicker than ever before. They moved cautiously, their senses on high alert, wary of any signs of the cult.

  Finally, they reached the place that they was sure was the center of the unsease feeling in the forest. The air was cold and heavy, the trees twisted and gnarled, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. A sense of dread washed over them. This was a place of evil, a place where darkness reigned.

  In the center of the place, they saw it. A stronghold, it was a large, imposing structure, built of dark stone, its walls covered in strange symbols. A chilling aura emanated from the building, a palpable sense of malevolence.

  "That looks like the place," Markus whispered, his voice tight. "Let's move."

  They moved silently through the twisted trees, their footsteps muffled by the thick fog. As they reached the back of the stronghold, they saw the door, a heavy wooden portal reinforced with iron bands. It was unguarded, but they knew that didn't mean it was safe.

  "Ready?" Markus asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  The hunters nodded, their faces grim. They knew they were walking into a trap, but they had no choice. The villagers' lives depended on them.

  Markus tried the handle. It was locked. He looked at Gordon.

  Gordon closed his eyes for a moment, focusing his will. He could feel the dark energy emanating from the stronghold, a palpable sense of evil. He could also feel the subtle currents of air around the door, but this time they felt… different. Resistant.

  He opened his eyes, his brow furrowed. "There's a magical lock," he whispered. "And it's… strong. I can feel it, but I don't know if I can break it."

  He raised his hand, and a swirling vortex of wind began to form around the door. The wind howled, tearing at the air, but the dark symbols on the door remained stubbornly in place. The magical lock held firm. Gordon strained, pushing more of his power into the swirling wind, but the door wouldn't budge. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  "It's no use," he said finally, his voice strained. "I can't break it. It's too powerful."

  Markus cursed under his breath. They were running out of time. The villagers were inside, vulnerable. He looked at the door, searching for another way in.

  "We could try to force it," he said, hefting his sword. "But it's heavily reinforced. It would take time, and we don't know what kind of defenses they have inside."

  One of the hunters, a burly man named Gareth, stepped forward. "I have some tools," he said, pulling a set of lockpicks from his belt. "I'm no master locksmith, but this kind of magical lock sometimes only againts magical means, I might be able to pick it."

  He knelt down and began to work on the lock, carefully inserting the picks and manipulating them with practiced skill. It was slow work, and the tension in the air was palpable. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, made them jump.

  "Hurry," Markus whispered, his eyes scanning the surrounding trees, wary of any sign of the cultists.

  Gareth grunted, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Almost… almost…"

  Finally, with a soft click, the lock sprang open. Gareth let out a sigh of relief. "Got it," he said.

  "Let's go," Markus said, his voice tight with anticipation.

  They slipped inside, one by one, their weapons drawn, their senses on high alert. The passageway was cold and damp, the air thick with the smell of mildew and decay. They moved slowly, their footsteps echoing eerily through the silence.

  The passageway led them to a large chamber. The chamber was dimly lit by torches, their flames flickering and casting dancing shadows on the walls, but the light was wrong, a sickly green hue that felt unnatural. The air was thick with the smell of incense and something else… something rotten.

  In the center of the chamber, they saw the cultists, but they were not as they had expected. They were not simply robed figures. Many were grotesquely mutated, their flesh twisted and warped, some fused with the very stone of the stronghold, others adorned with grotesque fetishes and bone ornaments. They were chanting, their voices a chorus of guttural whispers that seemed to claw at the edges of sanity.

  And in the center of the chamber, on a raised dais, something moved. It was shrouded in shadows, but they could see glimpses of it: writhing tentacles, eyes that glowed with malevolent intelligence, and a sense of ancient, overwhelming power that radiated from it like a physical force. This was no mere ritual; this was a summoning.

  The abducted villagers were not huddled in a corner. They were bound to the dais, their faces pale and terrified, clearly part of the ritual.

  "By the gods…" Markus breathed, his voice filled with horror.

  "We have to stop them," Sharon whispered, her hand trembling as she gripped her knives.

  They charged into the chamber, but as they did, the chanting intensified, and the shadows on the dais writhed. The creature within them was becoming more defined, more present.

  The cultists, their eyes glowing with an unnatural red light, turned to face them, but they were not alone. From the shadows, monstrous shapes emerged – twisted creatures of nightmare, part animal, part demon, their forms defying natural law. One, a hulking brute with the head of a boar and the limbs of a spider, scuttled across the ceiling, its eyes fixed on the intruders. Another, a serpentine creature made of writhing vines and thorns, slithered from the shadows, its jaws dripping with venom.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The battle began, but it was unlike anything the hunters had faced before. The cultists, empowered by their dark god, fought with unnatural strength and speed. The monstrous creatures, embodiments of nightmare, were relentless, their attacks brutal and terrifying.

