The Shadowed Vale’s ashen winds whipped at Grendolf and Sylvara as they pressed toward the Cave of the Human Centipede, Tiro’s blue ribbon clutched tightly in Grendolf’s paw. The kit’s trail had led them here—a festering maw in the Blighted Lands’ scarred earth, framed by pulsating vines that dripped viscous slime. Starclaw’s azure glow dimmed in Grendolf’s grip, as if recoiling from the corruption within. Sylvara’s Bloodfang cast a crimson flicker, her black fur bristling, her notched ears flattened against the low, rhythmic hum emanating from the depths.

They paused at the cave’s threshold, the air thick with the stench of decay and something fouler—stitched flesh and madness. Grendolf’s vision surged: a fleeting glimpse of Tiro bound on a stone altar, surrounded by writhing segments of fused bodies, their mouths gibbering in unison. His heart pounded. “He’s in there,” he growled. “Alive, but we have to hurry.”

Sylvara’s green eyes scanned the entrance, her tail lashing. “The elders’ tales weren’t exaggeration. The Human Centipede… Mutated Ones sewn together by the Shroud’s acolytes, a living altar to the Toxinheart. They say it feeds on fear, grows stronger with each victim.”

Grendolf nodded, his silver fur standing on end. The Order of the Blight had claimed this cave as a ritual site, twisting their own kind into abominations to guard secrets—or in this case, a stolen kit. “Gorath’s work,” he muttered. “Luring us here, testing Starclaw.”

A faint cry echoed from within—Tiro’s voice, muffled but unmistakable. Sylvara’s claws flexed. “Plan: I go first, speed to scout. You follow with the blade. Strike the core—tales say severing the heart ends it.”

Grendolf gripped Starclaw tighter, its hum steadying his resolve. “No mercy. For Tiro, for my familia.” His vision flashed again: the Centipede rearing, limbs lashing, but a path through the chaos to the altar.

They crept closer, paws silent on the slime-slick ground. The vines parted like flesh, revealing the cave’s glowing interior. Sylvara darted ahead, a shadow in the gloom. Grendolf followed, Starclaw raised, the weight of Aeloria’s plea and Eldervale’s hope on his shoulders.

The hum grew to a thunderous pulse, the air alive with malice. At the entrance, a lone Mutated One guard slumped against the wall, its eyes vacant, stitched scars crisscrossing its body. Sylvara’s Bloodfang ended it swiftly, a spray of ichor staining the vines.

“Ready?” Sylvara whispered, her breath hot.

Grendolf’s amber eyes burned. “For Felaria.”

Together, they crossed the threshold, the cave swallowing them whole. The horrors within awaited, but so did Tiro’s salvation—and the first true clash with the Order’s depravit