A long, squat building of wood and stone sat behind a defensive stone wall, positioned about three hundred yards outside the village. The wall followed the north side of the road for nearly fifty yards, its top lined with hardened defensive positions. Archers moved along its length, eyes scanning the surrounding hills and grasslands with quiet vigilance.

At the far end of the wall, a contingent of soldiers stood across the road, forming a firm blockade.

The caravan halted several yards short of the checkpoint. Three mounted soldiers peeled away from the garrison line, riding forward to meet Tybour, Haningway, Rishmond, Bantore, and Norft as they advanced from the head of the halted column.

Torg trailed along behind Rishmond, his short, stocky frame nearly invisible behind the bulk of Bantore and Norft. His small feet made no sound on the road, and he kept his head low, his glowing eyes flicking between the soldiers ahead and the archers stationed along the wall.

Few noticed him.

Fewer still understood what he was.

But Rishmond could feel him back there—steady as a shadow. Watching everything.

The leader of the riders reined in her horse with practiced ease, turning the big grey gelding sideways with a firm tug of the reins. She was a striking figure—her exposed skin tanned a warm golden brown, every muscle in her arms and shoulders honed and hard beneath fitted armor.

Her hair, raven black, was gathered into a tight braid that began at the crown of her head and jutted upward, held rigid by coils of gold and silver before cascading down to the middle of her back in a long, braided fall.

Her armor was polished but worn—clearly used, minimalist in design, tailored for agility as much as protection. At the top of her breastbone shimmered a tattoo, etched in bright metallic green. It caught the morning light with an otherworldly gleam—the unmistakable signature of Glittergreen ink. Powdered from the rare magical crystal and mixed into enchanted dyes, such tattoos weren’t decorative. They enhanced.

This one—formed in the ancient sigil of strength—meant the woman wasn’t just a warrior.

She was augmented.

She was someone who fought often—and won.

“Well met, Major Asherton,” said Tybour.

His voice was smooth as silk, thick as honey to Rishmond’s ears. Perhaps the strain of casting two large portals in as many days had taken its toll after all. Rishmond glanced sideways at the First Mage’s face and caught what might’ve been a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Welcome, First Mage, to the Malminar Garrison in The Reaches,” Major Asherton replied. “We’re glad you’ve arrived safely—and saddened to hear of the misfortunes along your road. We are prepared to receive you.”

She dismounted in a fluid motion and stepped forward as Tybour moved ahead of his party. The two of them faced each other in the space between their entourages like duellists—poised, wary, powerful.

Asherton extended her left hand, palm up. Her right remained resting lightly on the hilt of her sword.

A flicker of light sparked to life above her open palm, quickly forming into a softly spinning orb. Faint runes traced themselves along its surface, pulsing with power. Now and then, narrow beams of light blinked into existence, darting outward before vanishing in the morning air. A steady, resonant hum accompanied the orb’s rotation.

A second hum answered a heartbeat later, deep and vibrant, as Tybour raised his own hand and mirrored the gesture. His sphere of light bloomed into being—more refined, perhaps, but just as steady.

Rishmond tasted cinnamon. Sweet and spicy, like hard candy melting on the tongue. He smelled it too, curling through the air like incense.

The two orbs floated forward, slow and deliberate, until they touched.

For a moment, both glowed silver-blue.

Then they fused into a single, crystalline sphere the size of a man’s head—clear as ice, perfect as glass—and in the next breath, it vanished.

A palpable wave of released tension rippled through the onlookers.

An audible exhale moved through the gathered guards and soldiers, the civilians, even some of the caravan leaders. Shoulders relaxed. Hands dropped from hilts.

The ritual was complete.

They had been accepted.

“Rosa!” Tybour exclaimed, striding the last few steps toward the garrison commander.

They clasped forearms in the manner of old comrades, the grip firm, their eyes locked.

“Tybour,” she replied—her tone more reserved, but not cold. There was friendship in it, cautious but genuine.

Tybour’s left hand rose to cup her right shoulder, the gesture familiar and unhurried. His hand trailed down her bare arm to her elbow, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

Then they stepped apart.

Tybour’s half-smile bloomed—charming, easy, with that familiar sparkle in his eyes.

Ambrosia Asherton looked at him for a long second, expression unreadable. Then her eyes softened, just a touch, and her mouth stayed firm.

But she smiled back—with her eyes alone.

