The Crown That Wears You Back

You all stand in the collapsing crypt, torchlight guttering, one cursed crown floating above the last pressure plate. The moment it is lifted the ceiling begins its slow, grinding descent — you have maybe four minutes before the stone seals you in forever. The crown answers to only one wearer, and it whispers a different secret promise into each of your ears, turning ally against ally. One of you already knows the exit was booby-trapped by the last party that tried this. Decide now: who claims the crown, who trusts whom, and who you leave behind to buy the rest a way out. Reach — or run.