03. The rituals of the Uloon

The last of the bandits fell, their bodies hitting the cold stone with finality. A moment of breath—brief, fleeting—and then the party descended into the heart of the cave where the Uloon lurked. Shadows shifted in the flickering torchlight. One creature bolted into the darkness, its panicked footsteps fading, but two stood their ground, weapons raised and teeth bared. A third emerged from below, its hulking form cutting through the dim light, bringing the fight straight to them.   It wasn’t long before blood slicked the cavern floor. Lark crumpled, breath shallow, his body limp against the stone. Gwen, barely clinging to consciousness, swayed on the edge of defeat. Meanwhile, Talon streaked through the fray like a phantom—diving into battle, striking with ruthless precision, and vanishing before claws could catch him. A ghost among the chaos. Birds be sneaking.   Beyond the wreckage, they found him—a man bound, bleeding, his fur matted with crimson. Cas the Caprinea. His chest bore a carved symbol, sharp and deliberate. Lark’s gaze lingered on the wound, and recognition flickered in his eyes. He knew this code. Pure. The word sat heavy in his mind, and with it, an ominous realization: the Puritanicals had a hand in this.   With Cas now at their side, they slipped deeper into the cave system, careful, silent, hunting for any sign of more Uloon—or the lost bunny and map. The air grew thick, charged with the weight of unseen dangers.   Then came the surge of power, the thrill of a level gained. Fueled by the rush of growth, Gwen pushed forward ahead of Lark, a bold step into the unknown. A miscalculation. Shadows twisted, and sand spirit wolves lunged from the depths, their spectral forms snapping at her heels. A sharp intake of breath—she reeled back, falling in step with Lark once more as the battle erupted in full force. Wolves, Uloon, the leader himself—all clashing in the narrow passage, their cries and clashes echoing through the cavern walls.   When the last body dropped, breathless and broken, the party took their spoils. Weapons stripped from fallen hands, trophies claimed from the dead. And Lia, eyes gleaming, lifted a regal cloak from the head Uloon’s remains—one she would take as her own.