“Get back!” the guard roared, shoving Nivara behind him with one arm, the other already leveling his archaic sidearm at the ruptured timbers. Before he could fire, the ceiling above them exploded. Dust, rotten plaster, and ancient wooden beams rained down, along with a monstrous form that landed with sickening force. It was the infected scout from the yard, or what remained of him. His fur was matted with grey fungal growths, dark cords of swollen veins twined across his hide, and his eyes blazed with a starved, malevolent hunger. The beast locked onto Nivara, a low, rasping snarl vibrating in his chest. His paws, tipped with blades of sharpened bone, scraped against the shattered floorboards as he lunged, a blur of tainted sinew and venomous intent. Tavrok, despite his fevered state, moved faster. He lunged, a growl tearing from his throat, but the scout wasn't aiming for the Alpha. He was aiming straight for the human. The guard threw himself forward, intercepting the scout's charge. The bladed paw raked across the guard’s chest with a wet thud, tearing through his tunic and armor alike. A sharp cry escaped the guard’s lips as he crumpled, a dark crimson stain spreading rapidly across his ribs. The sidearm clattered uselessly away. The beast, momentarily thrown off balance, snarled and snapped his jaws toward Nivara. “You piece of—!” Nivara snarled, her voice hoarse with ash and fury, forgetting her waning strength. She scrambled away from the lunging creature, searching the chaos around her. A small vial of medicinal ether, a pouch of dried, luminescent spore-dust from Myco’s earlier treatments—they were still in her coat pocket. A wild calculation took shape through the haze in her head. She ripped them out, fumbling to uncork the vial. Tavrok, enraged, was a whirlwind of claws and teeth. He crashed into the rogue, driving him back with a roar that shook the foundations of the Manse. The scout twisted, using unnatural speed to slip past Tavrok’s counter-attack. Two more rot-swollen Vorga, drawn by the commotion, burst through the infirmary's shattered entrance. Tavrok, now heavily outmatched, was fighting three at once, a feral ballet of violence, buying Nivara precious seconds. “Idiot, stop bleeding all over the place!” Nivara snapped, ignoring the melee and the splintering timber as more beasts tried to force their way in. She ripped off a strip of her own cloak, pressing it against the guard’s wound. His face was ashen, his lips parted in shallow gasps. “You’re fine, you’re fine. Just… don’t move.” She fumbled for a needle and thread, her fingers clumsy with fever. She poured the ether onto the spore-dust, a chemical reaction beginning almost instantly. The dust began to glow a vibrant, unstable green. “Get ready to move!” she shouted at Tavrok, who, with a savage twist, threw one of the attacking Vorga into the wall, a shower of plaster and blood following its impact. He turned, his gaze locking onto hers for a fraction of a second. He trusted her to be lethal. With a violent surge, Tavrok crushed the beast against the rotting window frame, pinning him. Nivara didn't hesitate. She hurled the glowing, volatile mixture directly into the creature's face. The reaction was instantaneous and deafening. A blinding flash of green light, a violent *whoomph* that rattled the entire hall, and then a cloud of acrid smoke. The scout caught the blast full in the snout and howled, the force throwing his frame backward through the glass and out into the courtyard below. “The trapdoor! Move!” Nivara rasped, her throat burning. She grabbed the guard by his blood-soaked tunic, gritting her teeth against the heat burning through her ribs. Her lungs felt like crumbling paper. The two remaining Vorga, momentarily stunned by the explosion, recovered quickly, their attention snapping back to the vulnerable human. They surged forward with snapping jaws and bladed claws. Tavrok, a growl of pure, unadulterated fury erupting from his core, threw himself between Nivara and the attackers. He became a living shield, absorbing savage bites and raking claws that tore deep into his flank and shoulder. He let out a furious roar as he battered one beast against the far wall and tore out the throat of the other. But he was bleeding, heavily. Every blow relied purely on momentum and iron will rather than fading stamina. Nivara, hauling the guard's dead weight, stumbled toward the chapel nave. The trapdoor, a heavy iron grate set into the floor, was finally within reach. She fumbled with the iron ring of keys the guard had dropped, her vision blurring. She plunged the largest key into the lock, twisting with all her might. It clicked, groaning open. “Get in!” she gasped, shoving the guard through the opening. He fell awkwardly onto a set of dust-covered stone steps. Nivara looked back, her heart wrenching. Tavrok was still fighting, covered in fresh wounds, his roars now laced with pain, but he was still holding the line, buying her the final, critical seconds. Another rogue Vorga, larger than the others, burst from the infirmary, its eyes fixated on her. “Tavrok!” she cried out. He turned, his massive form a blur, slamming into the new threat. The other two, miraculously still alive, scrambled up, snapping at his heels. He was severely injured, the sheer number overwhelming him. He snarled again through the pain, lunging backward in a heavy leap that brought him down hard beside her. Nivara hauled the heavy iron grate shut, the metallic clang echoing through the stone shaft. The rogue Vorga snarled and clawed at the grate above, their furious attacks shaking the ancient metal, but it held. She secured the heavy bolt, plunging the catacombs into relative safety. Her lantern, dropped in the scramble, had rolled to a stop nearby. Its flickering light cast long, dancing shadows across the damp, cold stone walls. As she knelt, her head spinning with fever and the stench of her own encroaching rot, the light illuminated something carved into the ancient stones. Not just symbols or names, but intricate pictographs, depicting humanoid figures, colossal beasts, and a central, pulsating glyph that pulsed with a faint, residual energy. Her eyes, despite their blurry focus, traced the lines of a story, a terrible truth etched into the very core of the Manse. A single line of script, written in an archaic tongue she barely recognized, stood out: *The curse may only be broken by a willing Anchor, binding their heart to the Alpha at the epicenter.*

Breach of the Ashen Manse