Thirty-two. It’s an average number of casualties for any given day, but the Catacombs went from unusually desolate to more active than ever in the span of an hour. The first wave came in the usual groups of four, but something about them was…strange.

I dispatched the first four adventurers who came into my dungeon and started manhandling my dogs with the usual ease. After my close run-in with the silver arrow, I learned my lesson. They were all at higher levels, ranging from 119 to 124. The next two groups were even stronger. I was used to the loudmouthed bands of sloppy warriors and the odd champion who entered the dark underground passages never to return. An exceptional few were lucky enough to slip out while I was occupied with another group. The only time any of them posed a real threat was when the groups banded together. Once, a cluster of twelve had me on the defensive for a few solid moments—until a fight broke out amongst them and made it easier to cull their numbers.

I’m hoping that today won’t be one of those days. I’ve barely had a second to catch my breath, but there’s finally a lull. I pluck a few broken arrows from my chest and my body starts healing immediately.

Well, it healed before the arrows were out, but there’s nothing pleasant about flesh sealing over iron.

I turn and shake my head at the mangled corpse of the fallen hellhound who guards the northeast corridor. Cerberus is waiting at the lip of the tunnel that leads into the core of the Catacombs. The three-headed beast comes up to my shoulder on all fours, and he makes a rumbling sound of approval as I pat his rightmost head on my way through.

“Hell of a day, wasn’t it, boy?” I scoff, discarding my bone-spiked cloak on a rib hook protruding from the reddened stone. The core of the Catacombs is a vast, circular expanse with row upon row of recesses filled with the remains of the Kingdom’s noble dead. The recesses only contain the bones of honorable warriors who fought well in battle and served the High King of Al’Goryth. I was one of them once, but when the Rook Mage turned the kingdom and its once glorious cities to ruins, he polluted my will and made me one of his damned sentries.

Here I remain, centuries later, trapped in the subterranean graveyard that’s become of the city I once ruled. Xantarth was once the greatest city in Al’Goryth, my personal bias aside. Now, it’s nothing more than bones and ghosts. Now I’m nothing more than its cursed guardian, condemned to defend its unhallowed caverns from every plucky treasure hunter who comes through.

I’ve long ceased to wonder about the ways of the Outsiders. Those who’ve survived the Rook Mage’s destruction and evaded his influence by forging a life for themselves outside the kingdom walls and occasionally scavenging the realm for supplies and treasure. Their world is beyond my reach, and after so many centuries of isolation, it is all but beyond my comprehension. Still, with the recent influx of ill-prepared warriors begging for death, I have to wonder what’s possessed the lot of them.

It’s rare to see elves and humans working together. More often than not, they turn on each other before my hellhounds get the chance. The words of the human rogue from days ago still echo in my mind.

We’ll see how you fare when the event starts.

No matter how often I’ve replayed those words, I still can’t make any sense of them. What event is he talking about? Is this something the Outsider barons have cooked up in their never ending and futile quest to reclaim the realm? I put together the bits and pieces I collect from watching them in the tunnels, but none of it forms a whole picture. Not one that makes sense, at any rate. Just snippets of conversations that fail to form a whole.

“That was a good trial run. Will you be able to find that alternate tunnel during the real thing?”

“Shit, he’s bigger than I thought. We’d better trade for more silver ore.”

“See how that bastard feels come event time.”

There’s that word again. “Event.” I’m starting to wonder if the Outsiders have given it a new meaning.

The onslaught is more irritating than overwhelming, but the way they speak makes me fear that it’s only just beginning.

The Catacombs are the hundredth dungeon erected from the ruins of the lost cities. An enchantment keeps the place hidden to those who don’t possess a Seeker’s Stone, and in order to obtain it, they must have obtained artifacts from each of the 99 dungeons. That limits the amount of eagerness I have to contend with on a daily basis. Either the enchantment is wearing thin, or they’re handing out stones like candy in the market strip.

I can’t leave this to chance any longer. I have to make sure the enchantment remains in place. Standing from my throne, I then crouch and prepare to leap into the stony rafters. Dust settles beneath my feet as my claws dig into the cool earth above the Catacombs’ core. I raise my head and sniff the air. It’s dank with old magic, and the narrow beams of stones that form a spiderweb pattern above the core groan and creak under my weight as I walk toward the wall.

Shadows cover the etchings that have been carved within the stone since long before I became this dungeon’s Lord, but I know their placement well. I raise a clawed hand and pause a moment to contemplate how stark the difference is between it and the relatively smooth human hand I once possessed. Where callused flesh once covered bone, now there’s only fur and rough hide pads tipped with claws like knives. I raise my index claw and dig it into the pad on my left palm, stopping only when blood rises to the surface.

I press my hand against the stone and the blood ignites the etchings, freeing them from a layer of decades-old bone dust. The green runes spring to life with magical current that bleeds all the way across the circular dome, lighting even the darkness of the core below.

The enchantment remains in place, and strong as ever. That means the adventurers who find me are playing by the rules, which raises far more concerns than the alternative.