Dobish padded down worn stone steps, his boots barely making a sound. The torch in his hand sputtered against the encroaching darkness, casting flickering shadows across the uneven walls. He shivered, pulling his hood tighter against the icy chill, though he suspected the cold that gripped his heart had less to do with the crypt itself and more to do with what he sought within. 

The halfling was a scavenger, an explorer, and—some whispered—a thief. But Dobish liked to think of himself as a finder of things lost to the world. And the thing he sought now was whispered of in hushed tones by scholars and traders alike: an idol said to hold the power of forgotten gods, and for Dobish, a chance at redemption. 

As he descended deeper, the silence seemed to press harder against his ears, broken only by the faint, ghostly echoes of the monastery above. Then, from the shadows ahead, a sound emerged—a muffled voice, faint and distant. “Dobish…” 

He froze. The voice was familiar yet distorted, as if carried by the breeze itself. His torchlight trembled as he raised it higher, searching the shadows for movement. 

“Did you find it? Did you find the idol? Dobish…” 

The voice faded, pulled into the silence like a pebble sinking into the depths. Dobish’s heart pounded, and for the first time, he wondered if this search would unearth more than just an ancient relic. Would this delve be the final straw toward insanity? It felt as though the crypt itself was alive, a living memory, echoing voices from his past. 

The silence returned, heavier than before. Only Dobish’s breathing broke the stillness as he stood there, the faint flicker of his torch the sole defiance against the darkness. He adjusted his pack, tightened his grip on the torch, and took another step forward. Whatever lay ahead—idol or otherwise he had already come too far to turn back. The ghosts from his past may haunt him, but they couldn’t hurt him. Could they? 

With a renewed sense of vigor, Dobish pressed onward, determined to uncover a sign any sign that might reveal his bounty. His uncanny knack for achieving the impossible had always set him apart and today would be no different. Failure was not an option. 

“Why did you leave me?” The voice returned, more commanding than before. Was it real? Or was it a figment of Dobish’s imagination? Was it further proof that his grip on reality was slipping? 

“What is wrong with me?” Dobish wondered, raising a hand to his forehead. The stress of the moment weighed heavily on him. “Ghosts couldn’t be real… could they?” Shaking off the doubt, he picked up his pace, urgency fueling each step. At last, the path led him to its conclusion a hallway, barren and lifeless, ending in an empty wall. 

“Drat!” Dobish hissed, frustration seeping into every fiber of his being. He scanned the area, his breath coming quick and his heart beating strong. “Did I miss something?” Was his looming insanity turning his efforts into fruitless circles? No matter—he resolved to backtrack and begin again. He wouldn’t leave without the idol. 

“DON’T LEAVE ME AGAIN!” The voice sliced through the air, piercing Dobish like icy shards. It was behind him. Whipping around, he froze, terror gripping him. His past, the nightmare he thought he had outrun, had found him. 

“Barlyn…” Dobish gasped, barely able to form the words. His brother—his long-dead brother—stood before him, impossibly alive. “How? You… you died…” Dobish’s chest tightened, his breath shallow, his thoughts an incoherent jumble. This couldn’t be real. How was his brother here, now? He had been murdered, years ago. 

“Dobish!” Barlyn hissed, gliding forward as though carried by the wind itself. His feet hovered just above the ground; each step ethereal. His movement was unnatural, haunting, his presence suffused with rage and sorrow. “Murderer! You left me to die, Dobish! You chose the idol over me!” 

“No! Barlyn, that’s not what happened!” Dobish screamed, stumbling backward as if trying to escape the nightmare in front of him. His voice cracked with desperation, his body trembling. “I didn’t leave you! We were betrayed…ambushed. You pushed me away, and…”   

Dobish had carried the weight of the guilt, the pain, the terror for so many years. Every night brought him back to the same place, the same memory. And now, it wasn’t just a dream. It was here, staring him down, demanding answers to questions he couldn’t comprehend. How could he atone for this? How could face his brother? 
 
“I’m sorry… please… forgive…” Dobish’s voice broke as the words tumbled out. Overwhelmed with grief, he collapsed to his knees, hands trembling, his face etched with anguish. His gaze lifted to meet Barlyn’s—a silent plea for redemption. He had survived but now came the cost of his survival. 

“The idol… your bag… hand me the idol… give me the idol!” Barlyn’s voice was hypnotic, trailing into an unsettling whisper. His ethereal form floated closer to Dobish, moving with an eerie elegance as though gravity itself had been forgotten. 

