Bea’s shield spell had saved their lives, but as Carey fled from the burning room, protected by a shivering layer of energy surrounding the party, he found himself repeating the same phrase in his mind.

Too close. Too damn close.

Christ, that was too close.

EXPERIENCE GAINED: 375 points (1,235/4,125 to next level)

They stopped in the corridor to heal, rest, and recover. Munching on his two remaining Charred Elki Thighs, Carey desperately wanted to discuss strategy, but every time he opened his mouth to speak, Bea cast him a heated look. At one point, he tried to get their attention, but Beatrice only gave him the cold shoulder.

“What’s your problem?” he asked her, pulling her aside.

“Nothing.” She shook his hand off her arm. “I just want to get out of this dungeon.”

“Me too. But why do you keep shutting me out?”

“You still haven’t apologized to me.”

“For what?” Carey was genuinely confused. Everything until now had been light-hearted ribbing, right? Just two people in a stressful situation getting to know each other.

Her lower lip shivered slightly. Moisture appeared in her eyes. She drew away from Carey, and he took a step back to let her have some space.

“What happened to you, Bea? What brought you here? You can talk to me.”

“I can? Really?”

He was about to nod, feeling slightly victorious—finally, I melted her cold heart!—when Beatrice scoffed at him instead. “You know you only care about yourself.”

Guess not.

His stomach dropped as he watched her join Will to inspect their gear. What good was a party if the members hated each other? They were supposed to watch each other’s backs, but Carey was no longer certain Beatrice would do what was necessary to protect his.

Under Will’s guidance, they did a full inventory to make sure they knew what resources they had to spare. Carey once more fantasized about killing the bastard pipsqueak who’d stolen his silver and Nectar potions. As a group, they were woefully unprepared as far as potions went. Will had about seven Minor Nectar potions, three major ones, and six Stamina potions of varying sizes. Beatrice had four Minor Nectar potions, one major one, and a few buffing and Stamina potions.

Carey had nothing to contribute. Feeling self-conscious, he offered up a suggestion that had been sticking in his mind like a thorn.

“Hey, Will, got any water spells?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s go back to the dining room.”

The fire had dwindled in the corner, having consumed the egg sac. All that remained were ashes and burning bits of broken furniture. Will cast water spells to put out the flames. Carey picked up (4) Ash Heaps even though he had no idea what they were used for, but they weighed next to nothing. He also found (1) Enchanted Emerald that added a couple bonuses to a slotted weapon, including +20 water damage, +20 shock damage and +15 percent chance to critical strike.

They looted the Torg Fighters, Carey going straight for the female. He took pleasure in separating her corpse from anything and everything she’d been carrying.

It was a decent haul, overall.

He found a pair of Basic Padded Pants that had a +1 armor rating. He held them up and whistled.

“If only they had padding in the crotch.” Will grinned at him. “Then you could remove that sock you stuff down there.”

“Ha,” Carey guffawed. “Thought I saw you staring at my crotch. You like?”

Will flipped his middle finger at him.

Another win was the Luminether crystal the female had been carrying. Often, in RPGs, enemy loot didn’t make sense if you considered it in real-life terms. Why would a Torg fighter be carrying a Luminether crystal fit for a Magician? But it was a game, and you had to reward your players. Having Torgs carry only leather strips and beef jerky would get repetitive and boring real fast.

Carey passed the crystal to Will so he could restore his LP as needed during battle. He kept searching. He was done with the female Torg, whose corpse had only yielded a tiny bit more: 312 copper coins, (1) Jorboar Bone Marrow, (2) Wooden Sticks, a “Shroom Boom” recipe that allowed one to create exploding mushrooms that left a cloud of poisonous fungal spores, (1) Rag, (3) Lockpicks, and a worthless pair of Torg Light Gloves that provided no value aside from a few copper and were instantly discarded.

Carey kept an eye out for the pickpocketing thief while he looted. He had a tendency to get “in the zone” when he was filtering loot from fallen enemies, opening up the opportunity for the thief to relieve him of yet more valuables. He wouldn’t let that happen again.

The party loot was not much better. Aside from some handy (4) Minor Stamina Flasks, Carey received enough copper to bring him up to slightly over a thousand coins, which converted to 1 silver coin and change. He sorely missed the 5 silver the thief had taken, if only because it felt like the most earned money he’d ever made—he’d literally risked his life for it.

He tried to focus as he explored the rest of the room. A wooden crate stood out to him. It was only slightly charred by the fire.

“Hey, guys, check this out.”

The crate held a dozen glass flasks which were half-full of some noxious, foul-smelling oil.

