The world was grey, cold, and smelled like wet dog and sulfur.

Riva shot out of the hidden chimney shaft like a cork from a bottle. The smoke from the dungeon below—usually a warm, comforting updraft—billowed around her for a moment before the biting wind of the surface world snatched it away.

She hit the cool, crisp air and let out a shriek. It wasn't joy; it was a battle cry.

"SCREEEEE!"

Below her, the hill that hid The Teasing Tomb was swarming with ants. But not ants—bones.

Thousands of them.

Riva banked hard to the left, catching a thermal current rising from the valley floor. She looked down just in time to see the mountain sneeze.

BOOM.

It wasn't a sharp crack like thunder; it was a deep, guttural heave of the earth. Grika's charges detonated deep underground.

Riva watched, mesmerized and horrified, as the main entrance of the dungeon, the stone archway, the welcome mat, the wicket gate, simply vanished. The hillside above it liquified, sliding down in a massive avalanche of dirt, granite, and uprooted trees.

A massive cloud of dust mushroomed upward. The skeletons caught in the slide didn't scream. They just crunched. A Death Knight, standing tall and proud one second, was erased by a falling boulder the size of a carriage the next.

Riva hovered, her wings beating silently against the wind.

Closed, she thought. The concept hit her harder than the wind. Door gone. Boss trapped. Shiny Boss is in the box.

For a moment, panic fluttered in her chest. She was a dungeon monster. She belonged inside. She needed the warmth of the Core, the smell of pizza, the annoying hum of the mana lamps. Out here, there was only the Fog and the Dead Things.

Then, she remembered the order.

"Hit the bridge. Drop the bombs."

Riva reached into the heavy leather satchel strapped to her leg. It was Grika's special bag. Inside, six round iron spheres clicked together.

She looked down. The undead army was in disarray. The collapse had crushed their vanguard, and the rest were milling about the rubble, confused.

"Bird follows orders," Riva whispered.

She tucked her wings and dove.

She didn't screech. She didn't announce herself. She fell like a stone, silent and deadly.

She aimed for a cluster of Wights—the glowy-eyed commanders shouting orders at the confused skeletons.

She pulled the pin on the first bomb with her teeth, spit it out, and dropped the sphere.

Three. Two. One.

KA-POW.

The explosion wasn't huge, Grika made them for noise and concussion, not leveling cities, but it was effective. The black powder blast knocked the Wights off their feet, scattering bone shrapnel everywhere.

"Take that!" Riva cawed, pulling out of her dive at the last second. "Eat fireworks, bone-bags!"

She swung around for a second pass, dropping two more bombs on a group of skeletal archers who were trying to string their bows.

BOOM. BOOM.

Dust and ribs flew into the air.

Riva laughed. It was a wild, hysterical sound. For a moment, she felt invincible. She was the Sky Terror. She was the Death from Above.

Then, the air sizzled.

ZZZTT.

A bolt of green necrotic energy whipped past her head, singeing her ear tufts.

Riva yelped and barrel-rolled to the right. Another bolt followed. Then a volley of black arrows.

She looked down.

A Lich—floating near the back of the army—was pointing a staff at her. Its eyes burned with cold, calculating intelligence. It wasn't confused by the bombs. It was annoyed.

Too many, Riva realized, her heart hammering against her ribs. Too many sharp sticks.

She couldn't win this. She was one bird against a legion.

She pumped her wings, climbing hard. She pushed herself higher, past the effective range of the arrows, past the reach of the green magic, until the army below looked like a spill of ink on the landscape.

She circled the area, her adrenaline fading into a cold, heavy dread.

The sun began to set. The grey light of the day faded into the pitch black of a moonless night.

The Necropolis army didn't sleep. They didn't eat. They just worked.

Riva watched from a high branch in a dead oak tree a mile away. She was shivering. The mud disguise Reed had made her wear was dry and itchy now, crumbling off her feathers. She missed her Flash-Harness. She missed the heat of the Foundry.

Below, the skeletons were digging. They moved rocks with tireless, mechanical rhythm. Scrape. Lift. Toss. They were clearing the rubble.

But they weren't getting in fast enough.

Riva narrowed her eyes. Her night vision was excellent. She watched the flow of mana in the dark.

The army was shifting.

The Lich, the one who had shot at her, was gesturing to the West.

From the main mass of the army, a detachment broke off. It was small, but terrifying. Two Siegebreakers.

Massive, hulking shapes moving with surprising speed. They weren't digging. They were marching.

And they weren't marching toward the dungeon. They were marching away from it.

Where go? Riva wondered, tilting her head. Dungeon is here. Boss is here.

She watched them move. They were heading toward the river. Toward the old stone bridge.

Riva's brain, usually occupied by thoughts of shiny objects and food, made a tactical connection.

Road, she realized. That road goes to the City. That road brings the Metal Lady's friends.

The Necromancer wasn't just attacking the dungeon. He was cutting off the reinforcements. If those Siegebreakers destroyed the bridge, the Inquisitor's army couldn't cross the river.

Kaelen would be trapped inside the dungeon forever.

And Boss will be stuck with Metal Lady forever, Riva thought with horror. Too much yelling. Too much cleaning.

This was big. This was important.

She looked back at the dungeon entrance. It was still sealed tight.

She looked at the chimney shaft—the hole she had flown out of.

It was silent. No smoke was coming out.

Strange, Riva thought. Foundry is always hot. Smoke always comes out.

She flew over to the chimney hole, hovering directly above it. She sniffed.

Nothing. No sulfur. No pizza. No heat.

It was cold. And from deep, deep down… she heard nothing.

Earlier, she could hear the muffled thump-thump of the battle. The grind of the machine. The roar of the Lady's magic.

Now? Silence.

Riva's heart stopped.

Did they die?

The thought was a physical blow. Did the skeletons get in? Was Grika dead? Was Seraphine a pile of snakeskin? Was the Boss… gone?

No, Riva hissed, landing on the lip of the shaft. Boss is strong. Boss is distinct.

She peered into the darkness.

"Boss?" she chirped softly. The sound was swallowed by the dark.

She needed to know. She couldn't stay out here in the cold while her family was in the dark.

But the shaft was sealed. Grika had closed the emergency blast damper. It was a solid iron plate somewhere down there.

Riva looked at her claws. They were sharp. Steel-tipped. Good for shredding meat.

She looked at the dirt and loose rock around the rim of the shaft.

Bird digs, she decided.

She began to tear at the earth next to the shaft. It was hard work. The ground was frozen. Her talons ached. But she didn't stop.

Scritch. Scrape. Toss.

She dug like a badger possessed. She dug until her feathers were matted with clay. She dug until her claw hit metal. The side of the ventilation duct.

She found a seam, a rusted joint where the metal met the stone. She jammed her beak into it and pried.

POP.

A rivet gave way. Then another. A small hole opened up. Just big enough for a harpy to squeeze through.

Air puffed out.

But it wasn't warm. It was freezing cold. It smelled of ozone and burnt magic.

Riva squeezed through the hole, scraping her wings, and dropped into the darkness of the shaft.

She fell, tumbling down the long metal throat of the dungeon, sliding on soot and grease.

She hit the bottom grate—the one inside the Foundry—and kicked it open.

CLANG.

She dropped onto the floor of Floor 3.

It was pitch black. The lava was black glass. The air was biting cold. The only light came from the far end of the room, a faint, dying glow of a silver sword.

Riva stood up, shaking the dust from her wings.

"Boss?" she whispered into the terrifying silence.

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