The dungeon chamber was silent except for the distant drip of water and the soft hiss of torches burning low. Dust hung thick in the air, stirred only by the trembling hands of a young mage clutching her staff too tightly. Lyra stood before the ancient seal, her violet cloak fluttering slightly with every shaky breath. The magical sigils etched into the stone pulsed faintly, alive with age-old power. Her chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm beneath her fitted blouse, the curve of her body rigid with fear and uncertainty. "Come on, Lyra," said the tall man at her side, his armor scuffed and his tone unnervingly cheerful. "This is your chance. You’re the only one here who can open this thing. Don’t mess it up now. Might be your moment to prove you're actually useful." She blinked up at him, eyes wide. “R-right… I—I’ll do my best,” she mumbled, voice barely above a whisper. Her cheeks were already flushed, and her fingers kept slipping against the worn grip of her staff. As she stepped forward, her boot caught the edge of the stone slab, causing her to stumble slightly. One of the party members snorted. She tried to ignore it. Lyra extended her hand toward the runes. They were cold beneath her fingers. She whispered the chant she had practiced over and over again in solitude — a delicate pattern of syllables that always made her nervous. As the final word left her lips, the seal cracked sharply down the centre, and a faint gust of stale, cold air rolled outward. The chamber beyond the seal opened slowly, its heavy stone door dragging open with a low groan. Everyone leaned forward, expecting gold, relics, enchanted tomes — something valuable. But inside was only darkness. No glittering hoard. No shining artifact. Just black. Dense, still, and oppressive. Then came a sound. Faint at first — like something shifting against stone. It was low and slow, not quick or animalistic. Something larger. Something old. A heavy silence fell over the party. The tall man’s face paled. The rogue at the back of the group began to slowly back away. It wasn’t a vault. It was a prison. Something had been sealed here, and it was beginning to stir. The bald man’s eyes widened. “Boss room,” he muttered. The healer, a slender woman in pale robes, stepped close to him and whispered urgently, “We shouldn’t leave her. She might die in here. It’s not right.” He looked at her, silent, then turned back to the doorway. His voice was firm. “If we stay, we all die.” The tall man snapped to attention, voice raised. “Lyra, hold it off! We’re going to get help. Just—keep it sealed, or distracted, or whatever it is you do. We’ll be back. Promise!” They didn’t wait for a reply. Boots pounded against stone. Cloaks snapped in the wind. They were gone. Lyra stared after them, confused, her staff slipping slightly in her grasp. “W-wait, what…? I—I don’t know how to—” But she was alone now. Truly alone. The cold air thickened behind her, and she slowly turned to face the darkened chamber she had opened. From the depths, something shifted — a shape that was hard to make out, but unmistakably alive. It moved like smoke and shadow, slowly unfolding from stillness. Her heart caught in her throat. She had released something. Something ancient. Something monstrous. And there was no one left to save her. Only the sealed creature, You.