The cursed janitor burst into the chamber like a thunderclap in overalls.

  “INTRUDERS DETECTED,” bellowed Fluffums, a ten-foot-tall golem made of rusted armor, eldritch moss, and what appeared to be a very determined feather duster. “PREPARE FOR SANITIZATION.”

  The adventuring party reacted like professionals.

  Bjorn screamed and charged.

  Elion screamed and strummed.

  Nobody screamed and vanished.

  Tessa sighed and opened a complaint form.

  “Jeff,” she muttered as Fluffums swung a mop the size of a warhammer, “remind me to file a liability claim for ‘assault by housekeeping.’”

  “Noted. Under ‘B’ for ‘brutally swept.’”

  Bjorn was the first to land a hit, burying his axe in Fluffums’ left shoulder. Sparks flew. The golem didn’t flinch—just rotated its head a full 180 degrees and tried to beat him senseless with a broom soaked in centuries of dungeon sludge.

  “Bjorn!” Tessa called. “Go for the runes on the chestplate! It’s probably the power core!”

  Bjorn squinted. “Which rune?”

  “The one that looks like a fire-breathing hedgehog.”

  “Oh! That one.”

  He swung.

  Missed.

  “Oops,” Bjorn said, right before Fluffums yeeted him into a wall.

  Meanwhile, Elion launched into a rousing combat ballad:

  “Sweep not the brave, O cursed mop-thing—”

  before being interrupted by a broom handle to the solar plexus.

  Tessa grabbed a throwing folder—weighted for aerodynamics—and flung it with bureaucratic precision. It smacked Fluffums in the head.

  “Penalty for excessive mopping!” she snapped.

  As Fluffums stumbled, Nobody reappeared, plunging a dagger into the golem’s exposed gears. Sparks burst. The moss caught fire.

  “Jeff! Plan B!” Tessa shouted.

  “What’s Plan B?” he yelped.

  “I don’t know! I was hoping you had one!”

  Suddenly, the artifact spoke.

  “Well, this has all gotten delightfully dramatic,” said Chortlebane the Ever-Steeped, voice echoing smugly from the teapot in Tessa’s satchel. “Would you like some help?”

  Tessa narrowed her eyes. “You said you were a soul vessel. You didn’t say you had powers.”

  Chortlebane coughed. “I didn’t say I didn’t.”

  “Explain. Now.”

  “I’m sort of… bonded to the dungeon. I was the dungeon master, centuries ago. This whole place? Mine.”

  “YOU built this?”

  “Technically subcontracted. But yes.”

  Tessa’s eye twitched. “Then call off the golem!”

  “Oh, I would,” the teapot said innocently, “but I’m not in full control anymore.”

  “What?”

  “There was a bit of an incident involving an evil espresso machine. I lost my command privileges.”

  Before she could ask more, Fluffums roared again—now flaming slightly—and reared back for a final swing.

  Tessa pulled the teapot from her bag. “What can you do?”

  “Well,” Chortlebane said cheerfully, “if someone poured boiling water into me, I could release a burst of arcane steam. Very nasty. Scalding. Temporarily blinds magical constructs.”

  “Done,” said Bjorn, already heating a kettle over his shoulder torch.

  Seconds later, the hot water hit.

  The teapot shuddered.

  Chortlebane cackled.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  And unleashed a blast of glowing violet steam that filled the chamber with a WHOOOOOSH like a dragon sighing through a sauna.

  Fluffums staggered, circuits sparking and lenses fogging.

  “NOW!” yelled Tessa.

  Bjorn charged.

  Nobody leapt from a shadow.

  Elion played a power chord that made a gargoyle cry somewhere.

  Tessa hurled her clipboard like a chakram, slicing straight through the rune.

  With a sputter and a final metallic wheeeze, Fluffums collapsed in a smoking heap.

  Silence fell.

  Tessa dusted herself off and picked up her clipboard. “Okay. Debrief time. Casualties?”

  “I think I bruised my dignity,” Elion muttered.

  “Bjorn?”

  “Ribs are fine. Beard absorbed most of the impact.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Still here.”

  Tessa turned to the teapot. “You. What was that about an espresso machine?”

  Chortlebane hesitated.

  Bjorn raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You said you were sealed away for being mildly evil.”

  “Yes, well,” said Chortlebane, “the Guild and I had a philosophical disagreement about caffeinated necromancy.”

  Tessa narrowed her eyes. “You started a dark roast cult, didn’t you?”

  “...It was an artisan movement.”

  Jeff groaned. “We’re going to get possessed by a barista.”

  “No, no,” said Chortlebane. “I’m harmless now. Ish. Look, I’ll be good. I can guide you through the rest of the dungeon! Free of charge!”

  “You’re a warlock teapot with a god complex.”

  “I’m also dishwasher safe!”

  Tessa groaned. “Fine. You’re on probation.”

  The party gathered around the fallen golem, bruised but victorious.

  Fluffums lay in a smoking pile, his final words—"MUST… DE-LINT…"—still echoing faintly as his enchanted feather duster spiraled gently to the floor.

  The air was thick with magical steam and burnt moss.

  Tessa tucked her clipboard under one arm, eyeing the still-glowing teapot. “Okay. Before anyone else tries to kill us, someone please explain what this espresso cult is and why it sounds like a caffeine-themed doomsday scenario.”