Several paces back, at the front of the main caravan group, Illiar and Cantor exchanged knowing glances. Even from this distance, they could see the spark between Tybour and Ambrosia Asherton.

Rishmond remained blissfully unaware of the tension—or history—between the two.

“Major Asherton,” Tybour said with a small bow and a sweeping gesture of his right arm, stepping aside. “Allow me to introduce Rishmond Bar—one of the most promising young Wizards since... well, since me.”

He beamed at Rishmond, eyes twinkling with mischief. Then he turned that same warm smile back on Ambrosia, adding, “Rishmond, this is the esteemed Major Ambrosia Asherton, commander of the Malminar Garrison here in The Reaches. Quite likely the most skilled swordsman in Malminar—possibly in the world. I’ve never seen her equal.”

Rishmond stepped forward, inclining his head in a respectful bow, careful to maintain eye contact. Major Asherton’s eyes were bright green and piercing, and Rishmond had the sudden, sharp feeling that she was peering straight into his thoughts—measuring him.

He smiled slightly. Despite her aloofness, he liked her immediately.

He extended his arm and grasped her forearm in the soldier’s grip. Her hand met his with quiet strength, and for a brief moment, her features softened. Her head tilted slightly, and a smile formed easily across her lips.

“Rishmond. Bar? As in Halmond?” she asked, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I hadn’t heard they had a second son. You appear to be about the same age as Pilip.”

She didn’t release his arm, but turned her head toward Tybour with the question in her eyes.

“Not by birth, no,” Rishmond said. “I came to Malminar as an orphan. Halmond and Berti took me in—me and my best friend, Toby. They’re our parents now.”

Tybour raised both eyebrows, his mouth curving into a wry smile. He inclined his head slightly toward Rishmond, saying nothing.

An unspoken understanding seemed to pass between Tybour and Ambrosia.

“Ah. I see.” Ambrosia’s tone shifted, quiet and reflective. “I would expect nothing less of Hal and Berti.”

Her hand still gripped Rishmond’s forearm as she studied him. “You’re about the age Pilip would be… if he were still alive.”

Her voice softened just a hair—then she squinted at his face again, the scrutiny returning with interest.

“A promising Wizard, eh? I’ll expect great things, then, if Tybour is impressed by you.” She tugged him a step closer, her eyes narrowing in amusement. “How’s your sword-arm? Is Tybour teaching you? Haningway as well?”

As Rishmond nodded, she leaned in slightly, examining him more closely. He caught her scent—jasmine, mint, and dragon-flower—blended with the clean bite of well-oiled leather and a hint of horse sweat. The overall effect was… pleasant. Striking.

She pushed him back a step, then spun him gently, still holding his arm, inspecting him from different angles with the eye of a soldier sizing up a recruit.

“Well, you seem healthy. Fit. I look forward to sparring with you soon.” Her grin was sharp, playful. “I’m always curious to see just how well Tybour trains his students with a blade.”

Rishmond glanced over as she released his arm and stepped back. Tybour, unsurprisingly, was smiling.

“Yes, a sparring session would be a good thing,” Tybour said. “But it’ll have to wait. Our business with the mine takes priority.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rishmond added quickly, turning back to her. “Haningway, Tybour, and Ueet are all teaching me. Swordplay and other fighting styles. I’m better than most my age, but I know I’ve still got a long way to go.”

He offered his most disarming smile—the one that worked best on authority figures he admired. He liked her already.

“Few are as good as me…” Ambrosia replied, not boastful—just stating fact. Her voice trailed slightly, and then—

“Ueet?”

Her head snapped toward Tybour, lips pressed into a thin line. The warmth vanished from her expression, replaced by something unreadable.

She did not seem pleased to hear that name.

Tybour held up both hands, palms open in mock surrender. “Long story,” he said. “But we need him for this expedition—and I suspect we’ll need him even more before it’s over.”

He stepped to the side, tilting his head with that same charming, sideways grin. “I’m sure you’ve heard something of why we’re here. And what we’re after.”

He paused—just long enough for the small crystal golem to emerge from behind the cluster of soldiers, weaving around boots and armor until he stood clearly before the group.

“This is Torg.”

The golem gave a stiff, mechanical bow. “Hello, Wizard Asherton. I am Torg.”

He paused, his gemstone eyes flicking across her and the soldiers behind her. “I am at your service, Wizard.”

