Chapter 08 - Rebel Base Crew - WHQ - The Sword of True Kinship

Image - Eleri's Sacrifice. Trapped in the Well of Doom, with shifting sands and fighting an Ogre allows Hockrup to avoid the rockfall and make good an escape with the Sword of True Kinship.

Inside, the Labyrinth breathed with the weight of memory.

Corridors stretched ahead, flanked by flickering braziers whose flames cast dancing shadows along stone walls carved with runes and names—heroes who had dared this place before, and never returned. The air was dry, layered with the dust of centuries.

They passed murals depicting trials—giants felled, dragons chained, brothers slain. In one faded image, a knight raised a sword high, only to be stabbed in the back by a friend.

“Not all who seek the sword are worthy,” Eleri murmured.

A narrow corridor revealed itself, partially hidden by rubble from a collapsed column. They squeezed through and turned right, stepping into a shadowed passage where even the torches seemed to flicker with unease.

A shriek broke the stillness. Then another—higher pitched, guttural, and echoing. From the dark ahead surged six goblins, twisted things with lank hair, red eyes, and jagged blades fashioned from scavenged iron.

Hockrup charged forward with a roar, smashing into the mob. His gauntlets, each spiked and reinforced with steel, crushed skulls and broke ribs. Eleri's voice rose in chant, her hands alight with flame. She hurled fire into the fray, incinerating two goblins in a flash of heat and ash.

Back-to-back they fought, the wizardess flinging arcane fire and Hockrup dispatching foes with unrelenting brutality. The last goblin tried to flee but was felled mid-step by a searing bolt of light.

They breathed heavily, but the way was clear.

Deeper within, they found an old dungeon chamber, its air heavy with damp and rot. As they stepped across the threshold, a grinding sound echoed above—and with a thunderous clang, a rusted portcullis crashed down behind them.

Eleri spun around, already casting illumination spells across the walls. Symbols flickered, but none responded to her magic. The door was locked tight. They searched high and low, but no key or mechanism revealed itself.

Eventually, they were forced to retrace their steps and found another corridor—colder, narrower, and lined with bones.

The passage led them into a circular chamber, a place that once might have been sacred. Now it was desecrated. A once-glorious well sat at its centre, its waters black and stagnant.

Then the floor twitched.

From the dark crevices burst a dozen massive rats, their fur matted, their eyes glowing red with starvation. They shrieked and lunged with gnashing teeth.

Hockrup stomped one mid-air, fists flying in brutal arcs. Eleri swept her staff in a wide arc, calling forth slicing gales that tore through the horde. She conjured a burst of pure light, blinding and fatal, that scorched the remaining vermin.

The chamber fell silent, its foulness burned clean.

Through a crumbling stone arch, they entered a forgotten war hall—the Monster’s Lair.

Three orcish spearmen stood guard, each one armoured in blood-stained plate, their tusked faces snarling in anticipation.

“They know we’re coming,” Hockrup growled.

The orcs attacked with coordinated thrusts, but Hockrup ducked, slipped inside the reach of the first, and shattered its knee. Eleri chanted rapidly, the ground beneath one orc glowing blue before collapsing into a magical pit. The third charged—only to be frozen mid-leap by a blast of frost from Eleri’s staff.

With one final blow, the orcs lay dead.

The ceiling opened above them, revealing the Chamber of the Fountain of Light. A beam of pure radiance cascaded from an unseen source, illuminating a pool of water so pristine it seemed made of starlight.

At the chamber’s heart, upon a pedestal carved from crystalline stone, floated the Sword of True Kinship.

It shimmered in the light—its blade neither steel nor silver, but something older. The runes etched into its length pulsed gently.

But between them and the sword stood two guardians, cloaked in white armour and bound by unshakable loyalty.

The battle was swift and fierce. Eleri unleashed a storm of radiance, disrupting their movements. Hockrup danced between them, landing devastating strikes. One fell with a gasp. The second dropped to his knees under a rain of glowing arrows summoned by Eleri, then crumbled.

At last, Hockrup stepped forward. His hand closed around the hilt.

The runes blazed.

The sword accepted him.

Their return was urgent—but as they re-entered the Well of Doom, the ground betrayed them.

The floor trembled. Sand began to swirl underfoot, forming whirlpools of grinding stone. From the ceiling descended giant spiders, their eyes glistening with hunger.

Eleri threw up a barrier of light as Hockrup swung the sword in deadly arcs, but the room was collapsing. Webs snapped taut around them. The ground cracked.

Then came the Ogre.

It burst from the far wall, a mountain of muscle and fury. The spiders scattered.

Stone rained down. The cave was falling.

Eleri turned to Hockrup, her eyes alight not with fear—but purpose.

“We can’t outrun it. Take the sword. Go.”

“We fight together,” he growled.

She smiled, and this time, it was sad.

“We did. But one of us must return.”

She raised her staff high. Arcane sigils flared around her as she chanted the final spell.

“Remember me.”

With a scream of defiance, she unleashed a blazing sphere of radiant fire. The chamber exploded in light.

Hockrup was thrown clear as the cave collapsed.

Bruised, bloodied, and buried beneath the dust of a hero’s sacrifice, Hockrup emerged from the rubble. In his hands, the Sword of True Kinship pulsed with faint light, as though mourning the hand that had helped claim it.

He looked once over his shoulder, to the sealed tomb behind him.

“I will see it done,” he whispered. “You will not be forgotten.”

And with the first rays of dawn painting the horizon, Hockrup walked down from the mountain—into history.