Branches tore at his sleeves as he ran, lungs burning, boots slipping on wet roots. The jungle closed in on every side, every breath thick with rot and blossom. His staff clutched in both hands knocked against vines and trunks as he stumbled through, more hindrance than help in his mad dash, but he refused to let go of it.

[colour=536dfe]“Oh, good job, Aramis,”[/colour] he panted, half to himself, half to the endless green. [colour=536dfe]“First job, late! What a fantastic impression!”[/colour]

A frond slapped across his face. He ducked, nearly lost his footing, and went skidding sideways before catching himself against a moss-slick trunk. His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his temples, the weight of his pack dragging at his shoulders. Still, his legs kept moving. Somewhere ahead there were voices, the memory of gunfire, and the pulse of something unnatural pulling at the air. He’d already fallen behind once, he couldn’t let it happen again.

[colour=536dfe]“Simple!”[/colour] he rasped, staff snagging on a root as he yanked it free. [colour=536dfe]“Keep up with the professionals. Don’t screw it up, hah! Brilliant start.”[/colour]

The trees broke at last, and the ruin loomed from the jungle floor like a carcass half-buried in vines. Stone ribs leaned inward, mist curling upward in slow, heavy breaths from the yawning stair that split the earth.

Aramis staggered to the lip of the stairs, bent double with his staff planted like a walking stick, gulping air like a drowning man. He lifted his head, caught the silhouettes of others already below, and with what little wind he had left, he shouted:

[colour=536dfe]“I’m here! Sorry! Sorry I’m late!”[/colour] His voice cracked on the last word, echoing sharp against the stone.

He lurched down the steps two at a time, nearly tripping as the mist thickened around him, and the moment his boots struck the water at the bottom, it hit him.

The sorrow. It pressed against his chest, soaked into his skin, wrapped around his ribs like iron bands. Whispers swelled in the haze, regrets not his own but too familiar. Goosebumps rippled across his arms, his breath catching as the air itself seemed to rot with grief. And then, recognition.

This weight was no stranger. He had carried it all his life, until he’d stopped noticing it was even there. Not home. Never home. Just a burden so constant it had become a second skin, one he’d dragged with him until the day he died.

His mouth twisted into a sharp, uneven laugh that startled even him. The sound cracked into a shiver, his shoulders jerking as if throwing off a winter chill. He steadied, chest heaving, eyes locking on the chamber that spread before him.

Water pooled ankle-deep, carved faces weeping endlessly into the rippling surface. At its heart stood the mage, mist wrapped close like a shroud. The others were already braced, grim and ready: rifle leveled, axe in hand, bat lifted, weapons drawn. Professionals, every one of them.

Aramis straightened, dragging in one last breath as his fingers tightened around the length of his staff. He had nearly lost it half a dozen times in the jungle, but now, braced in his hands, it felt steady. Certain.

He planted his boots, cloak settling heavy around him, and lifted the staff across his body in a defensive stance. His voice still carried that nervous edge, but it rang clear enough to reach his new companions.

[colour=536dfe]“Aramis Endo,”[/colour] he said. [colour=536dfe]“Mage for hire. Ready to assist.”[/colour]
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