Rishmond caught a faint scent—like rain on warm stone, threaded with lilac. He glanced down and saw the lines of magic within Torg pulsing brighter, flowing faster. The fireworks in Torg's head blossomed and turned gold and green, blooming like flowers of light.

This was new.

Torg wasn’t just radiating magic.

He was using it.

Rishmond’s pulse quickened. He knew, without knowing how, that Torg was measuring Ambrosia’s magical potential—quietly, elegantly, with divine precision.

He turned his gaze back to her face, studying her reaction. But if she noticed the spell, she gave no sign.

Ambrosia stared for a long moment. So did the soldiers behind her.

“I truly thought the reports had been exaggerated,” she said at last.

She stepped forward, armor whispering softly, and crouched beside the golem to get a closer look. Her tone shifted—less formal now, more curious. Almost reverent.

“Amazing,” she murmured. “I’ve heard of golems. Stone, bronze, even flesh. But never one made of crystal.”

Her voice dropped. “Is he truly an emissary from the Gods?”

“I would not call myself an emissary, Wizard,” Torg replied.

His voice was calm, crystalline, almost melodic in its precision. “I am but an assistant to the Goddess Denisisie. I have specific tasks to achieve at her behest and am granted a measure of discretion in how I carry them out—within defined parameters, of course.”

He tilted his head slightly, the facets of his body catching the morning light.

“I do not speak for the Goddess, nor for any other God, though I may relay messages. And have, in the past.”

There was no pride in the statement. No reverence either. Only truth.

“My current task is to bring Wizard Rishmond to an audience with my mistress, Denisisie, and to protect him at all costs until that goal is fulfilled.”

He paused, as if recalibrating his next statement.

“I have also been asked by Wizard Rishmond and Wizard Tybour to assist in restoring the Gods’ access to mortals. To do so, we must first ascertain where the Gods have gone—if they have gone anywhere at all. That is why we have come here: to retrace the last known steps of the Goddess Denisisie, and to discover where she is… and why she has ceased contact with the mortal world for such an extended time.”

Gasps and whispered murmurs erupted from the soldiers and attendants gathered behind the major. Disbelief, awe, nervous energy—all blooming at once.

But Ambrosia Asherton did not flinch.

She raised a single hand, palm out.

The murmurs died instantly.

She held Torg’s gaze—or what passed for a gaze in that polished crystal face—and spoke in a low voice, more to herself than to anyone else:

“Well,” she said. “That explains the portals. And the Warlocks.”

“You’ve come to discover where the Gods have gone?” Rosa asked, her voice cool with suspicion. “As Denisisie’s assistant, should you not already know why she came here, what she was doing, and where she went afterward?”

She didn’t raise her voice, but something in her tone—measured, precise—made Rishmond’s skin prickle. There was a shift in her posture too. Subtle. Barely perceptible. But the air around her sharpened.

She was already alert. Now, she was ready.

“Do you think all the Gods disappeared the moment she—they—came here?” she continued, not waiting for Torg’s reply. “You believe your being here will bring them back from their hiatus? That they’re in the mines, sipping cave-water, or hiding somewhere in the wilds of the Glittergreen Mountains? Ignoring mortals? Watching us from the shadows for hundreds of years?”

She frowned down at Torg, skepticism clear in her voice—but something else lingered beneath it. Not just doubt. Not just disbelief.

Resentment.

"Why would they come here," she asked, "just to abandon us?”

Before Torg could respond, Tybour stepped in smoothly.

“Rosa,” he said, his tone light but steady. “We’ve already discussed much of this with Torg, and we’ll gladly go over it again with you—and anyone else who’s interested.” He gestured to the soldiers and staff gathered nearby. “But perhaps we should do it somewhere inside, with hot food and good wine?”

Rosa turned her head slowly, fixing Tybour with a long look. Her frown deepened for just a moment—then vanished.

She smiled. Brilliant. Dazzling.

Dangerous.

“Yes. Let’s.”

She held the moment, letting the silence stretch before speaking again. “I have a strong feeling that a good wine—and perhaps a stronger spirit—may be needed to hear this story.” Her eyes lingered on Tybour. “And besides... you and I have unfinished business.”

Her tone was casual.

But it brooked no argument.

Tybour offered none.

“Come,” Rosa said, turning sharply from Tybour. The invitation—or perhaps command—was directed at Rishmond, Cantor, and Illiar.

