Not a man.
Not even a god.
Only a tool to be used. Worshipped. Feared.
“If there’s treasure in there, why’s this so simple?” Zarrek asks.
I place a hand on his shoulder. “It was waiting. Just like the map.”
“For what?”
I smile, faking the thrill for my Second’s sake, at least.
“Waiting forme.”
Within the cavern, darkness waits. From our packs, we pull a set of Polis lanterns, infuse them with a rune of warmth, and proceed through the narrow hall.Our breaths steam in the air. Once again, Zarrek adjusts his cloak. Once again, I envy him his mortal skin.
Hours pass. No treasure chamber. No sign of glory or a golden bed pan. Stumbling through the temple’s endless mazes of stone halls, deadly traps, and toxic primal mana, I consider turning back.
My heart is steady, but my patience wears thin.
“Not after the fuss you made to get here,” Zarrek says. “You dragged me here, Resh. We’re staying ‘till we find what we came for.”
“How deep does it go?” I check the map at my waist. No indication.
As we progress, unseen spells shatter Zarrek’s runeweaves, one after the other. Like overfilled vessels. The sight gives me pause. If there is a force powerful enough to break through the wards of a master Runetongue, we’re dealing with something unpredictable—perhapstoo powerfulto trifle with.
Hours turn into days. We wind through the passages at a steady pace, taking turns resting, making maps to chart our progress, marking up the walls with chalk as habit from centuries spent in the Veinroads beneath the earth. The structure seems to have no end.
The walls narrow as we move deeper in, and I find myself thinking of my Kelvasari back in town. Good thing I’d left them behind. Let them rest in their cushy hamlet in the Emerald Moores, enjoying mulled bread and bloodwine.Some would die on the journey back to Stonewake. Perhaps many if I don’t finish this task soon.
As though reading my thoughts, Zarrek complains about the men as we share dried rations in a mold-infested hallway.
“Your Reskala warriors are too loud for sacred stone like this,” I tell him.
“You’rethedamn Resh’Agar,” Zarrek deadpans while sharpening his massive battleaxe in the flickering Polis-light. “You want ‘em silent, tell ‘em to shut it.”
“You still think this is just a waste of time.”
“Never stopped me from following you before.” Zarrek siphons mana to the edge of his weapon. “You’ll get plenty of silence when we’re back with the Polis crystal.”
“Don’t remind me. If I could extend the contract for a few more decades, I would.”
“Your brother’s orders aren’t a contract—you’re not a mercenary.”
“TheSovereign Flame,” I correct him, amused at his irreverence. “Forget the title, and he’ll have you Repurposed at the gates.”
Zarrek’s grin is sharp. “They can’t get rid of me that easily. The Lifegivers will riot. Two decades isn’t enough time for them to quit asking for my seed.”
I choke on my food as I struggle not to laugh. Zarrek smirks, offering me a hand up. “They don’t know what to do with me in that Voids-damned rat hole,” he says. “Too famous for Repurposing, too long-lived to be anything but a nuisance. As for me, I think I’d be happy to perish on this Campaign of yours.”
We press on. The cold grows deeper. Biting. Intentional. As though it knows all the gaps in our armor. The walls change from carved stone to blue-black marble, etchings in a long-lost language replacing cracks and fissures.
“The air is foul here,” Zarrek observes. “Mana scrapes against my bones, like it wants to push me out.”
Our Polis lanterns sputter and die, so I light the way with sapphire mageflame. We enter the next chamber—a cavern so massive it rivals the Daesa Major, which houses the bulk of our home city in the Endless Dark. From here, a long winding staircase stretches downwards. Narrow. Treacherous.
I whisper forKenazagain, squinting through the shadows. Even my runesight cannot show me what lies ahead. We continue down the stairs, and suddenly my breath catches.
