The forest pulsed with a silence that wasn't natural. It held its breath like a wounded beast, waiting for something worse. Stronric stirred where he lay in the cave's mouth, cheek pressed against the cool dirt, his body a patchwork of bruises and dried blood. The scent of crushed ore and bird sweat hung heavy in the air, mingling with rot from the deeper woods beyond.

Pain anchored him. Not sharp, but deep and hollow, broken ribs grinding against each other with every breath. He didn't need to probe to count how many. At least two on the right. Maybe three. The kind of wounds you didn't walk off. The kind that demanded stillness, patience, or a death sentence if you were caught moving before your time.

But time was not a luxury he had.

The Mountain Canary watched him from across the cave, one eye half-lidded, head turned just enough to keep Stronric in its line of sight. It was resting, but never sleeping. Never fully still. The moment Stronric twitched, the bird's talons scraped softly against the stone. A movement not to a threat, not as alarm, just awareness.

"Still here, are ye?" Stronric muttered. His voice was raw gravel. The words rasped through cracked lips, but the bird perked up at the sound. It clacked its beak twice, then tilted its head back and let out a short chirp.

"Glad yer enjoyin' yerself."

He pushed himself upright with a grunt that stole the wind from his lungs. Pain flared, hot and blinding, and his hand shot out, steadying himself against the wall. After that, each breath was short and shallow. He'd felt worse before, that was when he was with his old company in the deep roads, the medic was never too far away.

Outside, the sickly gold-green light filtered through the broken canopy. The forest had stopped shifting, no howls, no rustling, just the slow groan of trees too old to stand straight, and the occasional chirr of some twisted insect. Stronric reached into his satchel. He had half a fruit, one strip of dried root and no water.

He grunted, eyes narrowing. "Right. We need to fix that."

The fruit was chewed in silence, pulp stringy and dry. The root took longer, his jaw working against the fibrous strands. It bought him time and gave him a few more hours of clarity. When he finally rose to his feet, every joint screamed in protest. The Mountain Canary clicked its beak again, rising with him.

"Ye comin' then?" he asked, without humor.

The bird tilted its head and followed.

Outside the cave, the forest stretched in all directions like a labyrinth of thorns. Nothing grew in clean lines. Trees leaned against each other in drunken slants. Their roots were raised like bony fingers clawing through the moss. Stronric paused, staring across the land, baffled.

How big was this place? How had it gotten here? Why did it even exist?

He remembered nights around the fire when Mintra explained what scholars thought dungeons truly were pocket realms, shaped by ancient magic and twisted purpose. But this was too vast, and it didn't feel like a carved chamber or illusion. It felt like a world, like something alive and growing beyond its means. If this place existed to challenge adventurers, how could it sustain itself? If people entered it regularly for herbs or salvage, how did it keep up with demand? Did it change between visits? Was time different inside?

His brow furrowed. Could someone live in here? Could a settlement be built without the dungeon resetting? If he rescued the bird was it going to follow him out? Would the world let that happen? Or would it split the creature in two, leave a version behind?

The deeper Stronric thought, the worse it got. Every answer bred more questions. Reality and rules bent in ways that made his ribs ache worse than before.

He clicked his dry lips and let out a slow breath. Enough thinking.

Time to move.

Stronric moved carefully. One step. Another. Breathe. Stop. Lean. He would not die out here. Not now. Not like this.

The search for water took him downhill, past old stonework half-swallowed by creeping vines. He paused at one outcropping, resting his hand against the weather-worn carvings. The markings were nearly faded to nothing, carved in a language he didn't recognize. Stronric ran his fingers along the stone, hoping his gift for understanding foreign tongues would awaken, but it remained silent. No whisper of meaning stirred in his mind. After a quiet moment, he exhaled through his nose and turned away. He and the bird moved on.

They reached a small hollow not long after, where the ground dipped and the moss gave way to dark, wet soil. A trickle of water ran down the face of a stone shelf, barely more than a seep, but clean. Stronric dropped to his knees beside it and cupped his hands.

Cool. Fresh. No rot.

He drank deeply, wincing at the cold shock against his cracked lips. The Mountain Canary watched for a moment, then clambered onto a stone and dipped its beak into a puddle forming below the seep. It sipped like a hawk, then promptly smacked its beak against the rock twice and shook itself, spraying droplets.

Then it let out a sound halfway between a warble and a scream and ran face-first into a nearby stump.

Stronric flinched. "Oi!"

But the bird wasn't hurt. It was digging, pecking, scraping and tearing into the wood. The old stump cracked open, and a swarm of pale, writhing grubs spilled out. The Canary shrieked in triumph and began devouring them like a feast, its hooked beak scooping them with practiced precision.

Stronric felt his stomach twist. Not from nausea from hunger.

He eyed the stump. Walked over. Took a grub.

It squirmed between his fingers, fat and full of sap. He bit down and once, then twice.

"By the Hearth Fire," he muttered through gritted teeth, "that's… actually not too bad."

He finished the grub. Then another. With a grunt, he collected a few more and one by one, popped them into his mouth with his thumb, like peanuts at a tavern bar.

