Darkness swallowed us as we descended into the earth, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and old secrets. We did not know what lay beneath the house—only that it had been hidden, and that was reason enough to seek it out.

The fight came fast. A band of smugglers, their blades eager, their eyes filled with the sharp glint of desperation. I raised my hand, and eldritch fire surged forth—an unholy gift from my cursed patron. The blast struck true, searing flesh and sending one man reeling.

Logan tore through the rest like a storm cutting through sails. Claws, steel, fury—he was relentless. Terriana matched him in her own way, a force of ruthless efficiency, leaving no survivors in her wake.

Azulas struck a man down, but we needed information, not just bodies. He was left alive, barely.

I turned to Beak, nudging him toward the dying man. The Kenku stared, unblinking, before leaning in. What it whispered, I do not know. But I saw something in the bandit's eyes—fear, perhaps, or understanding.

Among the wreckage of the smugglers’ lair, we found scraps of knowledge: spell pages, a shattered lamp, remnants of a plan that had not yet unfolded.

The house was no mere haunt. It was a den of secrets, and we had only begun to uncover its depths.

What waited ahead, I could not say. But Saltmarsh had already begun to pull us deeper into its tides.