When I come to—head poundin’ like a forge hammer—I see Icarus strollin’ in all casual, into this damned room with the coloured floor tiles, lookin’ like he just popped out for a stroll. No idea why he left Gerhard snorin’ outside on his own, but that lad’s never made sense to me.

Shadowstep, twitchy as ever, tries mashin’ two of them glowing orbs together, but they roll out his hands like slippery gold at a goblin auction. Istrum’s pokin’ around with the other ones, settin’ ’em on tiles, but naught happens. Feels like we’re chasin’ our own beards in this gods-cursed tower. Istrum tries the stairs, only to reappear behind us again. Hells, the place is loopin’—again!

There’s near 200 tiles—yellow, purple, orange, and blue—and just 12 of the orbs. We give the matching trick another go, and sure enough, the room starts spinnin’ and shrinkin’ again like a drunken tavern dance. That’s when Dreafus drops his yellow orb—smashes like a dropped mug—and wouldn’t ya know, a whole patch o’ yellow tiles vanish like they were never there.

Well, that’s all I need. I swing my axe down on the next one—CRACK!—shards go flyin’ and more tiles vanish. Now we’re talkin’. We start workin’ through the orbs, shatterin’ each one and clearin’ the floor. But when we go to smash the last one, the bugger grows! Big as me, glowin’ bright like a forge flame. Then it shatters in a burst o’ light—out of it steps a dwarf I’ve never seen before.

Says his name’s Cha’Tima. Doesn’t wear shoes, nor a stitch of metal on him—calls it all “ceramic.” Looks like he wandered in from a druid’s daydream. Claims he’s one of “The Blessed Children,” some forest-lovin’ clan worshippin’ Father Earth and Mother Wood. Bah! Dwarves are made for stone, steel, and the deep places—not tree-huggin’ and salad.

Turns out he was on the Caldea with us before it all went to hells and got separated. Maybe he ain’t completely daft after all.

We head up to the next floor. There’s 12 strange symbols on the walls—some rune-like thing, all arranged nice and even. Istrum leans on one, it glows blue. He presses another—blue again. Third one—flash! Red light and the tiles pop outta the wall. Typical.

Cha’Tima and Dreafus start comparin’ notes, fiddlin’ like gnomes at a puzzle table. They push four in the right order and the last glows green. Then, wouldn’t ya know, the whole staircase rotates downward and seals the top. Not up this time—down. Always down.

We descend, and the ground floor’s changed. Looks like a mirror of the first, but twisted. No door. Just a fireplace now, with a painting above it of the tower itself. That’s not ominous at all…

Cha’Tima suddenly turns into a bloody spider—ye heard me right—and scurries up the chimney like it’s nothin’. Next thing, we hear him shoutin’ from outside. I leg it back up, try the front door—and aye, it’s open! Thank Moradin’s beard!

I collapse beside Gerhard, who’s still nappin’, and crack open me ale. Just as I’m enjoyin’ the first proper swig—Istrum’s shoutin’ again. “What’ve you idiots done this time?!”

Then comes a scream. High, sharp, and no doubt trouble.

I groan, grab me axe, and stomp back inside. Turns out Dreafus, Shadowstep, and Icarus found a coffin, and Icarus—being a bloody menace—sneaks up on Shadowstep, scarin’ him half to death. Istrum, not knowin’ what’s what, hurls firebolts down the stairs like it’s festival night.

The coffin bears the name Thimius Lightshard, and it’s got scratch marks on the inside. I don’t like that one bit. There’s a strange magic lingerin’, strong and old. Inside, Shadowstep finds a pink stone under the bones. Picks it up—and of course—sparks a fresh argument.

Cha’Tima inspects the stones—says they’re from the same place but don’t fit. Skull from the coffin looks off too—has three indentations. One stone fits in perfect.

I ain’t stickin’ around in this cursed tomb. I tell the others: grab the skull, grab the stones, and we set up camp outside. On the way out, Dreafus and Icarus try to knock the coffin over and get zapped with arcane backlash for their trouble.

Outside, the sky’s clear. Moon’s high. City’s quiet. I take a deep breath, down the rest of me ale, and lean back against the stone. Whatever’s comin’ next—we’ll be ready.

Or at least, I’ll be sober enough to smash it with an axe.