The torch burned low, flickering against stone walls slick with moisture. The scent of mildew and burnt marrow clung to the air, and the distant drip of water echoed like a countdown in the dark. In a ruined side chamber deep within the Skeleton King’s crypt, four members of the Ravenguard sat surrounded by the silence of death - and the weight of decision.
They hadn’t come here on a whim.
The Ravenguard were not legends, not innovators, not stars. They were dependable. Cautious. A solid adventuring company known for completing what they started and never reaching beyond their grasp. For years they took safe contracts - pest removals, bandit culls, relic retrievals in low-risk ruins. And slowly, methodically, they built up gold, gear, and confidence.
Then came the posting - Sepora’s idea.
A high-tier Guild contract, one far above their usual scope: enter the tomb of the Skeleton King and retrieve the Sceptre of Radiance. A relic from the age before rot, once held as a symbol of peace before the world turned to ash. Sepora pitched it like a turning point - high risk, yes, but with a reward that could secure their futures. She spoke of reputation, return on investment, and the prestige it would bring. She convinced them it was time to stop playing safe and start building legacy. Dangerous. Prestigious. Rewarded in full guild coin and standing. And the Ravenguard, for the first time, said yes to the deep end.
They stocked to the brim - potions, scrolls, reinforced supplies. Their paladin led the oath. Their diviner, Mira, warned of shifting fates. Their scout plotted three exits. And for a while, it worked. Through sheer grit and cohesion, they pushed deeper than anyone expected.
But the tomb did not care.
Now, two of their number were gone - Tannen, their shield and voice, and Mira, their diviner and seeker of paths in the dark. And the rest? Bruised. Bled. Low on supplies and lower on certainty.
The room had become a war council.
Sepora Duskblade, elven rogue, stood with her hands braced against the broken doorframe. Her dark green cloak, once sleek and precise like her movements, was now torn and crusted with ash. A streak of soot cut across one angular cheek, and her once-pristine braid had unraveled into damp curls clinging to her face. Her jaw was tight. She scanned the dim glow of her torchlight like it might offer a sign. One hand trembled until she forced it still. Her words were sharp - but behind them, a breath caught. She had sold this venture, wrapped it in the silk of strategy and confidence, and now watched it unravel thread by thread. If they turned back, it wasn’t just the mission that failed. It was her judgment. Her standing. Her future.
“This is it. All the signs point to it. That barrier? It’s the last one. I can feel it.” Her voice tightened - half certainty, half plea. “We take out the Skeleton King, his necrotic aura collapses, and the dead stop rising. That’s our exit - cleaner than the path we came in.”
She glanced at the floor where Tannen used to stand. Her foot almost stepped into that space before she caught herself and drew back.
“We push forward, we win. And we don’t just win - we retire. This contract’s worth more than every job we’ve taken combined.”
Bakler scoffed, sharp and unfiltered. “This was your plan, Sepora. You sold it with charts and charm. projections, prestige, legacy - you made it all sound easy. But now it’s a bleeding ruin, and you still want us to bet what little’s left like it’s a market swing.”
Bakler Underbite, hobgoblin cleric of Jopli, sat hunched on a cracked stone bench. His battered chainmail bore the soot-stained sigil of a sheltering lantern, the symbol of Jopli, god of safe paths and the light that waits at journey’s end. Its soft glow had long faded. His deep red skin had paled under stress, and the heavy bags under his yellow eyes betrayed nights without rest. He cradled the last of his healing tinctures like brittle glass. His hands shook - he gripped tighter to stop it. He’d already offered two prayers to empty air. Neither brought warmth.
“You’re dreaming,” he said softly. “I’ve got two minor spells left and no sacred oils. Half of us are wounded. Our packs are empty.”
He couldn’t look at the cloaks in the corner. Not at Tannen’s still hands, not at Mira’s silent eyes. He saw them anyway - Mira calling out too late, Tannen shielding Sepora with his last breath.
“If you think that scepter’s worth dying for, ask Mira. Ask Tannen.”
He rubbed his temple, voice cracking. “We head back now, we’ve got a chance. Not a good one, but a real one. We go forward, we’re gambling on a ghost. And if we die down here, the Guild will just post the contract again - and praise whoever follows.”
Hillcrack the Mighty, a Telma barbarian - one of a rare earth-touched people known for their grounded wisdom and stone-like skin - knelt by the wall. His cracked leather armor clung to his massive frame, dusted in grey from the stone’s mourning. His face, broad and flat, bore the faint etchings of natural stone lines, as though carved by time itself. His calloused hand pressed to the cold wall, seeking steadiness. But the earth here… it did not speak. It echoed loss.
He stood slowly, his joints groaning like the floor beneath them. “You argue like it’s still a debate,” he said, voice low but cutting. “We’re not choosing between two good paths. One way ends in bones and questions. The other ends in rot we already know.”
He turned his gaze toward Sepora. “You told us this would be our rise. That we’d make our name here. Maybe you were right. Maybe this is where we carve that name in stone. But stone remembers who stood firm - and who cracked under weight they chose to carry.”