“That’s the smell of Gorlag piss,” Will said.

Carey frowned as he pulled one away from his nose. “They piss oil?”

“And breathe fire.”

Carey picked up (6) Gorlag Oil and studied the liquid through the glass. “If we can find some Woorm Skins,” he said, remembering the Torg recipe, “then we can kill some Lichroot—”

Will interrupted him, sounding overjoyed. “Check it, brah.”

He tossed a sack at Carey, who caught it, yawned it open, and immediately had to whisk his face away from the scent.

“Smells like shit.”

“That’s because woorms live in shit all their lives,” Will explained. “It’s the only thing they eat and know. Shit is their entire universe.”

“Shit,” Carey said. “That sucks.”

He grabbed (6) Woorm Skins to match the bottles of Gorlag Oil in his inventory.

“How do we combine them?” Carey asked. “Wait, lemme guess—alchemy bench.”

Beatrice nodded. “We can go back to that bench from earlier. Or we can keep going and hope we find another one. They’re usually located at key points, like outside boss battles.”

“No more,” Carey said, flinging his arms in a scissoring motion. “We can’t hope for stuff to happen. I’m done taking stupid risks, hoping for the best, and expecting the game to act like a game.”

“Who died and made you our supreme leader?” Beatrice asked.

“Sorry if I’m keeping you guys alive. Don’t let me cramp your style. Alchemy bench is this way.”

The trip to the alchemy bench wasn’t a waste of time. By the end of it, they each carried two Big Leg Flamer bombs in their inventory, capable of doing 36 flame damage on a direct hit plus 8 damage-per-second to enemies caught in the flames.

Carey still had (2) Gorlag Oil left over, which could serve as a trap if one were to coat the floor with it, then light it on fire as an unsuspecting enemy crossed.

Their quest marker sent them deeper into the temple, down dusty stairwells and across dark corridors. It felt more like a crypt than a temple. Stone sarcophagi adorned with inscriptions in a language Carey couldn’t understand (if it was even a real language at all) stood against the walls. Altars sat in corners, covered in the waxy remains of old candles probably lit to honor those buried inside.

As he crept forward, Carey thought to ask Ara about this place. He didn’t have to call her. As soon as the thought flashed across his brain, Ara spiraled out of his crystal and took form in front of him.

“Glad you’re interested in the history of the Shrine of Muriel, Master DrollTroll.”

“You know what? Just call me Carey. Master DrollTroll makes me sound like an old count.” He addressed Will’s and Beatrice’s confused expressions. “Talking to Ara.”

“Ah,” Will said. “You don’t actually have to open your mouth, you know.”

“Interesting.”

Tell me more, he told Ara, feeling like a telepath straight out of a Stephen King novel.

“Her story began long ago,” Ara continued. “Over six hundred years ago, in fact...”

Muriel, Carey soon learned, was an Acolyte priestess and demigoddess, granddaughter of the God of War and Order, Sargos. Her mother was a princess named Rialna, known far and wide for her beauty and kindness. The power and goodness of Rialna’s demigod father, King Welphon III, had made him an international celebrity, one of the most famous men in the realm. Though the Acolyte king never approved of his daughter being just one of Sargos’s many wives—the god’s harem numbered over a thousand human women between the ages of sixteen and sixty—he still loved Rialna’s one and only child, his granddaughter Muriel—loved her so much, in fact, that he named her the heir to his throne and kingdom, bypassing Rialna entirely.

Muriel refused. She had no intention of ever wielding that kind of power over her fellow citizens. She chose to become a priestess of Aliara and even started her own Aliaric church, known as the Ministry of the One Wing. She and her followers spent their days spreading Aliara’s message of peace, self-sacrifice, and service to the poor, and using their magic to heal the sick and wounded.

“Booooring,” Carey said, motioning for Ara to go back inside the crystal.

“Muriel?” Will asked. “I just listened to it myself. It’s good to check out the lore. It can help with puzzles.”

“I couldn’t get past the part where she tells off her dad, choosing to help sick people instead of ruling a kingdom, which makes total sense. Who’d want a life of wealth, power, and leisure when you can clean up after people’s blood and vomit all day?” Carey chuckled, then saw Will roll his eyes. “Fine,” Carey relented. “Tell me the highlights. I know you want to.”

Will cleared his throat, obviously pleased with the opportunity. “She devotes her life to the unfortunate, but then her dad, the king, gets sick. He’s on his deathbed and begs her to take over. Muriel says yes to his dying wish, but only on the condition they make her church the official religion of the kingdom. Also, all citizens no matter what race gotta serve a mandatory two years building hospitals, temples, and helping those less fortunate peeps.”

