The night wind whistled past the stone arches, carrying the metallic bite of the blighted soot. Darab pressed two bandaged fingers against his ribs, struggling to draw air past calcified channels that rejected even a sliver of ambient ether. “A world without magic?” Shirin asked, stepping between them with a furrowed brow. Darab pushed past the burning in his chest. “It doesn’t matter,” he rasped, the lie tasting like ash. He had no way to explain an existence without the Engine or the rot of mana. He just needed to keep moving. “We need to get somewhere safe.” Niloufar’s eyes remained on him for another beat, a faint, melancholic smile playing on her lips before she nodded, slowly. Black flecks of curdled soot clung to her jawline. Shirin, still bewildered, helped Niloufar to her feet, supporting her as they began the slow trek back towards the Spire of Dakhma, the oppressive bulk of its silhouette now a familiar landmark against the bruised sky. They reached the Star-Glass Balcony, an abandoned stone terrace jutting from the fortress flank. Its floor was a mosaic of obsidian shards, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the distant, fragmented glow of the Twin Moons. Niloufar sank down against the base of a chipped gargoyle, resting her temple on cold granite. Shirin guided Darab toward a stone bench recessed into the inner masonry. “Your hands,” Shirin said, her voice soft, pulling a strip of finely woven linen from a pouch at her waist. Darab hadn’t noticed the angry red lines crisscrossing his palms, where the Avatar’s shadowy form had grazed his skin. They pulsed with an uncomfortable heat, like embers beneath his flesh. Glitch-burns, he remembered. The Engine's crude attempt at an error penalty for physics overrides it failed to register. He watched her work, her fingers surprisingly deft as she cleaned the angry marks with a damp cloth before carefully winding the linen around his left hand. The simple act, the quiet focus of her attention, was a foreign warmth. His previous body had withered under sterile hospital flourescents, devoid of unprompted warmth. “It’s strange,” Shirin murmured, her head bowed as she secured the bandage. Her dark hair, usually pinned in a severe braid, had come loose, a few strands framing her face. “Most people… they boast, they strut. They tell you they’ll keep you safe, then expect a reward for it.” She glanced up, her gaze direct. “You just… do it. Quietly.” Darab shifted, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. He worked solely to prevent the carnage scripted into this title's early chapters, relying on boundary faults where his ruined mana channels failed him. She moved to his right hand, her touch light as she began to wrap it. “Roshan… he has big words. Grand plans. But when the real danger comes…” She trailed off, her expression shadowed. “I only feel truly safe when you are near.” The soft clink of the bronze fastening on the bandage was the only sound for a moment. Darab found himself unable to look away from her eyes, which held a depth of sincerity he rarely encountered. The intimacy of the moment, the raw honesty, was almost too much. The candor hit harder than an unsynced drop through clipping terrain. Just then, the heavy oak doors leading from the Spire’s main hall burst open with a resounding *thud*. Roshan strode onto the Star-Glass Balcony, his chest puffed out, a triumphant grin plastered across his face. He barely registered Shirin and Darab in the alcove, his eyes shining with self-importance. “Ah, there you are, my dearest Shirin!” Roshan boomed, completely oblivious to the charged atmosphere he’d just shattered. “And… Darab.” He gave Darab a perfunctory nod. “I have just received a glorious quest! A cloaked benefactor, a true luminary of the Spires, has entrusted me with a vital mission! To brave the Dakhma Ossuary and retrieve the Eye of Vorlag! A true test of the Chosen Hero!” Darab halted. The subterranean vault. The Eye of Vorlag. It was the notorious ‘Initiate’s Gauntlet’ quest, an infamous filter designed to slaughter novice parties. Every branch inside those crypts culminated in an ambush or an unskippable spike array. Darab had poured dozens of playthroughs into searching for a clipped seam or wall-warp inside that zone, finding none. It was a hard-coded wipe. Roshan, predictably, was walking right into it. “The lower vaults?” Shirin gasped, stepping forward. “Roshan, no! Those are—” “Fearsome, I know!” Roshan interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “But fear not, for I, Roshan, the Chosen Hero, am undaunted! This quest will prove my worth! It will show all of Vourukash that I am destined for greatness!” He puffed out his chest further, already imagining the accolades. Roshan wheeled about, marching toward a service corridor that funneled into the lower burial tunnels. The passage held a counterweighted portcullis trigger—a doorframe speedrunners manipulated to bypass entire patrol sectors. Darab moved. He scanned the ornate, decaying wall. His eyes landed on a heavy, roughly hewn stone, part of a collapsed archway, lying discarded near a support pillar. It must have weighed a hundred pounds. He pushed Shirin, who was still trying to reason with Roshan, gently behind him. Roshan, still expounding on his future glory, was almost at the pressure plate. It was a square of darker, slightly raised obsidian, almost invisible in the patterned floor. He was about to step on it, activating the path to his doom. Roshan would drag everyone down with him. That slaughter could not be permitted to trigger. With a grunt, Darab heaved the heavy stone. His already burning hands screamed in protest, the fresh bandages straining. Torn fibers in his shoulders burned as he shoved against the rough granite. He staggered forward, momentum his only ally, and with a desperate surge of strength, shoved the stone off the pillar. It hit the floor with a deafening *CRACK*, reverberating through the silent balcony. [Input: Heavy stone placed on 'Observation Post Pressure Plate' (ID: DKM-047-PP)]. Roshan spun around just as the counterweighted stone slab dropped flush into its grooves, barricading the route to the lower vaults. Simultaneously, another, smaller section of the wall behind him, opening into what Darab knew was a rarely used, perfectly safe storage room – one Roshan had likely never noticed – *slammed shut*. Roshan was trapped. Not in the killing corridors below, but inside an armory closet lacking interior latches. “What in the name of the Ash-Rot was that?!” Roshan roared, pounding on the solid stone. “Darab! You… you did that! You dare to impede the Chosen Hero?!” His face was a mask of furious indignation, his voice echoing impotently from behind the newly sealed wall. Darab ignored him. He turned to Shirin, his chest heaving, his hands throbbing. Niloufar watched from the gargoyle's shadow, her jaw tightened in silent understanding. He just had to make sure they stayed alive, no matter the cost. He turned toward the grand archway descending into the crypts beneath the Spire. He would enter the zone alone, breaking boundary collisions and tricking AI aggro before the scripted wipe could execute. There was no other option. [System Update: Trap bypass detected. Generating lethal countermeasures.]

Safe Room Sabotage