  Gareth, despite his earlier bravery, was quickly overwhelmed by the spider-boar creature. Its massive claws tore through his armor, and he fell with a scream, dragged into the shadows.

  Brock, though fighting fiercely, found himself matched against a cultist whose flesh seemed to shift and reform, making him nearly impossible to wound.

  Gordon, realizing the futility of direct attacks with his wind, tried to disrupt the chanting, but a wave of dark energy from the creature on the dais slammed into him, throwing him against a wall. He gasped for air, his powers momentarily suppressed.

  Markus, his arrows now useless against the monstrous creatures' thick hides, drew his sword. He fought with a desperate ferocity, but he was being pushed back, surrounded by the horrors that had emerged from the shadows.

  Sharon, despite her agility, was struggling against the vine serpent. Its thorny vines lashed out at her, cutting her flesh.

  The battle was no longer a fight; it was a desperate struggle for survival. The hunters were outmatched, outgunned, facing forces beyond their comprehension. The summoning was nearing completion, and the creature on the dais was becoming more and more defined, its presence filling the chamber with an almost unbearable sense of dread.

  Markus, his sword dripping with both his own blood and the viscous slime of the monstrous creatures, knew they were losing. He saw Gareth fall, heard Sharon's cries as the vine serpent constricted around her, its thorns piercing her flesh. He couldn't reach them; he was surrounded, desperately trying to fend off the grotesque creatures that swarmed him.

  Gordon, still reeling from the blast of dark energy, struggled to his feet. He could feel the power of the wind within him, but it was flickering, unstable. He knew he had to do something, anything, to disrupt the summoning, but the creature on the dais… its presence was like a weight on his magic, suppressing it, making it difficult to control.

  He looked towards the dais, and a wave of pure terror washed over him. The creature was almost fully formed. Its shape was still indistinct, shrouded in shadows, but its eyes… its eyes were open, burning with malevolent intelligence. They seemed to look directly at him, piercing his soul, filling him with a primal fear he had never known.

  He tried to summon the wind, to create a protective barrier, but the creature’s gaze held him captive, draining his will. The power flickered and died.

  Suddenly, a wave of dark energy erupted from the dais, slamming into the remaining hunters. They were thrown against the walls, their weapons clattering to the floor. Markus felt a searing pain as he hit the stone, his vision blurring.

  He tried to get up, but he was too weak. He looked around, and his heart sank. Sharon was unconscious, the vine serpent coiled around her, its thorny vines digging deeper into her flesh. Gareth lay still, a dark stain spreading across his chest. The other hunters were scattered, defeated, some groaning in pain, others silent.

  Brock, his face a mask of terror, was on his knees, begging for mercy from a cultist whose hand crackled with dark energy.

  Gordon was slumped against a wall, his eyes wide with fear, his face pale. He looked broken, defeated.

  The creature on the dais was now fully formed. It was a being of pure nightmare, its form defying description, a swirling mass of tentacles, eyes, and teeth, radiating an aura of ancient evil. It let out a shriek that echoed through the chamber, a sound that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality itself.

  The cultists, their faces twisted in ecstatic fervor, prostrated themselves before the creature, chanting in their guttural tongue.

  Markus knew it was over. They had failed. They were at the mercy of this dark cult and their monstrous god.

  The cultists rose, their eyes glowing with malevolent triumph. They moved towards the captured hunters, their hands reaching out, their touch promising pain and suffering beyond imagining.

  Markus closed his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable. He thought of Sharon, of Robin, of the village… He had failed them all.

  Markus opened his eyes to darkness. A damp, suffocating darkness that smelled of mildew, decay, and something far more foul… something akin to rot. He tried to move, but his limbs were bound tightly, the rough rope biting into his skin. He groaned, pain lancing through his body. He remembered the creature, the dark energy, the overwhelming terror… and then, nothing.

  He was lying on a cold, stone floor. He could hear the drip, drip, drip of water echoing through the oppressive silence. He could feel the chill seeping into his bones. He was in a cell, a small, cramped space with walls that seemed to press in on him, suffocating him.

  He tried to sit up, but his head throbbed with pain. He could feel a lump on the back of his skull. He remembered the dark energy, the searing pain… he must have been knocked unconscious.

