The room behind the door was empty, save for a few paintings on the wall and a single treasure chest. A woman was standing in the middle, slowly unbuckling her breastplate and dropping it to the ground, as if after a lost battle.

  Felicia.

  "General? Are you sure this is a wise thing to do?" asked another woman, a half-elf with a long silver braid, sitting on her heels on the floor. Shakoth.

  "Probably not. Still, if I am to deal any meaningful damage, that will come at the cost of armour. I'm so exhausted I can hardly lift my arm, let alone my sword. I have no strength to spare for protecting myself."

  "Then let's try and rest some more."

  "And waste our last spells on another random encounter, just to be finished off by a couple satyr without ever facing the boss? You know they'll come again. Every time I settle down on my bedroll, they come again. Slowly and surely they grind us down to dust. This ends now. We'll face Marquise Insomnia as we are."

  "That's stupid," muttered a third person, a big bald man with a haggard face. He still wore his full armour, probably so that he had something that held him together. Dusty. Never seen him like this.

  "Indeed," said Felicia. "But we seem to be out of options. We've explored the entire wing, every single room, even removing the cobwebs and the spiders, regardless of size. And somehow, somehow we still get stopped from resting. Also, unless we clear the deadfall with our bare hands, our only way out is through that portal. We are not going to die here, Dusty. If we fall, that will happen in the boss fight, not at the hands of some crappy random fey or undead this hellhole throws at us. Get ready, everyone. It is time for the last march."

  She activated her halo, and at the same moment, her eyes found the baron's face. He couldn't tell for certain if his presence registered with her, but he was sure she was thinking of him, and the look on her face pierced his heart. I'm about to die for you, and I have no regrets. Remember me and prove yourself worthy of my sacrifice.

  "Felicia!"

  The baron took a step forward, but something yanked him back. It was Cephal, hanging onto his arm with both hands.

  "It's an illusion, you moron!" he hissed. "Don't you remember anything?"

  Of course he did. This dungeon was chock-full of realistic or surrealistic scenes coming to life in front of the adventurers' eyes, from ancient Taldan soldiers complaining about headlice to Lady Jamandi and Kassil Aldori discussing their dinner made of human flesh. The characters usually proved to be fey in disguise. He knew it all too well. But if there was one percent chance that this was real...

  And it did seem to be real. Excluding Shakoth and Dusty from the picture, his vision locked onto Felicia, his beloved, lone heroine, heading into certain death for him. Having cast off her armour, her body was only covered by a fine, translucent shawl, a weird choice instead of her usual practical clothing. Actually, 'covered' was a bit of a stretch. She had lost weight during her ordeal in the dungeon. Her muscles looked more wiry than bulky, and somehow the body-to-breasts ratio was wrong, too. Still, she was just as sweet and irresistible as before – in fact, even more so. The golden light surrounding her head changed into a cold blue, painting her deep red locks the colour of the ocean.

  "Felicia..."

  Cephal let go of his arm, and he couldn't help but wonder why the old man needed his hands back so urgently.

  "Gods help me," muttered Willas behind him. "This is the most beautiful sight I've ever seen. No offense, Your Grace."

  Felicia smiled. It wasn't the bitter smile of a warrior heading to defy death, but the sweet, venomous smile of a temptress. She raised her hand, and a spray of tiny drops of water hit the baron's face, sprinkling the entire doorway and beyond.

  "Fine, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" screamed the Chronicler in panic. "I'll shut the hell up, just let me see you again! Or anything else, for that matter!"

  A bowstring sang, and Gekkor swore under his breath. He must have missed. But what was he shooting at?

  A moment later an arrow grazed the baron's shoulder, coming from the opposite direction. How could Gekkor's shot have ricocheted so badly? He ignored the pain, as well as the muffled din of battle surrounding him. Only Felicia mattered.

  Then it was all gone.

  Maegar blinked and shook his head, waking to reality, taking it all in. At the spot where Dusty had been sitting, the corpse of a muscular satyr archer lay in a pool of blood, his throat slit. At Shakoth's place, a once beautiful nymph lay dead, her face beaten up, her skull cracked open. The woman who had been Felicia just a short while ago was now kneeling on the floor, shivering in fear. The Bruiser was standing behind her, holding her throat in a forearm lock. The woman was stark naked, her eyes fixated on her thin shawl, now in Tehara's hands.

  "Boobs," muttered Cephal, still dazed beyond hope.

  "I'm blind!" wailed Willas. "Someone help me!"