She extended one dark-gloved hand to Rishmond, took his without hesitation, and began pulling him behind her toward the open gates of the garrison. He followed without resistance, surprised but not displeased.

Cantor and Illiar had stepped forward earlier, during the tense exchange between Rosa and Torg—drawn by the gravity of the conversation, unwilling to hang back when something this big was unfolding. Now, they moved with Rosa, a step behind but clearly included in her sweep.

“Illiar,” Rosa called over her shoulder, “it is good to see you again. How is your father? Still burly and surly?”

“He is as well as can be expected for someone afflicted with his particular condition,” Illiar replied, her voice light and smooth, though Rishmond recognized the tempered iron beneath. “And despite being burly, he is far from surly. In fact, his constant jesting tends to drive me to distraction.”

That was Illiar’s diplomatic tone. Polite. Measured. A subtle wall wrapped in velvet.

Rosa let out a soft huff of amusement—approval, perhaps—and then turned her gaze on Cantor without slowing her stride.

“And you, young lady—what is your name, and how did you come to be surrounded by these well-meaning but bumbling men?”

Her eyes flicked up and down, measuring, weighing.

“You look capable,” Rosa said. “Are you?”

Cantor met Rosa’s gaze evenly, walking just behind Rishmond and Illiar as they passed through the courtyard. She hadn't flinched when Rosa's eyes raked her from head to toe—measuring, challenging.

“I’m Cantor,” she said, her voice calm and level. “And yes. I am capable.”

There was no bravado in her tone. No flattery. Just truth, stated plainly.

“I’ve survived a shipwreck, a demon-spawn attack, and traveling with the First Mage and Rishmond. I don’t know everything yet, but I know how to listen, how to fight, and how to stand my ground when it counts.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t need to.

“I’m here because I earned my place.”

Rosa let out a low, thoughtful hum, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.

“Well then,” the Major said, “perhaps you’ll be the first one I spar with.”

Rosa kept a brisk pace, dragging Rishmond along by the hand as she fired off question after question at Illiar and Cantor. Her tone shifted with ease—casual, commanding, curious. She seemed to know Illiar to some degree, which surprised Rishmond. For all his familiarity with Illiar and Bantore, he’d never once heard the name Ambrosia Asherton.

The conversation swirled around him, a rapid current he couldn’t quite follow as they passed through the garrison gates and into the stone-paved courtyard. Rosa never slowed.

The main building loomed ahead, a squat fortress of thick walls and reinforced doors—clearly meant to withstand more than bandits or beasts. This was a proper stronghold.

Rosa led them through the entrance and down a short hallway, opening a set of broad, double doors that revealed a grand hall beyond. Long wooden tables formed a wide square around the center of the room, which had been left open. In the middle of the space, a wide square hole in the floor led to a descending stairwell.

A man in clean, pressed livery emerged from below, carrying a tray stacked with silver place settings and polished cutlery.

Rosa strode confidently to the head of the central table and directed Rishmond to sit at her right, Cantor at her left, and Illiar to Rishmond’s right. Still the questions flowed—directed only to Cantor and Illiar—as if Rishmond were merely cargo she’d hauled in behind her.

He was content to stay silent.

Until she turned.

Her grip on his hand finally loosened, and she looked at him—really looked at him—green eyes sharp and invasive. He felt the weight of her attention like a vise on his skull.

“Where did you say you were born, Rish?” she asked.

Her voice had softened slightly, but the intensity behind it hadn’t dulled.

“May I call you Rish? I like the sound of it.”

“Y-yes, of course. If you wish,” he stammered, caught off guard. The nickname hit him like a surprise embrace and a veiled command at once.

“I don’t actually know where I was born,” he added, voice quieter now. “Mott, I suppose. The nuns at the orphanage told me they found me on their doorstep when I was about two months old.”

He paused.

Did not break her gaze.

He tried not to think about the truth—not the fragmented memories, not the mystery of his earliest months. He told himself he wasn’t lying. Just… protecting something he didn’t fully understand.

“Nasty city,” Rosa said. Her voice dropped into something almost warm. “I’m glad you’re here now instead of there.”

Rishmond believed her.

And he realized—he liked her. Fierce, strange, unyielding as she was, there was something honest in her scrutiny. Something he trusted.

Dinner was brought and served. The mood lightened quickly as Rosa steered the conversation toward their travels, eager for stories and impressions from each of them. She was sharp, witty, and unexpectedly funny. Rishmond found himself smiling more than once.