“I don’t have the idol! I never found it!” Dobish stammered. His teary eyes darted frantically as confusion overwhelmed him. He wiped his face, the sting of tears adding to the whirlwind of emotion. Staggering to his feet, he fought to regain composure, but the weight of the moment blurred both his vision and his mind. 

“The idol… give it… GIVE IT… YOU LIE!” Barlyn roared, his fury igniting his spectral body in a radiant shimmer. “The idol is MINE! Give me the idol, Dobish!” His voice shattered the air like thunder. Each word seemed to tear a fragment of light from his translucent form, leaving trails of brilliance behind him. Dobish winced, shielding his face against the blistering luminescence. He stood against the chaos, his mind spiraling back into the depths of a child’s memory—his memory—into that night so long ago.

A boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old—and his older brother, a man in his early twenties, faced hooded figures. Their faces concealed, but their intent clear. In the glow of torchlight, their weapons gleamed, threateningly motioning for the brothers to surrender a bag. The boy clung to it, defiant, his hands trembling as he held on to its tattered strap.

“No!” Dobish cried; his voice small but unyielding as he held on to the strap. The hooded men surged forward. One grabbed him, his rough hands forcing Dobish down. They ripped the bag from his grasp. Dust and dirt clung to his clothes as he was sprawled to the ground, helpless. 

Barlyn looked at the men; fear painted across his face. “Hand it over!” barked one of the men as they surrounded him. “The idol or the boy. Give it to us, and we’ll let you go.” Their cruel laughter broke through the tension like splintered glass, growing louder as they edged closer to Dobish. 

Barlyn faltered, his mind torn between the temptation of survival and his brotherly duty. His breaths came shallow and quick. Greed flickered in his eyes, blending with the shadow of fear. Finally, his gaze settled on his younger brother, who lay trembling on the ground. 

“I’m sorry, Dobby,” he mouthed soundlessly. Gripping the remnants of the bag, Barlyn turned—his decision made—and ran, his feet pounding against the dirt as he darted past the hooded men, leaving his brother behind, abandoned to fate. Left to die. 
 
“You left me!” screamed Dobish, his voice echoing desperately through the crypt. He leapt to his feet, his world snapping painfully into focus, and back to the present. “You sacrificed me, Barlyn! Your own brother. You left me to die!” His torchlight flickered wildly, casting long, trembling shadows across the ancient stone walls. “They made me a slave, Barlyn! They beat me for what you stole from them! It was worse than death!” 

Fueled by anger, Dobish swung his torch toward Barlyn. The flickering flames illuminated a harrowing truth—this was not his brother. It was a vile deception. The crypt itself seemed alive, pulsating with corruption, its oppressive air thick with malevolent whispers. Demonic forces were at play, weaving treacherous illusions to torment his mind, dredging up his darkest memories, and preying on his deepest fears. 

Steeling himself, Dobish felt the weight of an object pressing against his chest—an idol suspended from a simple chain. This was the very idol his brother had betrayed him for, the one Dobish had hidden in desperation just before the ambush so many years ago. The idol only he could see! He had forgotten its existence, but now it all came rushing back. He had found it; he had carried it all along. The idol pulsed with energy, fueling his resolve. 

The shade before him roared and exploded into a violent tempest, its wrath filling the room with an unnatural howl. Shards of ancient stone whipped through the air, stinging Dobish’s skin. Barlyn was gone. All that remained was this chaotic storm a manifestation of the true evil lurking deep within the crypt. 

“The idol, boy! Give us the idol!” The tempest spoke, its voice layered, commanding, and cruel. Tendrils of wind tore at Dobish, threatening to rip him apart. He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the torch. With a desperate burst of energy, he bolted toward the steps, his feet pounding against the shifting ground. 

Now the truth pierced through. His carefully constructed world crumbled, leaving him raw and exposed. He was not the man he had convinced himself he was. He was still that abandoned child, the one his brother had discarded, left to fend for himself. A finder of lost things? No. He was a liar. A fraud. Yet, for all his failings, he was something else too: a survivor. Not the man named Dobish, but the boy who had crawled from the depths of despair, who had escaped the chains of slavery, and paid his debts. 

That boy, that abandoned soul, had endured. And now, he knew what he must do. He had to find his brother not for revenge, but for redemption. The crypt had claimed Dobish, but Dobby was reborn.

The End