  "What a beautiful fabric," mused Tehara, wrapping the shawl around the blade of her dagger. "It would be such a shame if something happened to it."

  "My shawl," whimpered the woman. "Please give it back! I'll tell you everything!"

  "I'm listening, then."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Let's start the usual way. Who are you and what are you doing here?"

  "I'm Melite. A nereid, as you can see. I came here to play with my friends. Is that a problem?"

  Tehara tugged at the fabric, and the blade ripped a gash into it. The nereid shrieked in horror.

  "NOOO!"

  "Playing pretend and trying to kill the spectators, eh? Yes, that's a problem."

  "Why? It's just harmless fun. You respawn afterwards anyway, don't you?"

  "No, we do not," spat Tehara. "What was that scene you acted out? Did it actually happen?"

  "Yes. This is one of our favourite games. We pick up the litter mortals leave lying around, emotions, memories and the like, and we kind of reenact it. It's a lot of fun, even more so if we get an audience as well."

  "When did this happen?"

  "It was fresh junk. Maybe two Golarion days old, I'd say."

  "What do you know about the characters? Did they make it? Where are they now?"

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  "No clue," shrugged the nereid. "But they looked scared alright! All the better. You intrude into the Horned Hunter's playground, you get your butt kicked. And maybe turned into a spinning top. I mean, the entire you, not just your butt – unless he is in a foul mood."

  "Now wait a minute," said the baron, walking up beside Tehara. "The boss of this dungeon is this will-o'-wisp lady, right? Marquise... what was it again? Imbecilia?"

  Melite allowed herself a giggle, feeling increasingly at ease with her captors.

  "It's actually Marquise Immolatia. The names you mortals keep coming up with are hilarious! And quite fitting, too. However, you know there is always a bigger boss, right? Like with the Bloom. The hound killed the stag, happy with a job well done, and she still hasn't realised that... Oopsies. Never mind. Can I have my shawl back?"

  "Can she?" asked Tehara, looking to the baron for advice. Maegar knew this glance all too well. It was not about the shawl.

  He shrugged.

  "She is talking nonsense. I don't think she can be of any more use to us."

  "Point taken," said the tiefling. A flash of her dagger, a twist, and the nereid's body slumped in the Bruiser's grip, surprised horror freezing on her face. Tehara stuffed the shawl into the corpse's mouth.

  "I hope you'll choke on it when you respawn, bitch!"

  "What... what happened?" mumbled Willas, rubbing his eyes as his eyesight was returning.

  "The Varnlings saved the day, that's what happened," snapped Tehara. "Shame on you all. Yes, including you, Captain. Your Grace. Whatever. You come here to rescue your ladylove and immediately fall for a nereid's titties? It's pure luck that the three of us are not into women of this size, or at all. When we find Darlac, she'll hear about this. Every. Single. Detail."

  "Fine with me," sighed the baron. At this point, he would have welcomed a gauntleted slap across the face from Felicia as a proof that she was alive.

  "And now," said Tehara, "let's rifle through that chest."

  The baron turned towards the chest, daggers in hand, prepared for another ooze or mimic... and froze again. The heavy piece of furniture actually moved.

  Gekkor was quick to ice a shot at the unruly container.

  "Nooo!" it screamed in an annoying, raspy voice. "No shoot! Me incent! Lemme go!"

  "What the heck?" muttered Tehara. She reached behind the chest, and pulled out a small green humanoid by the ankles.

  "Oh," said the baron. "A goblin. Of all things."

  "Not a goblin!" croaked the little creature dangling in Tehara's hands. "Chwurk, at yer service! The bestest wares in Creepy Fey Keep!"

  "Spill your bag," commanded Tehara.

  "Lemme go first! Can't spill bag hanging upside down!"

  "That's the best position for spilling a bag. Do it."

  Squirming, the goblin let out a nyeeeah-like sound and complied. His bag turned out to be a Bag of Holding, so Tehara had to take a few steps backwards to avoid getting overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of stuff spilling out. Empty potion bottles, simple Taldan spears and swords, gems and other valuables by the dozen. Tattered dweomercat skins. A piece of parchment. A breastplate. The exact kind of stuff that adventurers collected from dungeons and then dumped to pick up later, so that they wouldn't be slowed down by encumbrance. Except the breastplate, so familiar. It had initials embossed at the lower edge. F. D.

  The baron sank to his knees and pressed the piece of steel against his chest. His brain faintly registered that Tehara dragged the goblin to where the deadfall had been, still not filled up, and kicked him out into next week. Tears welled up in his eyes.