  He looked around, trying to pierce the gloom. He could make out the rough outlines of the cell walls, the heavy wooden door, reinforced with iron bands. He was a prisoner.

  He heard a groan from nearby. It was Gordon. He was lying on the floor, his face pale, his breathing shallow. He was also bound, his hands tied behind his back.

  "Gordon?" Markus whispered, his voice hoarse.

  Gordon stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He looked around, his face filled with confusion and fear. "Markus… what… what happened?"

  "We were captured," Markus said grimly. "By the cult."

  The reality of their situation crashed down on them. They were prisoners of the Shadowwood Coven, at the mercy of beings who worshipped a dark god. They had failed.

  They heard a sound from beyond the cell door – the scraping of metal on stone. A heavy bolt was being drawn back. The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit corridor. A figure stood in the doorway, cloaked in dark robes, their face obscured by shadows.

  "Get up," the figure said, their voice cold and emotionless.

  Markus and Gordon struggled to their feet, their bodies aching, their limbs stiff. They were prodded forward by the cultist, forced to walk down the corridor.

  The corridor led them deeper into the stronghold, down a winding staircase that seemed to descend into the very bowels of the earth. The air grew colder, heavier, the smell of rot more intense.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and found themselves in a large, cavernous chamber. It was a prison, a subterranean dungeon filled with cells and cages. The walls were damp and slimy, covered in moss and mold. The air was thick with the stench of despair and decay.

  In the cages, they saw other prisoners – villagers from Oakhaven, their faces gaunt and hollow-eyed. They were chained and bound, their spirits broken.

  Markus and Gordon were thrown into a cell, a small, cramped space no different from the one where Markus had first regained consciousness. The heavy door clanged shut, the sound echoing through the dungeon, sealing Markus and Gordon in their cramped cell. The darkness was oppressive, broken only by the faintest glimmer of light filtering from the corridor outside. The stench of mildew and decay was overwhelming, a constant reminder of the horrors that surrounded them.

  Days bled into nights. The cold stone floor became their bed, the stagnant water in the bucket their only source of sustenance. Rats scurried in the shadows, their beady eyes watching the prisoners with unsettling curiosity. The silence was broken only by the drip, drip, drip of water and the occasional moan from the other prisoners in the nearby cells.

  Markus and Gordon huddled together, their bodies aching, their spirits broken. They spoke little, the weight of their capture pressing down on them like a physical burden. Hope, which had flickered briefly after their capture, had dwindled to almost nothing.

  They had been interrogated, not with physical torture, but with something far more insidious. The cultists, their eyes glowing with a malevolent light, had probed their minds, seeking to break their will, to force them to reveal any information about the village, about the Keepers, about anything that could be used against their people. Markus and Gordon had resisted, clinging to their secrets, but the constant probing, the violation of their minds, had taken its toll. They were exhausted, both physically and mentally.

  One day, or perhaps it was night, they had lost track of time, Markus noticed something small, almost imperceptible, glinting in the dim light filtering through the barred window at the top of their cell door. He squinted, trying to get a better look. It was a small, rusty nail, protruding slightly from the wall near the door frame. It had probably been there all along, but only now, after days of despair and close observation of their surroundings, did he finally notice it.

  He nudged Gordon, who was slumped against the wall, his eyes closed. "Gordon," he whispered, "look."

  Gordon opened his eyes and followed Markus's gaze. He saw the nail and a flicker of something akin to hope ignited within him.

  "It's small," Gordon said, his voice hoarse. "But… it might work though i can't pick a lock."

  "I can.....maybe." Markus whisper to himself. "I have to.... "

  Markus carefully reached up and tried to pry the nail loose. It was rusted in place, resisting his efforts. He tried again, and again, his fingers raw and bleeding. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the nail gave way, coming loose with a soft click.

  He showed it to Gordon. It was small, but it was sharp. It could be used as a makeshift lockpick.

  "It's our only chance," Markus said, his voice filled with a renewed sense of determination.

  He knelt down by the cell door and began to work on the lock, carefully inserting the nail and manipulating it with his fingers. It was slow, painstaking work. If Gareth was here he was sure done it in the minute but Markus never did something like this and only ever heard a snippet about how it should be done. His hands trembled with exhaustion and the fear of being discovered.

  Days of imprisonment, the mental probing, the hopelessness, all fueled his desperate need to escape. He had to get out. He had to warn the village. He had to find Sharon.