“She sounds like a nice person,” Carey said.

Will’s expression became glum. “After her grandfather died and she was made queen, Muriel became so popular with Acolytes that they started building temples and shrines on all the continents, including Taradyn. Some had to be hidden underground, like this one. So, yeah—her religion’s spreading and not everybody’s a fan.

“As these things go, another kingdom felt threatened and declared war against Queen Muriel. Her army wasn’t up to the task. You see, it used to be that every citizen had to serve a mandatory three years in the army. But Muriel made the requirement two years of serving the poor and sick, and only one year of military service. People loved this, and it’s why her religion spread so quickly. Helping the sick was way better than getting shot at by enemy archers.

“But the kingdom that attacked her had a mandatory four years of military service and couldn’t risk anyone changing that. It made them tougher in battle, having those three extra years of fighting experience, know what I mean?”

Carey nodded, intrigued. Beatrice took over the story at this point. “She wasn’t just defeated on a battlefield. The king of the opposing kingdom sent his best Feral assassin to kill Muriel and make it look like an accident. The last thing he wanted was to make a martyr out of her, so the assassin decided to give Muriel a sleeping drug right before a long flight. The assassin knew her schedule thanks to capturing and torturing someone high up in her army. So, this assassin spikes her morning tea, and while Muriel is flying across a lake, she falls asleep on the wing and drowns.

“The others flying with her thought she was simply taking a dip, cooling off. By the time they pulled her out of the water, it was too late. Her death caused riots to break out across Astros, especially when everyone learned the truth.”

“How did they find out the truth?” Carey asked.

Will took over. “Her death was so shocking and painful to so many people that the king who ordered her assassination got nervous. He had the Feral assassin killed to protect his secret. But the assassin had a wife, and she got to hear his confession before he was executed. After his death by hanging, his wife went and told a whole bunch of people what really happened. The truth spread like wildfire.”

“The story’s not over,” Beatrice said, talking fast from excitement. “Even though Muriel’s army was defeated, and even though she only lasted ten years as queen, she became one of the most popular and famous rulers in the history of Astros. An underground movement started—they called themselves the Murielytes—and it eventually became an army of its own.

“The Murielytes toppled the king who assassinated their saint. They made it perfectly legal on his continent to worship at Muriel’s temples, and the religion soon became the dominant one for Acolytes all over.”

“Not a bad story,” Carey said. “Ara, if you can hear me, I’m sorry I dismissed you so quick.”

“It’s okay,” her voice squeaked from the crystal. “No harm done.”

“I thought the story could have used a love interest,” Beatrice said with a sigh. “But that’s just me.”

I’ll give you a love interest, Carey thought to say but held himself back. He was getting better at not being a mouthy moron.

They encountered a corridor with several doors and began exploring each in turn, Carey using his Feral senses to detect enemies. One of the rooms was loaded with egg sacs and roaming Adult Lichroot Spiders, so they avoided that one. Carey had a knack for smelling spiders and guessing accurately how many there were—a perk of having Feral senses.

Studying his surroundings, he picked out and retrieved several useful loot items: (3) Web Residues, (2) Lengths of Twine, (13) Steel Nails, (4) Lead Pipes, (7) Wooden Blocks, (2) Steel Ingots and (4) Iron Ingots. His “carry weight” had reached 47 pounds, just shy of his maximum of 55. He’d have to be a little more selective of what he chose to pick up from now on.

The room at the end of the corridor was locked.

Finally. A chance to check out the game’s lockpicking system. He checked his skill level and saw that it was a measly 8 points.

“Damn it. Anyone else above 8?” he asked the others, making sure to whisper in case there were enemies inside the room.

They shook their heads.

“All you, bro,” Will said.

Carey wanted to kick himself for using Scout Eye earlier, to explore the woods. This would have been a perfect time, but the damned ability was once-a-day only. He could have used it to see through the door and check if there was loot inside worth going for.

He made the lockpick appear from his quick-access menu. Lothos, the Traveling Merchant, had mentioned that the QA menu was a good tool for keeping track of essential items one might need in a hurry. Right now, the strip of inventory slots showed zero Nectar potions. He asked if the others had any to spare.