Quick glances with Cantor and Illiar confirmed what he felt—they were charmed by her, too. The tension that had wrapped them all so tightly began to ease. For the first time in days, Rishmond let himself relax.

Torg stood quietly behind Rishmond’s chair, a short but solid obstacle for the servants weaving behind the line of seated guests. Most of the food had been served from the open center of the square-shaped arrangement of tables, but the occasional tray or pitcher passed narrowly around the edges.

Rishmond’s gaze drifted around the hall. Finally, he spotted Tybour and Haningway seated more than halfway down the left side of the square. They appeared deep in discussion with an important-looking Alteman clad in layers of vibrant cloth and fine jewelry.

Food was eaten, wine poured, laughter shared.

And then the plates were cleared, and the rhythm of the room shifted.

Rosa rose smoothly to her feet and gave a sharp nod toward someone across the chamber. A bell rang—a bright, crystalline tone—and conversation fell away like mist burned off by sunlight. All eyes turned to the head table.

“It is time,” Rosa announced, her voice crisp and commanding, “to hear the tale. What truly brings this expedition to the Glittergreen Mines—and how it came to be.”

Her gaze dropped to Rishmond, direct and unyielding.

“I understand that you are something of the cause?”

Her expression was unreadable. Stern. Expectant.

Rishmond opened his mouth, unsure of what he would say.

But Tybour’s voice rose smoothly from the center of the room.

“Major,” he said, “it will require more than just Rishmond’s telling…”

He now stood in the open square at the heart of the chamber, framed by torchlight and solemn attention.

He had changed.

Gone were the weatherworn greys of travel. He now wore the official robe of his station—white and gold, adorned with the sigils of the Wizard’s Guild and the Malminar Crown. The cloth shimmered faintly with threads of enchanted light, its fine stitching catching the torchlight like morning sun off fresh snow.

“…but tell it we shall.”

As Tybour stepped forward to speak, Rishmond caught the faint scent of lilac and cinnamon.

He turned his head slightly and glanced up at Rosa, still standing beside him. The scent was coming from her—from the subtle shimmer of magic woven into the air around her. An enhancement spell. One designed to sharpen her senses and imprint every word, every gesture, into perfect memory.

Not a spell that required strength, no—but one that demanded control. Finesse.

Rishmond’s opinion of the Major rose again. She might not radiate magical power the way Tybour or he himself  did, but her precision was something else entirely.

For the next several hours, the tale was told.

Tybour led much of it, but Rishmond, Cantor, and even Torg all contributed. They shared the truth of how the golem had been discovered—not the fabricated tale they’d told back in Retinor. They spoke of the island, the descent into the ancient vault, the awakening of the crystal golem, and the revelation that he served the Goddess Denisisie herself.

They explained how the expedition had been formed, the storm, the sabotage, the sinking of the Porpoise, the monstrous battle in the savannah.

Only one detail was deliberately omitted.

Teilmein.

Tybour had warned Rishmond earlier: “Not yet. Not until we know more.”

So they didn’t speak of murder. Not tonight.

Throughout it all, most of the garrison held their questions until the end. They listened—captivated—as Torg finally delivered his message: that the Gods had gone silent, that Denisisie had vanished, and that he believed they could be found... and convinced to return to the mortal realm.

There were gasps. Murmurs. And no shortage of emotion when the tragedies and losses were revealed—so many dead, so many buried on the journey.

Yet when the demonspawn was mentioned, the reaction was... muted. A few grim expressions. One or two quiet oaths. But no shock.

Rishmond realized, with a creeping unease, that the garrison had likely seen such creatures before. Perhaps many times.

This was the Reaches, after all.

Tybour watched Rosa’s face as they spoke, always gauging her reactions. She was careful—too careful. He could tell she believed there was more to the tale than had been told tonight. And she was right.

But the omissions were necessary.

Later, he’d explain. Later, he’d take her wrath—and her wisdom. He needed both.

Without realizing it, a soft smile played at the corners of his lips as he watched her. It was an old smile. A familiar one.

The telling gave way to questions, and the questions to discussion. Wine flowed, but the mood never became jovial again. Not really. The weight of the tale was too great.

The hour crept toward morning.

And Rishmond... was tired.

Tired of answering the same questions, each one worded slightly differently. Tired of speaking. Tired of being looked at like a symbol. Like something sacred, or dangerous, or important.

