Krix scuttled ahead of us, moving with the kind of relentless energy typically reserved for caffeinated squirrels or aggressive Roombas.

  His claws clicked against the smooth stone floor in a rapid, hypnotic rhythm. Occasionally he'd throw a smug glance over his shoulder. He clearly enjoyed being the fastest one in the room, and he wasn’t going to let us forget it.

  Grib, bless his undead little heart, was determined to keep up, even if it meant he looked like a marionette in the hands of a deeply confused puppeteer.

  His legs churned, his spear bounced precariously with each step, and every so often, I heard him muttering, “Grib fast too. Grib just warming up.” The slime in his tunic let out occasional squelches of protest, as though it hadn’t signed up for this kind of reckless movement.

  And then there was me.

  Edgar Allen, the Bone King, the once-mediocre customer service representative, and now a glorified skeleton tourist.

  I wasn’t running so much as lurching after them with all the grace of a rickety office chair being pushed by a very unmotivated intern. My staff clicked against the floor like an old man’s cane, which felt appropriate given how every inch of calcium in me was already regretting this.

  The corridors stretched on in an unrelenting sprawl of sharp turns and luminous crystals. The architecture had the sterile precision of something that had never been touched by actual hands—just raw, mechanical intent. It was a dungeon built by numbers, not by sense.

  I, unfortunately, was built by neither.

  “Boss too slow!” Grib called over his shoulder, legs pumping furiously. “Grib getting faster by second!”

  “Yes, Grib, your speed is truly humbling,” I gasped, gripping my staff and wishing—not for the first time—that my newly undead existence had come with some form of motorized acceleration. “Really, just an inspiration. I’m feeling more motivated by the second.”

  Krix skid to a halt at a fork in the corridor. He tapped his foot, claws clicking impatiently on stone, as he watched me stumble forward. “Keep up, skeleton,” he hissed. “Big Chief doesn’t like to wait.”

  “Sounds delightful.” I said, finally catching up and leaning on my staff. “And remind me again why we’re trusting you to lead us instead of, I don’t know, marching us straight into a trap?”

  Krix’s grin spread, all teeth and menace. “Big Chief crushes enemies. Big Chief HAS traps. But not NEED traps for skeleton and smelly goblin.”

  “Oh, fantastic,” I said, glancing at Grib, who had paused to pat his tunic in what I could only assume was a wellness check on his slime. “See, Grib? We’re skipping the subtle murder and heading straight for the blatant kind. Very efficient.”

  Grib, ever the optimist, flashed me a thumbs-up. “Boss can handle Big Chief. Grib believe in Boss!”

  “Appreciate the confidence.” But I was already regretting my life choices. Or rather, my afterlife choices. “That’s exactly the kind of reckless faith that’s gotten people killed throughout history.”

  Krix’s grinned as he darted down the right-hand corridor. “Follow Krix! Or get left behind.”

  I forced my tired legs to move, my mind turning over the reason I was putting myself through this.

  I needed to be stronger. Not just for my sake, but for Grib.

  The adventurers would be back.

  That was the rule of this place, wasn’t it? Adventurers came in, killed things, got stronger, and moved deeper.

  I wouldn’t be able to stop them next time. Unless I got stronger. Unless I got help.

  Which was why I was chasing a kobold through a dungeon hoping that the so-called Big Chief wouldn’t smash me into bone dust before I could convince him to help. Because if the adventurers got past me, they’d go deeper. To the second floor. To the kobolds. And eventually, they’d come for Big Chief and his traps and his tribe.

  The way I saw it, I wasn’t just saving myself. I was offering Big Chief a mutually beneficial arrangement. Help me hold the first floor, and he wouldn’t have to worry about defending the second. And maybe, just maybe, if I made myself useful enough, I’d be more than just a speed bump on the adventurers’ quest log.

  Not that I expected Krix to understand any of that. He was too busy dashing ahead and occasionally stopping to sneer at how slowly I was moving. It was fine. I had time. As much as I hated to admit it, this little cardio session was probably good for me. Or at least, for my undead sense of pride.

  “Almost there,” Krix called back, his voice echoing off the walls. “Big Chief will see you soon.”

  "Great," I said, tightening my grip on the staff. "I can't wait."

  Grib, ever the optimist, straightened up and gave a salute that was entirely unnecessary and entirely Grib. “Boss ready! Grib ready! Slime ready!”

  The slime gave a long, damp squelch, which I took to mean acceptance of fate.

  "Good to know," I said, squaring my shoulders as the corridor widened into a vast, dimly lit chamber ahead. "Let’s just hope Big Chief is as enthusiastic about diplomacy as we are."

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  The room ahead breathed wrong. Not literally—though at this point, I wouldn’t rule it out—but in the way certain places just feel like they’re watching you.

  The crystals embedded in the walls flickered weakly, their light feeble against the sheer enormity of the space. The darkness wasn’t just present—it was intentional, coiled into every corner, thick and patient. It hadn’t simply swallowed the light. It had left enough to make sure we knew how small we were.

