The wind howled through the craggy peaks of the Heartcrag Mountains, whipping through the ruined dwarven halls like a ghostly whisper. Five adventurers stood at the threshold of a forgotten stronghold, its stonework weathered by time but still defiant against the elements. The promise of wealth beyond measure lay inside—the Emerald Hoard, whispered of in myths and drunken tavern boasts.

  Eldrin had never seen a real hoard before. He had never seen much of anything, really—just the backs of bolder adventurers as they carved paths through danger. He wasn't a hero. He was lucky, sure. Lucky enough to stumble into treasure maps, lucky enough to avoid the worst of fights, lucky enough to talk his way out of bad deals. But luck wouldn’t be enough here.

  A sense of unease hung thick in the air as the group pushed into the depths of the stronghold. The torches flickered strangely against the walls, the shadows moving wrong, stretching and twisting as if something unseen was watching.

  "Smells like death," muttered Gruk the Keen, the orc ranger, his tusked mouth curling in distaste. He crouched, running his fingers along the dusty floor. No fresh tracks. Nothing alive had passed through here in years. Or worse—something had, and it had never left.

  Eldrin exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around his sword. "We move carefully. Rushing in gets you killed."

  “Being careful is for cowards," Thernar Stonearm barked, the dwarf fighter slamming his gauntleted fist against his armored chest. "We're here for treasure, not a history lesson." He stormed ahead, hammer at the ready, his heavy boots echoing in the chamber.

  Sylvaine Moonshadow, the elven sorceress, smirked. "Careful, Thernar. I'd hate for that bravado to be the death of you."

  Father Toros, the gnome cleric, chuckled. "Well, if it is, I'll say a nice prayer over his corpse. Assuming we can still find all the pieces."

  Eldrin’s gut twisted. He didn’t like this. Not one bit.

  They reached a massive stone door, ancient runes etched deep into its surface. Gold filigree, tarnished by age, wove intricate patterns of warriors bowing before a towering figure of living stone. A warning? Or a promise?

  Thernar read the inscription aloud. "Only the worthy shall pass. The unworthy shall be buried beneath the mountain."

  Sylvaine scoffed. "Sounds like a challenge."

  And that was when everything went wrong.

  **************************************************

  Sylvaine conjured a fireball and hurled it at the door. The explosion boomed through the chamber, sending embers swirling into the dark. For a moment, silence. Then, the very mountain seemed to tremble.

  A deep, earth-shaking groan echoed from the walls, dust cascading from the ceiling. Eldrin’s breath hitched. Something was waking up.

  From the darkness beyond the runes, it stepped forward.

  A colossus of stone, twenty feet tall, its body sculpted from the same dwarven masonry that built this place. Glowing blue eyes flared to life, ancient and filled with purpose. It had no face, no emotion—just a silent, unyielding sentinel. It had only one function: destroy all intruders.

  Eldrin steadied himself, drawing his sword—The Flaming Stick. The blade ignited in a surge of fire, casting wild shadows across the chamber. He planted his feet, ready to meet death on his own terms.

  "Gods," Gruk whispered. Then, louder—"MOVE!"

  The golem attacked.

  It was like an avalanche given purpose.

  Gruk loosed an arrow—useless. It clattered against the stone chest and fell harmlessly to the ground. Sylvaine unleashed a torrent of flames, setting the chamber ablaze, but the golem did not burn. Thalgrin, roaring a battle cry, swung his warhammer with all his might, only for the shockwave of impact to travel up his arms, nearly shattering them.

  Eldrin didn’t hesitate. He had no plan, but he didn’t need one. He had faced giants, waded through battlefields drenched in blood, and walked away from worse. If this was his end, he would carve his name into the mountain itself.

  The golem swung.

  Gruk was the first to fall. The massive stone fist hit him like a battering ram, sending him flying across the chamber. He slammed into the far wall—his bones cracked, his body twisted at an impossible angle.