The Canary watched with what might've been approval. Then it strutted in a circle around him, dragging its claws across the moss like it was showing off.

"You think ye're clever, do ye?" Stronric said with a chuckle.

The bird chittered in response, then darted a few paces into the woods, paused, and looked back. Stronric didn't follow at first. He stood, breathing shallowly, watching. The bird took another step, then another. The Canary was stopped, still looking back as if waiting. Stronric let out a resigned huff and followed the bird. If nothing else, the creature had survived this long and plainly knew where to find food, even if it was grubs.

The sun or whatever passed for it in this cursed place, never moved. The light filtered through the twisted canopy in the same gold-sick hue, soft as decay and just as stubborn. Time was a broken wheel here. Stronric didn't know if he'd been awake for hours or a full day, but he was still breathing and that counted for something.

The Mountain Canary hadn't left his side since they started walking. It lingered ahead, circling back often, chirping at odd intervals, sometimes vanishing into the trees before reappearing with a triumphant shriek and a bug half the size of his palm wriggling in its beak. It devoured its catches with the precise violence of a smith breaking slag from ore quick, brutal, efficient.

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Stronric watched it with a tired eye. "Yer a strange one," he muttered, not expecting a response.

The bird let out a high-pitched squeal, then flapped its wings and bounded toward him in short bursts of speed. It came to a halt only a few feet away, tilting its head so hard it looked like it might snap its own neck. Then, with deliberate care, it plucked a beetle off the moss, walked it over, and dropped it at Stronric's feet.

Stronric blinked.

"…Ye givin' me a gift?" He asked, his voice filled with amusement, as he gave the bird a questioning look.

The Canary puffed out its chest, feathers ruffling in a slow ripple of black and gold.

Stronric looked down at the twitching beetle. It clicked feebly, legs thrashing in the air.

"Ye might be a strange one," Stronric muttered, a wry smile tugging at his beard, "but to offer food when it's scarce… ye're almost a friend."

He chuckled, then leaned down, using the bird for balance, and snatched up the bug, popping it into his mouth with a crunch. Stronric gave the bird a pat, before the creature shrieked again in approval and dashed forward again, leading the way.

They reached a clearing where the forest dipped into a shallow basin. The ground here was soft with rot, and the trees stood further apart. The air carried a strange scent of wet stone, iron, and something vaguely floral, though not pleasant. Stronric leaned against a tree to catch his breath, his ribs burning beneath the pressure of his own chest.

The Mountain Canary stood still. It hadn't moved since entering the basin. Its feathers lay flat, and it remained silent, no chirps, no clicks, only the soft faint sound of the rise and fall of its chest.

Stronric followed its gaze.

At the center of the clearing stood a large slab of stone tilted slightly, like it had once been part of a wall or monolith. Runes were carved across its surface, crude and wide, as if scratched in haste or pain. Around the base, the forest didn't grow. The moss recoiled. The flowers twisted away. The light itself seemed to dim.

Stronric's stomach turned.

"Corruption," he whispered. "Fresh."

The Canary let out a low hum that sounded like gears clicking, its beak clicking in short bursts.

Stronric took a step forward. Instinctively, he reached for his axe but his hand came back empty. With a twitch of his fingers, he summoned a throwing axe instead, though he doubted he had the strength to use it if things went south. He crouched beside the stone and ran his fingers over the markings. His breath caught.

This wasn't dwarven. It wasn't gnoll. It wasn't even human.

The symbols were jagged, shallow, and hastily carved. This was not long left art nor a warning. The runes hum or pulse, but the air around the carved slab of stone felt tight like breath caught in a throat. Whatever these markings were, they held power over this place. That much he could feel, but he couldn't read them, not even a little.

Stronric moved closer, crouching beside the stone. His fingertips brushed a line of crude sigils, and a chill crept through him. The longer he stared, the worse it got. His blood ran colder, his skin itched, and something behind his eyes whispered wrong.

He dragged his fingers along the etched lines. It felt like sliding through something both cold and gooey but when he rubbed his fingers together, there was no residue. Nothing seen, nothing felt. Just… unease. Deep and sour.

There was power here real power. The kind that dwarves didn't name. The kind that didn't care about smiths or gods or honor.

Stronric grimaced. "I don't like this."

The Mountain Canary paced behind him in slow, deliberate circles. Its feathers lay flat, its body low. No chirps. No clicks. Just silence.

Stronric stood, ribs flaring with pain. He took one last look at the slab.

The shadows had begun to stretch unnaturally longer than they should have in the unmoving sun. They writhed faintly at the edges.

"Whatever this is… it ain't meant for me. Not yet. Come. Best be gone from here." Stronric rumbled quietly.

He stood slowly, ribs flaring with every inch. He looked around no bones, no fresh kills. Whatever had left this here had done it deliberately, without haste, but was it a mark, a warning, or a leash?

"We can't stay here," he said, mostly to himself, before turning to the Canary.

The bird didn't need convincing. It was already backing toward the trees, steps slow and careful, head low.

They continued deeper into the woods, circling the corrupted slab and following a dry creek bed that wound through the roots like a forgotten scar. Stronric's steps slowed with every hundred paces. His legs trembled and his vision blurred at the edges. He needed more rest if he was going to heal.