  Krix halted just before the threshold, his profile sharp in the dim glow. His tail flicked once, deliberate. “Keep close. Big Chief not like waiting. Not like excuses.”

  Grib bristled beside me, his small frame going rigid. His grip on his spear tightened, the faint rattle of wood against the stone floor the only sound in the oppressive stillness. “Grib strong. Big Chief see.”

  Krix shot him a glance, unreadable save for the barest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Big Chief will see everything,” he said flatly, before stepping into the darkness.

  Grib hesitated—just a fraction of a second, a moment too small to acknowledge but too big to ignore—then followed.

  I moved after them, my staff tapping against the stone in an echo that sounded far too loud. The air felt thick, like it was ushering us forward rather than letting us enter by choice.

  Then I noticed the smell.

  Thick decay. Iron and damp earth. Coating the back of my throat, worming into the spaces between bones like it belonged there.

  The second thing I noticed was the bodies.

  Or what was left of them.

  A twisted arm jutted from a mound of viscera, its skin stretched tight and leathery. A broken wing—if that’s what it had been—hung limply against the wall, torn membrane sagging like rotted parchment. Horns lay scattered, jagged and snapped in half. Bones—too many, too large—strewn across the floor. One pile, partially collapsed, still bore the shape of something’s ribcage, splayed open like a trap that had been sprung too late.

  These weren’t the neat, noble corpses of adventurers felled in battle.

  No swords lay beside them. No shattered shields, no armor worn to the bitter end.

  Whatever these creatures had been, they had died badly. Torn apart, dismantled piece by piece, and left in a way that suggested the act of destruction had been just as important as the result.

  This wasn’t a battlefield.

  It was a warning.

  Grib had gone still. Not the restless kind, the kind where he was just winding up to say something else. No, this was different.

  His usual energy had drained away, leaving him standing stiff and silent, like a child who had walked into the wrong room at the wrong time. His knuckles whitened around his spear. His mouth was slightly open; caught between words, realizing none of them were right.

  I didn’t blame him.

  Because for the first time since waking up in this dungeon, I felt the same way.

  Krix moved certainty–he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Claws clicking against the stone as he strode forward, unfazed by the carnage surrounding him. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch.

  “Big Chief!” Krix called out, voice slicing through the thick, rancid air. “Krix brings intruders!”

  The shadows shifted.

  A ripple at the edges of the chamber where dim light bled into shadow. Shapes began to emerge as my vision adjusted. Hunched and indistinct at first. Then dozens of eyes glinted yellow in the dark, blinking in uneven rhythms.

  And then I saw him.

  His throne sat at the far end of the chamber. A monument of stone and bone with crystals from the dungeon walls, jammed in haphazardly, their glow barely enough to carve the hulking figure from the dark.

  Big Chief.

  Massive. A fortress of muscle and dark, jagged scales. Every inch of him bore scars—some shallow, others carved deep enough to expose pale bone beneath. One eye, a milky ruined thing split by a long brutal scar that dragged from brow to jaw. The other, bright and predatory, fixed directly on me.

  His mouth hung slightly open, revealing chipped and uneven teeth, wickedly sharp despite their wear. Blood stained the edges, fresh.

  And then I saw what he was holding.

  An arm.

  Long, sinewy. Clawed fingers still twitching faintly, as though still struggling against its fate.

  A slow drip of blood pattered against the stone floor, rhythmic in the most disturbing way possible.

  Big Chief lifted the limb to his mouth with the ease of a man about to take a bite of lunch. His teeth sank, followed shortly by the crunch of bone.

  He chewed slowly. He did not blink.

  Krix fell to one knee, tail sweeping the floor in deference. “Big Chief,” he said, voice steady. “Krix brings you skeleton. Says he wants talk.”

  Big Chief didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back, his eye narrowing slightly as he swallowed. The sound was wet, deliberate.

  Around him, the other kobolds shifted, their yellow eyes glinting brighter as they watched. Some crouched low, clawed hands gripping jagged weapons. Others stood motionless, their forms barely distinguishable from the darkness.

  None of them spoke.

  Their silence wasn’t passive.

  It was waiting.

  Finally, Big Chief rumbled to life, his voice deep and guttural, each word dragging through the air like stone scraping over metal.

  “Skeleton,” he said, as if the word itself was barely worth the effort.

  The weight of his gaze pinned me like a knife through the ribs.

  “Why you come here?”

  For a moment, I forgot how to move.

  The staff in my hand felt smaller. Useless. The room pressed against me, heavy with a presence I did not understand.

  This wasn’t bravado.

  Not posturing. Not the showboating of an adventurer or the false confidence of someone with something to prove.

  This was something that simply didn't care. What I knew. What I thought I knew. Or really anything that related to me at all.

  At best I was a minor inconvenience to him. Not a person or a monster. Just some thing that happened to show up on his doorstep.

  And for the first time since I woke up in this cursed dungeon, I felt it. Not thought about it. Felt it.

  I was in another world.

  And I wasn’t ready for it.