  "Hey," whispered Gekkor into his ear, perfunctorily touching his arm and healing the arrow scratch. "It's just her breastplate, not her severed head. There is still hope."

  The baron patted the priest's hand in gratitude. Gekkor took the hint and left him alone with the grief trying to break through the fortifications in his soul.

  "C-Come look at this!" sounded the Bruiser's voice from another room. They didn't even notice that he had wandered away.

  Following his call, they entered through an open double door into a lavishly decorated chamber. The Bruiser was boldly balancing on the back of an antique chair, staring down into a marble crucible built into the wall, like a holy water font. Except it was full of bones. Some picked clean, some with shreds of rotting flesh on.

  "Shiver me timbers," whispered Tehara. "Are we supposed to sort these through?"

  "Gekkor, do we have scrolls to bring back the dead?" asked the baron, trying in vain to steady his voice.

  "Nope," said the priest. "No scrolls, no diamonds. Remember, you made Kjerdi cut down on procurement of magical items to save up resources for some trade agreement or whatnot. Darlac took the last ones we had."

  "Still, if we don't take a look, we'll never know if they are from our comrades or not," pointed out Tehara.

  "Could it be that the crucible is a very patient mimic?" whimpered Willas.

  Gekkor iced another arrow. The icicle bounced back from the marble surface of the crucible, and the Bruiser was only saved by his nearly incredible dodging skill.

  "It's safe, Chronicler," said the cleric. "As our in-house archaeologist, you are the person most suited to the task. Unless, of course, you suppose some of the bones are mimics."

  The Bruiser pushed his chair closer to the crucible, climbed on it again, scooped the bones into a bag, and spilt it all out in front of the Chronicler.

  "L-Let's get on with it."

  Cephal walked to the chair and kicked it out of the way, reaching out with his hand, feeling at the air all around.

  "There was a portal here," he muttered. "The traces are very faint, but definitely there. It must have expired days ago."

  "Any chance you can restore it?" asked the baron. "Or at least tell where it led?"

  "Man, I'm a wizard, not a god, for Hell's sake! But based on, so to say, the theme of this dungeon, my best guess is the First World."

  For lack of anything better to do, Maegar Varn sat down on the floor, and watched numbly as the Bruiser, Willas and Gekkor sorted and grouped the bones, while Tehara kept an eye out for enemies. He was still clutching the breastplate, imagining that its warmth came from Felicia's body rather than from his own touch. Blinking away his tears didn't work anymore. Luckily, everyone was either too busy or too tactful to notice.

  "Halfling," muttered the Chronicler. "This tibia goes there, too. Something snapped it to pieces... Human ribcage, quite big, almost like a half-orc's. But definitely human... Female pelvis, a bit tight. Slender build, like an elf's. Cracked... What the heck is this? Animal bones? Ah, the bear. Right... This goes into the human, too..."

  And it went on and on. Someone had cleaned off and collected all these bones, everything apart from the skulls, and piled them neatly here in the crucible for him to find. What kind of sick joke was that?

  "Done," said Willas finally, standing up from the floor. "Four sets of bones. A halfling, a male human, a female elf or half-elf, and a bear. That means... the entire squad apart from the General, right?"

  The others made a last tour around the chambers, looking for any trapdoor, portal or hidden entrance that could provide them with a path ahead, leaving the baron with his thoughts. Not that he had any. Just numb, empty pain. After a while, he faintly heard Cephal's voice.

  "Tehara, open that Bag of Holding. We are going home, taking our fallen comrades' bodies. There is nothing more for us to do here."

  The baron let Gekkor help him to his feet. Objectively, the cleric was right. Felicia had not been proven dead. Whoever had dumped those bones into the crucible wanted him to hope in vain for weeks, months, years, searching for a way to find his beloved, revolving around this continually, unable to function. And if she was indeed alive, was that necessarily better? There were a hundred scenarios where being dead seemed downright preferable. Was she being held captive? Tortured? Trapped in a time loop? Slowly going mad?

  Sooner or later, he would have to let go. But not yet. He would try another plan, and another... once the veil of tears would clear up. If ever.

  Cephal touched his shoulder and put something into his hand. It was the piece of parchment from the goblin's bag, which turned out to be the makeshift map of Lostlarn Keep scribbled on a codex page, with letter markings, flowers and the like. Felicia's last report. The baron sank it into his pocket above his heart, right next to the cursed ring, then tossed the Bag of Holding on his shoulder, and let his comrades lead him out of the dungeon.