  Chortlebane cleared his throat. “It was supposed to be revolutionary. Espresso-based necromancy. Life, death, and lattes. I called it ‘The Roastening.’”

  Bjorn frowned. “That sounds like something that happens to my stew if I forget the lid.”

  Tessa raised a brow. “And this revolution… failed?”

  “Only in the traditional sense,” the teapot muttered. “I was sealed in the dungeon, yes, but my prized prototype—the Espresso of Eternal Wakefulness—escaped. It became... self-aware.”

  Nobody raised a hand. “So… we’re talking about a haunted coffee machine?”

  “Yes,” said Chortlebane. “And she holds a grudge. Also she’s got steam jets. Very aggressive.”

  Tessa scribbled notes. “Great. Sentient espresso machine, hostile. Possible vendetta. Unclear if decaf available.”

  Bjorn sat down with a grunt. “So, what now? We smashed the mop-monster. What’s our next disaster?”

  Elion, now sitting cross-legged beside a torch, tuned his battered lute. “We learn about each other, obviously. Team bonding. You know, the usual adventure chapter three development arc.”

  Nobody snorted. “Weirdly specific.”

  “Bard instincts.”

  Tessa glanced around and sighed. “Fine. We’ve earned a short break. Let’s… share something. I’ll go first.”

  The others leaned in. Even Jeff quieted down.

  “I used to work in the Claims & Curses Department,” she said. “I got promoted to Field Agent because I filed a requisition form upside down and it summoned an eldritch HR manager. I’ve regretted everything since.”

  Bjorn nodded thoughtfully. “Respect. I was a tavern chef until a food critic called my stew ‘suspiciously arcane.’ Turns out he was right.”

  Elion grinned. “I was born into a noble elven house, abandoned it to pursue music, failed at music, pivoted to goat consultancy, and now I fight monsters while composing epic tragedies about my own poor choices.”

  Nobody shrugged. “Don’t remember who I was. Pretty sure I was someone important. I still get visions when I touch cursed bread.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  Then Tessa nodded. “That explains your weird sandwich rule.”

  Jeff piped up. “I was a normal backpack until an intern cast ‘Sentient Storage’ by mistake. It was either me or a filing cabinet. I won.”

  They all stared.

  “…Okay then,” said Tessa.

  Chortlebane whistled innocently. “I was once the Supreme Archmage of Muglorath, but let’s not dwell on past lives and coffee-based crimes.”

  They all sat there, surrounded by ancient stone, broken janitor parts, and the faint hum of ancient curses. For once, there was a peaceful silence.

  It didn’t last.

  From the far end of the corridor, loud voices echoed—confident and smug.

  “Hellooo? Is this the artifact retrieval area, or are we just strolling through another moldy crypt for fun?”

  A woman in gleaming armor turned the corner, followed by a glowering necromancer and a halfling rogue who had clearly never known humility. Their tabards bore the insignia of the Royal Guild Chapterhouse.

  Tessa groaned. “Oh gods. It’s them.”

  Bjorn frowned. “Them?”

  “Team Excel-Axe,” she said bitterly. “Top-ranked guild party. Heroic, handsome, overachieving nightmares.”

  The woman in the lead spotted Tessa. Her eyes lit up like a paladin about to one-up someone.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the Bureaucratic Blunder and Friends.”

  Tessa plastered on a tight smile. “Valeria. Fancy seeing you three here. Lose your compass or just following the smell of burnt moss and crushed dreams?”

  Valeria’s rogue laughed. “Did you fight Fluffums already? Ugh, we wanted to farm him for loot!”

  Tessa gestured to the smoking pile. “Feel free to collect his mop. It’s still warm.”

  Elion leaned over and whispered, “Should we be concerned about the sudden dramatic music I hear in the background?”

  Chortlebane muttered, “That’s her theme song. It’s magically embedded in her boots. Very tacky.”

  Valeria eyed the teapot. “That the artifact?”

  Tessa clutched Chortlebane tighter. “It’s already claimed, thank you.”

  The necromancer sneered. “So you’re just… keeping it? Like a cursed souvenir?”

  “He’s part of the team.”

  The halfling rogue snorted. “You gave the haunted kettle a name?”

  “Better than naming your dagger,” said Nobody.

  “Dagatha has feelings!” the halfling snapped.

  Tessa stepped forward. “We were assigned the retrieval. You weren’t. What are you doing here?”

  Valeria smiled. “Side quest. Seems there’s something deeper in this dungeon. Some machine that stirs the dead with steamed milk and hatred.”

  Tessa froze. “The espresso machine.”

  Jeff whimpered. “Oh no. Not the frother.”

  Valeria smirked. “Hope you enjoyed your warm-up fight. We’ll handle the real threat.”

  She turned, team in tow, disappearing down a dark corridor lined with glowing glyphs.

  Bjorn cracked his knuckles. “Are we really letting them go after it first?”

  Tessa’s eyes gleamed behind her glasses. “Absolutely not.”

  Chortlebane laughed. “Let’s go stop a caffeinated apocalypse.”

  Nobody nodded. “Race you to the doom chamber.”

  And just like that, the team formed up—bickering, bruised, and weirdly functional.

  And deep below the Keep, far beneath the sealed vault, a sleek silver espresso machine began to hum.

  Its red eye flickered.

  Its drip tray rattled.

  And somewhere, dark magic stirred with the scent of cinnamon and doom.