Werlyle placed his ear to the stone. “It ain’t about robbin’ it. They have a curse on him, don’t you hear him,” rolling his gaze up to my own, “in there?”

No! I didn’t! I heard some terrible moan, but it didn’t have to be from where we stood. It was an awakened guard, not properly run through, clamoring out into the night while regaining his wits. I tried to convince Werlyle of this, but it was no use. Thuds burst up from within, and when they did even I finally conceded the most terrible of realities.

Sentiment comes at the oddest times, and certainly nothing odder than the moment before us. Despite all my current dilemmas, I began to wonder if maybe some form of white magic was available to help the thing that now pounded up against the inner stone. For a king’s treasury the Chapwyn priests would maybe put down their incense-swingers and emasculation tools to evoke some assistance. I listened for words, something to discern that the pounder was in the realms relatable to the human experience. I strained, but nothing.

“Snier, I’m opening it.”

“Wait—”

Of all my knee-jerk reactions that have surprised, I found myself pushing Werlyle aside to slide the lid myself. As my dagger’s blade and fingers felt the stone separating, I held an image of Rinlot’s somehow golden-brown skin next to mine, how grateful it was to be saved, and how forever in my debt it would pleasantly remain.

The stone was heavy, and I eased off to regain my strength. Taking in a breath, I looked up at the night sky. The gargoyles atop the corbels loomed down as they always did. Maybe it was just the darkness, the whirling of the leaves, or my severely jostled nerves, but they all seemed different. More perched rather than placed, as if waiting for some command unknowable to us to take flight. A little one I’d never noticed before, looking more like an imp from a bad fairytale, seemed to have eyes that moved.

The lid gave with a sucking sound. Through a sliver of blackness, fingers stretched out and into the open air.

Werlyle flailed back, shrieking and cursing. I possessed neither the ability nor the inclination to look back at him. The skin was brown, but to a leather. Fingers, their tips worn to the bone, appeared to be searching for something.

I had expected this abomination to toss the stone lid next, send it down in pieces, and emerge to wreak whatever havoc its unfathomable torment would see fit. Instead, the fingers vanished back into the sarcophagus. Without the pure stone to muffle them, all that emitted were sobs and moans of the lowest despair. There was rage possibly, but a rage of the rat in the trap, back broken.