“What was that, Kempe?” Hilla’s voice, though muffled by mud, was sharp, accusatory. Her gaze, despite her current predicament, was fixed directly on Jaskari’s hand, which was now empty. Jaskari gave her a blank look. “What was what, Varis? I merely adjusted my belt. Too much dried meat.” He patted his stomach for emphasis, a small, unconvincing smile plastered on his face. The pulsating shard, warm against his skin inside the hidden pouch, thrummed a silent counterpoint to Hilla’s irritation. He shrugged innocently. “Maybe you’re seeing things through all that… Korpikyla mud.” Hilla spluttered, a glob of brown clinging to her cheek. “Don’t you dare! I saw you! You plucked something from the core, just before that last… *incident*!” She gestured vaguely at the mud pit trapping her and her elite Steel Gryphons, now struggling like oversized, indignant grubs. Ilkka, bless his oblivious heart, stepped forward, his massive gauntlets gleaming. “Mud looks quite… sticky, Hilla. The dungeon air grew thick with spray, clouding our sight.” He offered a sympathetic nod, entirely missing the venom in Hilla’s glare. Roope, ever the opportunist, had already begun sifting through the pockets of the mired Steel Gryphons, humming a cheerful tune. “Just checking for loose change, fellas! Guild regulations, you know! Don’t want any valuables getting lost in the muck!” One of the Gryphons snarled, but Roope, unperturbed, merely patted his head like a friendly dog. Päivi, her face smudged with soot and a faint green shimmer, clapped her hands together. “Never mind the mud-people, darling! We won! Our company triumphed! Let us return to the lodge for victory drinks! I feel a particularly potent spell brewing!” Emerald sparks danced across her knuckles. Jaskari felt a familiar twinge of dread at Päivi’s declaration. Her party tricks were often more destructive than her combat curses. Still, the prospect of leaving the Whispering Labyrinth, and Hilla’s furious gaze, behind was too tempting to resist. “A splendid idea, Päivi! Let’s make haste before this dungeon decides to… redecorate.” He gave Hilla a final, placid smile as his party, roaring with a mixture of relief and misplaced triumph, began their chaotic exit. Hilla watched them go, her face a mask of thwarted suspicion, her lips moving in a mud-muffled curse. Back at the dilapidated Korpikyla Adventurers’ Guild, revelry took hold. The taproom, usually sparsely populated, echoed with the boisterous laughter of the company. They had claimed a corner table beneath slumping rafters, tin mugs brimming with the tapster’s cheapest, sour vintage. The smell of stale yeast, damp stone, and Roope’s unwashed socks hung heavy. “To accidental heroism!” Päivi declared, hoisting her mug aloft. A faint, violet spark crackled around her fingers. “To our band!” Ilkka boomed, clanking his cup against hers with enough force to make the trestle creak. His face was flushed with exertion and ale, his stage fright momentarily forgotten in the glow of their improbable victory. Roope, already a little tipsy, sloshed his ale. “And to the mud-people! May their miring be eternal!” He dissolved into a fit of giggles. Jaskari, nursing a lukewarm mug of herbal tea, watched his chaotic companions. They were loud, clumsy, often infuriating, and undeniably a magnet for every conceivable disaster. Yet, watching them grin with grease on their chins, an unexpected warmth tugged at his chest. He had chosen them, or rather, Ukko had chosen them for him. His found family. The thought, warm like the tea in his hands, was quickly followed by an icy draft down his spine. [Deadline: 287 Days Remaining. Stakes: Memory Erasure. Objective: Heroic Deeds.] The reminder was sharp, a chilling counterpoint to the warmth in his chest. His affection, he knew, was intertwined with the terrible secret he carried. He *had* to make them heroes. For their sake. For his sanity. For their very existence. Päivi, grinning with manic glee, slammed her pewter cup down. “This simply won’t do! Our victory deserves more than watery grog! Behold, the true elixir of champions!” With a flourish, she waved her hands over the table, muttering a quick, obscure incantation. A brilliant, emerald light flared, briefly illuminating the dusty taproom. When the flare died, silence settled over the benches. Every cup on the table, including Jaskari’s earthenware mug, had lost its drink. Instead, a viscous, beige paste, smelling faintly of roasted parsnips and pork drippings, rose flush to the rims. Päivi’s conjuration had turned their ale into lukewarm gravy. Roope cautiously poked his finger into his gravy-filled cup, then brought it to his nose. “Huh. Smells like Auntie Kerttu’s Sunday stew. Not bad for a drink, I suppose.” He took a tentative sip, then grimaced. “A bit… lumpy.” Ilkka stared into his cup, bewildered. “I… believe I preferred the ale. It had more… *liquid*.” Päivi, however, clapped her hands, oblivious to the failure. “Magnificent! A nutrient-rich feast! Bottoms up, my darlings!” She took a large, enthusiastic gulp of gravy, then choked, a horrified expression slowly spreading across her face. Jaskari smiled, a genuine, albeit weary, smile this time. This was his party. He excused himself, citing the need to check his inventory, and retreated to his