Valaar climbed the ridge at dawn, spear in hand, the carved stone seal heavy in his pocket. Below him stretched the broken plains of his world. Somewhere out there waited a door his ancestors had sealed for a reason. He had read every fragment. He had accepted he might not come back. A scrap of old text had pointed him here, to a small arched structure half-buried in the hills. Rune-locked masonry framed a wooden door. The carvings matched the markings on his seal. Inside, his ancestors had hidden the relic he needed. Valaar pressed his palm to the stone. The door groaned open. On a pedestal of dust sat a palm-sized crystal shaped like a key, glowing faint blue. Runes drifted beneath its surface. He lifted it with steady hands. This was the key to the sealed door at the throne room. This was what the two scouts before him had died trying to reach. A low sound rolled behind him. Valaar turned. A huge shape filled the doorway, bark-gray hide and four amber eyes burning in the dim light. Spiral horns scraped the arch. The beast had been waiting, or following, or set here long ago as a guard. It lowered its head. Valaar tightened his grip on the spear. The key was in his hand. The way out was not.