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Crane rose quietly, careful not to make a sound. Amara, keeping watch with her usual calm, had already relaxed, her eyes half-closed. Her strong fingers, once tightly gripping her sword’s hilt, had loosened, and her breathing had grown steady. The others slept nearby—Martan snored softly, while Gilbert occasionally stirred, as if replaying spells in his dreams.
"Good, just how it should be," Crane noted. "No one will notice a thing."
He carefully pulled his cloak around himself and moved toward one of the side tunnels. After a few steps, he froze, listening. Only the drip of water and a faint rustle, like something small scurrying over the stones.
— Toilet, — he muttered under his breath, just in case someone woke up and wondered where he was sneaking off to.
But his mind was on a completely different plan. He needed to check if he had truly seen a hidden door behind the far wall—or if it had just been a trick of the light and his imagination.
In the cave's darkness, everything looked different. The shadows deepened, turning the rocky outcroppings into shapes like snarling beasts. The uneven stone floor made Crane stumble more than once, though he quickly regained balance each time.
At last, he reached the same chamber. Now, silence ruled here, broken only by the soft plinking of water droplets echoing as they struck a small puddle nearby. Crane halted halfway to where the hidden door should be and froze, catching a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye.
Something shifted on the far side of the hall. Barely visible. Like a shadow passing where no shadow should be.
Crane tensed, drawing a small knife from beneath his cloak.
— Who's there? — he asked quietly.
No answer. Only the soft sound of something scraping far off in the dark.
"Someone else?" he wondered, narrowing his eyes.
For a brief moment, he regretted coming alone. But the thought of the treasure behind that door quickly drowned out his unease. If it really was another adventurer, they'd only complicate things. Crane decided to follow the sound.
Moving deeper into the tunnel, Crane scanned the dark corners carefully. No sign of anything unusual—just old stalactites, slimy moss clinging to the walls, and endless dampness seeping into his bones. Everything felt abandoned and lifeless.
Then he heard it. Closer this time. Movement. Footsteps—or more like a dragging sound over stone.
Crane cautiously peeked around a rocky outcrop, keeping to the shadows.
In the faint torchlight, he spotted a figure sitting against the wall, as if resting. A heavy cloak draped over their shoulders, concealing most of their body. Crane noted how the folds of the fabric seemed to billow strangely, as though the person had clumsily wrapped themselves in too large a garment.
"Idiot. Came here alone," Crane thought, and in that moment, an idea struck him. What seemed like a brilliant idea.
His hand slipped to his belt, where a pouch of "trinkets and junk" hung—what he called his collection of odd trophies and tools. Fingers brushed against old coins, amulets, dried herbs… until they found smooth metal.
The ring.
The one he never told anyone about.
Crane slid it onto his finger, savoring the moment as his grin widened even further.