small, cramped room upstairs. The wooden floorboards creaked under his weight, each step a protest against the building's rotting timbers. Once inside, he locked the door and pulled out the pulsing shard from his hidden pouch. It was no bigger than his thumb, obsidian dark, and radiated a faint, rhythmic thrumming against his palm. He placed it on his rough-hewn desk, where it seemed to absorb the dim candlelight, creating a tiny, localised shadow. “Memory Shard,” he murmured, recalling a brief, fleeting whisper from Ukko as he’d plucked it from the dungeon core. He concentrated, channeling a sliver of Ukko’s borrowed power into the shard. The thrumming intensified, vibrating up his arm. The shard began to glow, not with light, but with an internal, shifting darkness, like a tiny window into an endless night. Then, a scene flickered into existence above it, shimmering like heat haze. A phantom projection unfolded. He saw a younger Korpikyla. Not the rundown backwater he knew, but a bustling hub, its hall grander, more ornate. In the foreground, a man stood before a glowing, ethereal presence. The man was familiar, yet strikingly different. Younger, his posture straighter, his eyes sharper, filled with a fierce, almost desperate hope. It was Antero Koski, the Guildmaster, but decades earlier. “Ukko-of-the-Second-Breath,” young Antero’s voice echoed, clear and resonant in Jaskari’s mind, untainted by time or feigned senility. “I accept your burden. I will ensure they become heroes. I will shepherd them to greatness, even if it costs me everything.” The glowing presence, unmistakably Ukko, shimmered in response, radiating the familiar warmth that Jaskari associated with his patron. The projection shifted. Jaskari saw Antero, his expression strained, resurrecting figures he didn’t recognise, then subtly guiding them through a series of increasingly difficult challenges. Their failures were just as spectacular as the Sundered Six’s, their near-deaths just as frequent, but Antero, like Jaskari, was always there, an unseen hand, an unacknowledged saviour. The projection collapsed, leaving the room in shadows. His mind reeled. Antero. *The* Reanimator. The one who had walked this path before him. The one who had failed, or chosen to pass on the mantle. The Guildmaster knew because he *had* been him. And he was guiding Jaskari, orchestrating everything, not out of senile goodwill, but with a deeply personal, hidden agenda. A sudden, violent tremor shook the floorboards and rattled the rafters. The shard on his desk pulsed erratically, a discordant beat. Jaskari felt a different kind of draft, not from Ukko, but a cold, oppressive energy that prickled his skin. It was not Ukko’s warmth, nor his icy warnings, but a presence alien and hostile. He threw open his door, peering down the creaking staircase. The noise downstairs had died out entirely. The taproom stood hushed, save for a low murmur of frightened whispers. He descended cautiously, his hand instinctively going to the small, concealed knife at his belt. In the centre of the hall, amidst the spilled gravy and bewildered mercenaries, stood a figure that radiated an almost blinding purity. It was a woman, tall and severe, clad in gleaming plate armour the colour of polished bone. A tabard bearing the symbol of a stylised, unblinking eye in a radiant sunburst adorned her chest. Her face, framed by severe braids of pale hair, was chiselled and unyielding, her eyes the colour of glacier ice. In her hand, she held a spear that glowed with an internal, steady light, casting stark shadows across the room. A holy relic, Jaskari realised, his pulse spiking. “Säde of the Unblinking Sun,” the woman announced, her voice resonating with divine authority, like the tolling of a distant bell. “I am an agent of the Radiant Pantheon, sent to address a grievous imbalance in the natural order.” Her gaze swept over the Sundered Six, lingering on each of their faces, a look of profound distaste twisting her perfect features. “The Sundered Six. Your continued existence is an abomination. A blatant affront to the cycle of life and death, an insult to the divine order.” Roope, ever quick to misunderstand, puffed out his chest. “Abomination? Grievous imbalance? Is that… good? Are we finally famous?!” Säde’s lips thinned. “You are a stain. Your repeated, unnatural resurrections have attracted the attention of my patron, Vala-of-the-Endless-Cycle. Your patron, Ukko-of-the-Second-Breath, has overstepped his bounds.” She pointed her glowing spear at the Sundered Six, its tip crackling with holy energy. Antero Koski, who had been sitting quietly at the bar, observing the scene with a surprisingly alert expression, finally spoke. “Paladin Säde, this is a sanctioned Adventurers’ Guild. Any disputes must be resolved according to Guild law.” His voice, though reedy, carried surprising steel. Säde turned her icy gaze to Antero for a moment, then back to the Sundered Six. “Indeed, old man. And so, it shall be. I challenge the Sundered Six to a sanctioned Guild duel. A trial by combat, to cleanse this stain from the fabric of Suonia.” Her spear, now aimed squarely at Ilkka, pulsed brighter. “You will face me at dawn, Ilkka, Knight of the Sundered. Or your entire party will be branded heretics.”

Whispers in the Walls