He just wanted to breathe.

But still, he sat upright at Rosa’s right hand, and tried to be what they needed him to be.

Groups had begun to form throughout the great hall—clusters of voices rising and falling as people broke off to share their thoughts, to argue over what should be done, or to speculate about what lay ahead.

Tybour spotted Rishmond and Cantor still seated at their places, finally left in peace. No more questions. No more attention.

Just quiet.

Illiar had slipped away earlier to join her father. She had excused herself with a gentle touch to Cantor’s shoulder and a quiet promise: “We’ll talk more in the morning.” Rishmond had watched her go, noting the tired heaviness in her usually graceful stride.

Now, only he and Cantor remained.

Tybour approached, his robe whispering softly over the stone.

“Rishmond. Cantor,” he said, his voice gentler now. “You should head off to bed. Get some sleep. We’ve been granted access to the Holy Temple, but it’s a long walk to get there—deep within the mines. It’ll be a long day tomorrow, and you’ll need to be sharp.”

He looked between them with quiet seriousness.

“The stories you’ve heard about the voices and the visions... they don’t prepare you for the reality.”

As if summoned by his words, a strange sound slipped into Rishmond’s mind—a soft whisper, like wind brushing through a broken shutter. Faint, but not imagined.

It moved, curling around the edges of the room, distinct even over the murmur of conversation. Rishmond looked up, scanning for the source, but there was none.

Across the table, Tybour's gaze flicked upward as well.

They met Rishmond’s gaze, and Tybour dipped his head slightly—a silent message: You’re not alone.

Rishmond turned toward Cantor.

She was smiling faintly, exhaustion lining her face, completely unaware of the sound. Whatever it was, she hadn’t heard it.

“What?” she asked, catching the look between the two of them. Her eyes darted between Rishmond and Tybour. “Did I miss something? Are you two making fun of me?”

She nudged Rishmond’s shoulder with a tired grin.

“No,” Rishmond said, recovering, “just wondering if you’re as tired as I am.”

Tybour smiled at the exchange, then nodded toward the far wall.

“Go,” he said. “There’s no need for you here now.”

He gestured, and a young tiger beastman stepped forward. He wore a crisp blue vest over utilitarian leathers, his striped tail swishing lazily behind him.

“This is Roqep. He’ll show you to your rooms. If you need anything—anything at all—ask him. Or anyone else in a blue vest.”

Roqep bowed silently, then gestured with a wide, open palm toward a side hallway lit with lanterns.

“Come,” he said, his voice low and resonant, soft-pawed steps already moving down the corridor.

Rishmond stood, catching the slight pressure in the back of his mind again—like a breath through stone.

The mines were already calling.

Roqep spoke as they made their way through the stone halls, his deep voice calm and smooth.

“Happy to help. Your rooms aren’t far—and quite near each other.” His stride was steady and confident, his striped tail flicking lazily behind him. “Would you like water, or anything else delivered to your rooms before sleep? Your belongings have already been placed inside.”

Torg joined them silently, padding along just behind Rishmond and Cantor like a loyal shadow. The four of them left the hall behind and entered a wide corridor lit by warm torchlight.

“Your beds are ready,” Roqep continued, his tone friendly but aloof. “Should you need more blankets—or fewer—or different pillows, just ask. We’re not Castle Retinor, mind you, but we have our comforts. Most guests don’t find much to complain about.”

He kept talking as they walked, a quiet rhythm of information delivered with the ease of long practice. He spoke of the garrison layout, the building they were currently in, and what things might be found nearby—stables, the bathhouse, the forge, the kitchens. There were mentions of shops and a small tavern outside the main gate, and a few trails worth walking if they were so inclined.

To Rishmond, it almost sounded like they’d come on holiday.

Cantor, walking just behind Roqep, cast Rishmond a bemused look and mouthed, “Vacation?”

He nearly laughed. Nearly.

After several more turns—more than Rishmond could reasonably remember in his growing exhaustion—they came to a corridor lined with sturdy wooden doors. The stone underfoot gave way to thick, patterned carpeting in warm earthen hues. The air here was quieter, dimmer, more intimate. The torches were spaced farther apart now, their flickering light casting long shadows on the walls.

There were no more windows.

At some point, they’d left the outer halls and entered a more interior section of the building—something tucked within the square structure of the garrison. Rishmond realized, distantly, that he had no idea how to get back to the great hall from here. But he was too tired to care.

