The world, as has been previously established, is a place of considerable wonder and frequent inconvenience. It has gods, which are difficult. It has Heroes, which are expensive. And it has, because the universe abhors both a vacuum and a quiet afternoon, monsters.

  Scholars have spent centuries classifying monstrous forces. The results have been extensive, thoroughly footnoted, and almost entirely wrong.

  What is known: monstrous forces are anima. They latch onto the world the way barnacles latch onto ships, except barnacles do not typically rearrange the hull. A monstrous force corrupts what it touches, perverts what it finds, and converts what it cannot use into something it can. It is neither quick nor merciful, and has been described in academic literature as 'profoundly unhelpful.'

  Left unchecked, a monstrous force moves in. It redecorates.

  The result is Dungeons.

  A Dungeon begins with a heart, and grows the way a rumour does: by borrowing from everything it touches and making the result worse. A pocket realm, stitched together from the rules of planes that do not share the mortal world's polite commitment to consistent geometry. Corridors arrive at rooms they have no business connecting to. Stairways negotiate with floors that weren't there a moment ago. Gravity, on occasion, develops preferences.

  At the centre of every Dungeon sits the Heart, guarded by its overlord: its ruling intelligence given flesh, teeth, and a profound objection to uninvited guests. Destroying the Heart collapses the Dungeon. This is straightforward, provided you have never had to do it.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  One other matter is typically mentioned in footnotes, in small print, and with the discomfort of someone recording a fact they would rather not have confirmed.

  Death does not enter Dungeons.

  Whether it cannot or will not remains unclear. Theologians have argued both with the fervour of people who will never have to test their conclusions personally. What is not disputed is the consequence. Those who fall inside a Dungeon do not die. Not properly. No soul passes on, no trace reaches the afterlife. They are simply... used. Absorbed into the Dungeon's architecture, or twisted into something that guards it. The walls of a Dungeon are not always quarried. The monsters inside were not always monsters.

  The field guides do not dwell on this. Neither shall we.

  Which brings us, as all classifications eventually must, to Heroes.

  Heroes are called into being by the same forces that create monsters. This is the part the literature would prefer to put in an appendix. A monstrous force touches the world, and the world responds: some are corrupted, and some are called. The difference, according to the literature, is character, resolve, and moral fortitude.

  The literature is being generous.

  The fire that makes a Hero burn bright and the hunger that makes a monster consume are not different forces. They are the same force, pulling in different directions. A Hero burns outward, for others. A monster burns inward, for itself.

  The scholarly consensus on this is best described as 'uncomfortable silence.'

  Every field guide ever published contains a comprehensive entry on Heroes and an equally comprehensive entry on monsters. Between the two, where the index should cross-reference, there is a gap. No entry for the Hero who turns inward. Who stops burning for others and begins burning for themselves alone. Who follows the call until there is nothing left to follow but the sound of their own footsteps.

  The scholars who write field guides have, by long and unspoken agreement, left this page blank.

  Perhaps they are hoping no one will think to look.