Beatrice grudgingly supplied him with two minor potions. Will gave him three minor potions and one major. Carey popped them into his quick-access slots, along with his Stamina flasks, (1) Lumos Fruit, which restored 25 HP and 30 SP and boosted CON by +1; (3) Jorboar Bone Marrow, which restored 35 HP and 20 SP with a -2 penalty to CON if consumed while uncooked; and (3) Speckled Horned Shrooms, each of which restored 35 HP with a penalty of -3 to PER while uncooked. All the uncooked items granted better HP boosts and stat bonuses once cooked, which was something they should have done using the flames from the banquet hall.

Carey studied his one and only lockpick. That wretched, thieving midget had taken his other two.

As soon as he placed the lockpick into the hole beneath the door handle, the graphics in front of him changed. Now, instead of a wooden door with a simple metal handle, he found himself staring at a bluish, three-dimensional representation of a lock and its internal mechanisms. It resembled a hologram crafted by lasers.

“Can you guys see this?”

“Yup,” Will said.

“Have you done one of these before?”

“No, but it should be pretty simple. Right, Bea?”

She shrugged. “His skill is 8, which is pretty useless.”

“Thanks, Bea,” Carey said, shaking his head. “It’s still 8 percent. Almost a one-in-ten shot, right?”

“It’s out of 200,” Will said. “Skills max out at 200, so 8 is 4 percent if you’re thinking in terms of percentages.”

“Welp,” Carey said, “might as well give it a shot.”

He took off his armor, making it disappear instantly from sight.

“What are you doing?” Beatrice asked.

“Luck of the Naked Cat,” he explained. “One of my class abilities. If I take off my armor, I can boost my lockpicking skill by one-point-five. Works on traps and anything else influenced by luck.”

“So, basically,” she said, “getting naked makes you more lucky.”

He grinned at her. “Is that how it works with you? Because I’ll strip right now!”

Typical Beatrice—she rolled her eyes, shook her head, and sighed. Didn’t even crack a smile, though Will did. Good enough.

Luck of the Naked Cat only lasted for 120 seconds, so Carey would make sure to activate it once he figured out what the hell he was doing.

It didn’t look too hard. The lockpicking mechanism could be manipulated with one hand, which left the other free to hold a torch if necessary. Will already held one up so Carey could see what he was up against. His lockpick was bent double like a bobby pin. Both prongs served a function, which made the lockpicking mini-game complicated but loads of fun.

The upper prong had to push a driver up against its spring. The lower prong had to click at exactly the right moment in which a white line slid across the length of the locking mechanism to align momentarily with a black line.

If clicked correctly, the driver would “lock” and would no longer be pushed down by the spring. There were twelve drivers total, which meant this could take forever. The tutorial notification further explained that the higher one’s skill, the fewer drivers had to be frozen and the easier it became to align the white slider with the black line, which would become thicker with more expertise.

If clicked incorrectly, the drivers would reset, and he’d be back at square one.

Having activated Luck of the Naked Cat, Carey went to work. He managed to freeze four drivers before the lockpick broke. Another notification popped into his vision, explaining that locks broke depending on your skills with lockpicking and your Luck attribute.

“Guess that’s it,” he said, putting his armor back on. “That was my last pick.”

“Good thing we might not need to pick the lock,” Will said, grinning.

“What do you mean?”

He held up an old-fashioned skeleton key, the bronze kind that sported those elaborately designed bows and bits at each end.

“It was hanging by a string on the wall of the dining room. Figured it would come in handy.”

“Dude, not cool,” Carey said, baring his fangs. “I went through my only lockpick, and you had a key this whole time?”

“Put those away,” Will said. “You look like the Chris Farley of vampires.”

“Real funny. Where’d you take comedy lessons? The Flint Michigan School of Eddie Murphy Wannabes?”

“You sayin’ Eddie Murphy because I’m black?”

“No, because you’re a no-talent hack.”

“You think Eddie Murphy has no talent?”

“Okay, he was pretty funny in Coming to America. I take it back. He’s a genius.”

“Classic film, my brother.”

They bro-hugged.

“Guys!” Beatrice tapped what must have been an imaginary watch on her wrist. “Can we get a move on?”

Carey inserted the key—it was the right one, after all—and quietly unlocked the door. There was only darkness beyond it. He made sure to enter very slowly, crouching as he did so, using his senses to detect enemy sounds or smells. Especially any sign of those damned Lichroot Spiders. They had a distinctly spicy scent that Carey always made sure to look out for.

There was nothing inside, it seemed. Will led the way. He had passed his torch to Carey, now using his staff’s crystal for light. A crackling fire spell wrapped the palm and fingers of his other hand, just in case. Carey and Beatrice held their blades at the ready.

It was a storage room, all right—a tiny one at that.

But it contained something none of them had expected.

A prize.