The small, circular room was bare save for one detail: etched into the rough stone wall, glowing with a faint, magical luminescence, was a message. My eyes immediately went to it.
The script was ancient, yet perfectly legible, and the words resonated with an undeniable power:
"THIS IS YOUR FIRST CHECKPOINT.
TAKE A REST, DOLORIAN."
It was a message from Merlin himself, a brief reprieve in the heart of the Gauntlet. The quiet stillness of the room suddenly felt less ominous and more like a sanctuary. This wasn't just a bare chamber; it was a compact, surprisingly well-equipped haven. Around the circular walls, five simple but comfortable cots were neatly arranged, each with a fresh, thick blanket. In one corner, a small, magically self-cleaning latrine was subtly concealed behind a shimmering curtain of light. Opposite it, a miniature, yet fully functional, kitchen nook gleamed with polished Kaynari metal, complete with a small, magically heated stove and a perpetually refilling water basin.
The brief reprieve in Merlin's Gauntlet was a welcome one. We immediately took the opportunity to rest. "Alright, who's hungry?" Jove declared, rubbing his hands together with a grin that seemed to banish some of the dungeon's gloom. "Time for Jove's Five-Star Dungeon Cuisine! Prepare yourselves for a culinary masterpiece!" To our surprise, Jove volunteered to cook, pulling out a compact, magically expanding cooking kit from his pack. He began to prepare a meal, his movements surprisingly deft, a blur of confident chopping and stirring that filled the small kitchen nook with a comforting sizzle and the rich aroma of roasting meat and herbs.
Gianna, not to be outdone, her competitive spirit sparked by Jove's bravado, immediately marched to the kitchen nook, her hands on her hips. "Hmph! I'll show you 'Five-Star Dungeon Cuisine,' Jove! My grandmother taught me family recipes, passed down through generations! Prepare for a taste of true Iskiran elegance!" She pulled out her own small, elegant cooking kit, clearly designed for picnics in a sunlit meadow, not a dungeon checkpoint, its delicate silver utensils clinking softly. As Jove, with surprising skill, began to whip up a savory stew that filled the air with delicious, hearty aromas, Gianna, with much more flourish and significantly less success, attempted to make a delicate broth. The smell, initially promising with hints of herbs, quickly devolved into something vaguely reminiscent of boiled socks, a thin, watery steam rising from her pot. Henry, watching from his cot, pinched the bridge of his nose, while Jove occasionally cast a bewildered glance at Gianna's concoction, a look of genuine confusion on his face.
When it was ready, Jove, with a theatrical bow, presented his dish: a thick, steaming stew, rich with tender chunks of what looked like dungeon fungi and lean groundwolf meat, seasoned perfectly, its aroma a warm embrace. He served it in magically heated bowls, the steam rising in inviting wisps. The moment we tasted it, a collective sigh of relief, deep and genuine, passed through us. It was genuinely delicious, a stark contrast to Gianna's attempt. Even Henry, usually reserved and critical, took a slow, deliberate bite of Jove's stew. His eyes, which rarely betrayed emotion, widened almost imperceptibly, and a faint, surprised hum escaped him. "This... is actually good, Winderaand," he stated, his voice a low, grudging acknowledgment, a rare compliment that spoke volumes of Jove's unexpected talent.
Then came Gianna's turn. With a hopeful, expectant smile, she presented her broth. It was a pale, almost translucent liquid, with a few limp herbs floating sadly on the surface. "It's... traditional," she offered, her smile wavering slightly. I managed a polite, strained, "It's... good," my taste buds bracing themselves for the inevitable. Yor, however, took a spoonful of Gianna's creation, her usually unreadable expression flickering into a subtle shift of pure, unadulterated disbelief, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly before she stoically continued to eat, a testament to her iron will and loyalty. Jove, after one tentative sip, made a face that was a masterpiece of comedic horror, before quickly grabbing a piece of bread to cleanse his palate. "Well," he choked out, trying to be polite, "it certainly is... unique!"
The simple act of sharing a good meal, even in the heart of a perilous dungeon, brought a much-needed moment of normalcy and camaraderie to our group, a brief, absurd culinary competition amidst the looming dangers. Laughter, soft at first, then growing more confident, filled the small room, a warm bubble of shared amusement. We were a strange family, bickering and teasing, but finding comfort and strength in these small, unexpected moments of normalcy. Even Henry, after finishing Jove's stew, offered Gianna a small, almost kind, piece of advice on seasoning, which she accepted with a grateful nod.
As we settled down to sleep after Jove's surprisingly delicious meal, the comfortable warmth of the room began to twist, the shadows deepening into something predatory. A chilling voice, ancient and resonant, echoed not just in my mind, but seemed to vibrate through the very stone of the chamber: "Go back. Don't come. You don't belong here." I opened my eyes, but the darkness was absolute, suffocating, yet I could see him: a human figure, impossibly thin, his limbs grotesquely elongated, chained to an unseen wall, his face a mask of silent agony. "What happened?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, a desperate plea into the void. His head snapped up, his movements jerky, unnatural. His eyes, burning with a terrifying, malevolent red glow, fixed on me, not with recognition, but with a primal, consuming hunger. "Just go back," the figure urged, his voice filled with a raw, desperate terror that was not his own, but seemed to be forced from him. "The gate is leaking... and there's a big creature... so hungry... so, so hungry..." As he spoke, his eyes, those burning red orbs, seemed to swell, filling my vision, pulling me deeper into the horror.
I woke with a gasp, sweat drenching my body, the chilling image of those red eyes burned behind my eyelids. The dream felt too real, too vivid, a nightmare ripped from the very fabric of the Gauntlet. One by one, my team began to stir, their own waking gasps filling the quiet checkpoint room, their faces pale and drawn. "Did you all have a dream?" I asked, my voice hoarse, a tremor running through it. They nodded, their faces pale. Henry's voice was strained as he confirmed, "I saw my brother Louis, chained."