Eventually, the Canary stopped at a small ridge of stone and crouched, talons pressed to the ground. It began to scratch.

Not at random. Not like before.

It carved slow, curved gouges in the earth, lines connecting to each other in a rough crescent. Then it stepped back and chirped softly.

Stronric frowned. "What… what's this now?"

The bird tapped one of the crescents and then turned its head toward the trees.

Stronric followed the Canary's gaze. Beyond the ridge, a half-collapsed stone archway jutted from the base of a moss-covered slope. Thick roots draped across its curve, and vines tangled around its edges. But as he stepped closer, he saw more low stone posts, some toppled, others leaning, forming the ragged outline of an old perimeter fence. Half-buried in moss and leaves, a few rusted iron rods still stretched between them, marking out a yard long reclaimed by the wild.

This wasn't just a gate.

It was a homestead.

He limped past the shattered fence, boots crunching over soil softened by time and rot. The archway stood like the old gate to a forgotten homestead, though the gate itself was long gone, nothing remained to close. The fence was low, barely waist-high, and wouldn't have stopped much from coming or going. It seemed more a courtesy than a defense, a gesture of boundary rather than protection.

Stronric's boots sank through moss and loose earth until he felt the distinct shape of stone beneath, old pathway stones, half-buried, that once guided visitors to the door. The building ahead had been built into the slope like a cellar or hillside bunker. The dirt was uneven along the incline, sloping up toward the walls, and Stronric guessed there were windows beneath the soil and vine. That meant the home below wasn't large, just enough for one family. A dwarven farmhouse, perhaps. One meant to last through hard winters and harder years.

He felt it in his bones the moment he saw it. Not just the craftsmanship, but the intention. This wasn't a tomb. It wasn't a shrine. This had once been a home. Not the kind of craftsmanship sung about in legends, but the kind he knew well, the quiet carvings of a father working beside his children, of a husband shaping something simple for his wife. Not grand, but good. The kind of work that held warmth. It reminded him of his cousins' place, out in the hills of a newly established hold. Others had called it the middle of nowhere, too far from the mountain halls, too quiet. But his cousins had lived well. They had space, peace, and the rhythm of the land without the noise and bustle of the deepholds.

The Canary had disappeared from view, slipping around the corner of one of the collapsed stone and wood structures. By the look of it, Stronric had taken it to be a storage shed or above-ground toolhouse. Limping after it, he rounded the corner and found the bird standing still outside a mostly collapsed wooden building.

The roof had long since rotted away, the beams splintered and pulled apart by creeping vines that had devoured the wood over time. Stronric approached slowly, and the Canary, focused on something within, flinched at the sound of his steps. It jumped back, startled, as if it hadn't noticed him coming. For a moment, the creature looked... lost as if caught in a memory. Then it stomped once and turned away, striding back toward the front of the compound without a sound.

Stronric frowned and stepped closer, curious now.

He found the remnants of a nest built from stone, dry grasses, and brittle branches, all long decayed and trampled underfoot. Crushed eggshells littered the ground, pale and broken, half-buried in the moss. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and shook his head.

"Poor beast," he muttered, voice low and steady.

Then he turned and limped away, following the Canary's trail back across the ruins.

The wind shifted as Stronric limped back across the compound, the scent of old wood and leaf mold heavy in the still air. The Mountain Canary stood waiting near the archway, head tilted toward the door that was set into the hill side. Stronric limped forward, brushing aside vines and branches. The top half of the arch was still visible, but the doorway beneath it was buried up to the lintel in soil and debris. The surface was flush stone. He could find no opening nor a handle. It seemed to be sealed, but not broken and ruined.

Symbols ran faintly along the arch's inner curve, nearly erased by wind, time, and creeping growth. He recognized only fragments: Stone-Blessing, maybe Deep-Hearth. It was hard to tell with the decay of time.

Moss clung to the stone, but corruption hadn't touched it. This place had resisted the rot longer than anything else he'd seen. Even the forest seemed to hesitate here.

He glanced back at the Canary.

"You brought me here on purpose, didn't ye?" Stronric said with a raised brow.

The bird blinked slowly, then stepped forward and tapped its beak against the stone. A hollow thunk echoed deep inside. Dust spilled from a fine crack high on the stone's face and with it, a thin gust of dry, stale air, just enough to kiss his cheek.

Stronric froze.

A draft.

His eyes narrowed and he moved closer, running his hands along the slab. The stone was worn but solid. Still, there on the right side, half-hidden beneath moss he found it. A vertical seam, thin as a knife's edge.

He stepped back and looked to the Canary. "Well," he rasped, voice tired but steady, "let's see if it still opens."

The bird tilted its head, then let out a short, sharp chirp and stomped once. A dull rumble followed as stone shifted beneath the earth and the slab began to move. Slowly, grinding outward just enough for a dwarf to pass through.

Air spilled out dry, untouched, carrying the scent of dust, iron, and old stone.

Stronric hesitated only a moment, then with a hand braced on the doorway, he stepped inside.

The Canary followed.

And the stone sealed quietly behind them.

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