“Our people say the earth gives what it’s ready to take back,” he rumbled. “And this place has taken much. But Sepora’s not wrong. The signs say we’re near. If that’s true…”
His voice, usually a bedrock, trembled. He turned toward the cloaked bodies. “...then maybe finishing this isn’t a matter of profit. Maybe it’s the only way to give them peace.”
Avrous Detro, bard and graduate of the College of Diplomacy and Song, leaned against the wall. His once-immaculate doublet had lost its luster, the embroidered silver thread now dulled with grime. A torn sash hung loosely at his hip. His dark curls were matted with sweat, framing a face too young to have seen this much death. The chill in the room had sunk into his bones, but he dared not shiver. He needed to appear composed - like someone worth following. Fingers white on the flute he hadn’t played since Tannen fell, he held it like a tether to purpose.
He could feel Mira’s voice still in his head - her warnings, her laughter, her hand brushing his arm when no one else looked. He had replayed that last moment - her eyes going wide, mouth starting to form a spell - countless times in the past hours. If he'd been faster. If he'd stood closer. If he'd told her what he meant to.
And now they looked to him.
His voice cracked when it finally came. “You both sound like you’ve already chosen what to bury down here - each other.”
He stepped forward, the iron in his tone now clashing against the room’s weariness. “Sepora, if this is about glory, say so. Say you’d trade their lives for coin and clean exits. Say you’d bury us with them if it meant a story worth telling. Because that’s what it looks like.”
His gaze cut to Bakler. “And you - stop dressing up surrender as wisdom. If you think she’s reckless, say so. Say you think this whole job was a mistake, that we should’ve stayed small. That we were never meant for legacy.”
He stepped forward, between them. “Sepora, you’re right. If we finish this, we live lighter. Stronger. But if we push ahead just to win some ledger war back in Artumin, we’ll lose more than coin.”
His eyes flicked to Bakler. “And you, Bakler - fear doesn’t make you wrong, but don’t hide behind ghosts to avoid making a choice. We all walked into this crypt. We either leave together or we don’t leave at all.”
“We are not six. We are four. And four without a paladin. Four with no food, half a healer, and one plan that ends in a king’s tomb.”
He looked to Sepora, a flicker of guilt behind his even tone. “You’re right - we came for this. Spent months prepping. Stockpiled, studied, waited. But all that prep never included this part - losing half our strength. Watching the frontline fall.”
Then to Bakler. “And you’re right too. We can’t spend what we don’t have. Can’t heal with hope. But turning back means every step forward was wasted. And that’s a kind of death too.”
A memory flickered - Mira, frowning at her readings, her voice hushed but urgent. She had pulled Avrous aside before they descended past the third seal, her finger tracing a spiral on the parchment. "The future bends here," she'd whispered. "It could still break our way." That whisper lingered now, a ghost among the living. As the torch guttered, Avrous could almost hear it again - not in his ears, but behind them. 'It could still break our way,' she had said. He wasn’t sure if it was a promise, a warning, or a lie she needed to believe.
Avrous had loved her - not loudly, not with proclamations or song, but in the way he saved the best parts of himself for her to see. The way he always walked on her side when danger loomed. The way he listened, really listened, when she spoke of stars and symbols and futures that flickered like candleflames. They had made no promises. But in the pause between verses, in the silence between battles, something true had been growing.
Now, all he could do was hold the flute she once teased him about - too ornate, she said, for someone who played it like a prayer - and try to breathe through the ache she left behind.
He took a breath. “What’s left to us now isn’t a clear answer. It’s a cost. A price for staying. A price for going. I don’t think we’ll know which was wiser until years from now - if we live that long.”
The silence returned. Not empty, but taut - stretched like a drawn bowstring. A slow drip echoed from somewhere far off, steady as a ticking clock. The stale air turned metallic in their throats. Shadows danced across broken glyphs carved into the walls, and the torch’s flame snapped sideways, as if exhaling something unseen. Stone groaned beneath them. Or something groaned in the stone.
Sepora reached slowly toward her blade but didn’t draw it. Bakler began quietly packing supplies, his movements bitter but methodical. Hillcrack rose from his knees with a grunt like shifting granite. Avrous held his flute to his lips, not to play - but to steady.
And in that silence, the Ravenguard sat with their grief, their dwindling hope, and the knowledge that this wasn’t just a mission anymore.
It was a choice between two unfinished paths - each dangerous, each steeped in consequence.
Glory lies ahead. Grief behind. Which would you carry?
Author’s Note
Like the Guilds of Artumin, every company faces a moment where momentum and mission part ways. Where survival and success drift just far enough apart to force a choice.
In every leadership room, there comes a moment like this - when the project has run long, the burn rate is high, and the team is down more than they expected. One voice argues to push through, because success is just beyond the last wall. Another warns of collapse, of diminishing returns, of losses that can’t be undone. The rest must weigh momentum against exhaustion.
This story is about that moment. Not when the goal is wrong, or the people are weak - but when the path simply costs more than expected. And no metric, no model, can tell you if the finish line is worth the toll.
There’s no right answer. Only the courage to choose.