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  Sylvaine screamed and cast a desperate shield spell, but the golem’s next attack crushed through it like glass. Both fists slammed down onto her, and she was gone. Nothing remained but a bloodstain smeared across the floor.

  Father Toros was pleading to his god, his holy symbol raised—"No, no, wait, WAIT—" before the golem’s foot came down on him. There was a horrible, wet crunch.

  Thalgrin, gasping, bleeding, still stood. "COME ON THEN, YE GREAT BASTARD!" He swung again, splitting the air with his final war cry.

  The golem ended him in one blow. The warhammer shattered. The dwarf was reduced to a ruin of crushed armor and broken flesh.

  And then, there was only Eldrin.

  He stood alone, unshaken, his grip firm around his weapon. The golem turned toward him, its ancient gaze locking onto his. It did not matter. He had fought legends before. He would fight one again.

  The golem’s massive stone fist whistled through the air, aiming to crush Eldrin where he stood. But he was faster. With a swift sidestep, he narrowly avoided the devastating blow and brought his flaming sword down in a precise arc.

  The strike landed—but it did nothing. The blade scraped against the golem’s rocky hide, sending up a shower of sparks, but left no mark.

  Before Eldrin could adjust, the golem’s other hand came crashing forward like an avalanche. He had no time to dodge.

  The impact slammed into his chest with the force of a battering ram, launching him backward. His body collided with the jagged cavern wall, the air ripped from his lungs. Stone cracked behind him, and for a terrifying moment, he was pinned, sandwiched between unforgiving rock and unstoppable force.

  Pain flared through his ribs, sharp and deep, but he refused to stop fighting. Muscles burning, he twisted and forced himself free, tumbling to the ground. Every breath was a struggle, his vision swam, and his arms trembled as he pushed himself up.

  Eldrin accepted his fate. "Gods, be damned—“

  But the killing blow never came.

  The blood of his friends had seeped into the ancient dwarven runes, activating something hidden beneath the inscription. The stone door creaked open.

  The golem stepped aside.

  Reality crashed down on Eldrin. The battle was over. His friends were gone.

  His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest tightening as the weight of it all settled on him like stone. His hands trembled, slick with sweat, his pulse pounding like war drums in his ears. His body ached, his strength drained—but none of it compared to the hollow, crushing emptiness inside him.

  He was the only one left.

  He should have died too. He shouldn’t be here.

  *****************************

  Staggering through the now-open passage, the Emerald Hoard glowed before him. Piles of treasure, more than he had ever dreamed of. But he felt nothing. No joy. No victory.

  His friends were gone.

  Eldrin clutched his head, the walls of the chamber closing in on him, his breath ragged. His fingers twitched. His stomach churned. He was trembling uncontrollably.

  His mind screamed at him—they're dead, they're dead, you're alive, why are you alive?

  He took the gold. He took as much as he could carry, though the weight of it was nothing compared to what he would carry in his soul. Then, he left.

  Eldrin never went adventuring again.

  As the years passed, it never mattered what Eldrin did—he could not move on, nor could he move forward.

  He fought in wars, crossed treacherous lands, and slew creatures that would make lesser men tremble. None of it mattered. Every victory felt hollow, every battlefield just another graveyard, every enemy just another golem waiting to crush him beneath its weight.

  He tried drowning it in drink, but the memories always swam to the surface. He tried seeking wisdom in temples, but no god had answers for the weight he carried. He trained, he fought, he survived—but in the quiet moments, when the world grew still, the past always found him.

  No matter how far he traveled, how many battles he won, he was still there, in that ruined stronghold, facing the unblinking gaze of the rock golem. He could still hear the crushing of stone, the screams of his fallen comrades, the silence that followed.

  Time did not heal the wound. It only deepened it.

  Eldrin was not dead, but he had never truly left that place. And deep down, he knew he never would.

  But at night, in the quiet, when the ale couldn't dull his mind, Eldrin could still hear their screams.

  He could still see the golem’s eyes, cold and unfeeling.

  He could still feel the weight of his own survival crushing him.

  And no amount of treasure could ever buy that away.