Roqep stopped in front of a door and gave it a gentle knock with one clawed knuckle—habit more than necessity.

“These are your rooms,” he said. “Rishmond, you’ll be here.” He turned slightly. “Torg is the next door down. Young lady, yours is across the hall. Should you need anything, ring the bell beside your door. Someone will come.”

Rishmond nodded, barely suppressing a yawn. The air here felt heavier, stiller, as if it encouraged silence.

“Thank you, Roqep,” he said.

The beastman bowed slightly, his golden eyes glinting in the torchlight. “Sleep well,” he said, and turned to leave but paused eyeing the crystal gloem.

The door opened easily.

The room beyond was dark, warm, and quiet.

Rishmond paused at the door, noting its color—blue, he thought, though it was hard to be sure in the flickering torchlight. Some kind of geometric pattern crossed its surface in a contrasting hue, precise and intricate. Not something slapped on casually. It meant something, though he couldn’t guess what.

That one was paler—white perhaps, or a very light blue. Its pattern was simpler, almost minimal by comparison.

“The morning light will help,” Roqep added, as if reading Rishmond’s thoughts. “The glass above will let the sun in—you’ll be able to appreciate the decor then. Each door is painted with care. And the murals, of course.”

He nodded toward the corridor walls. Rishmond looked more closely and realized that both sides of the hall were indeed painted—murals ran the full length, rich with color and detail, hidden now in the dim light.

He glanced back the way they’d come. The halls they’d passed were painted too, he saw now. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed. The exhaustion clouding his mind was only part of it.

The lingering warmth of Cantor’s hand still in his palm… probably didn’t help.

“Roqep,” Rishmond said, pulling his mind back to the present, “do you ever hear the voices? From the Glittergreen Mountains, I mean. Like the one we heard earlier, in the great hall?”

Roqep gave him a peculiar look. “No. The effects of the mountains don’t reach the garrison. Or the town. Once you cross the barrier on the far side, yes—but here?” He shook his head, firm and certain. “We’re protected. I’ve never heard of anyone experiencing the voices or visions inside the garrison. If you thought you heard something, it was likely your imagination. You’re tired. And you’ve heard too many stories.”

“I didn’t hear anything in the hall,” Cantor added softly. She laid a hand on Rishmond’s shoulder. Her brow was drawn, eyes searching his. “Is that what you and Tybour were exchanging looks about?”

Rishmond hesitated for a moment—just long enough to wonder.

Then he smiled. “No. It must’ve been the stories. Or maybe Tybour decided to spook me. Wouldn’t be the first time. Honestly, it’s probably just wind through the rafters—or Tybour being a massive prankster. He lives for that kind of thing.”

He almost believed it.

Cantor’s face softened. Her worry melted into a tired but lovely smile.

And just like that, Rishmond realized it—really saw her. She’d smiled a thousand times in his presence before, but now something clicked. Something tightened in his chest. She was beautiful when she smiled.

He smiled back, their eyes catching and holding.

For a long moment, the corridor felt like a different place entirely.

Then Roqep cleared his throat—loudly, and right next to Rishmond’s ear.

He flinched. “Right. Yes. Thank you, Roqep. Sleep well.”

The tiger-man gave a low, amused bow. “And to you both.”

“Yes, thank you,” Cantor added. Then she turned to Rishmond, stepping in close.

She wrapped her arms around him, and the gesture was warm and natural, like it had always been there, waiting to happen. Rishmond returned the embrace, holding her gently.

He breathed her in—clean, fresh. Her hair smelled of sun-warmed linens and something floral, familiar now. A perfume she’d started wearing sometime early in the expedition. He didn’t know its name, only that it suited her.

They pulled back slowly, neither rushing.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Cantor said softly, her hand trailing lightly down his arm before she turned toward her door.

Rishmond watched her go, his heart a quiet echo in his chest.

Then he turned to his own door, the blue paint catching the torchlight just so.

He stepped inside.

And for a little while, at least, there were no whispers.

It took Rishmond a long time to fall asleep.

The bed was soft, the blankets warm, the room quiet. He curled beneath the covers, pulling them up to his chin, eyes heavy but his mind refusing to settle.

Tomorrow would be a new day.

A big day. Deeper into the Glittergreen Mines. Deeper into mystery. Deeper into the strange bond forming between himself and Torg, and into whatever it was Tybour suspected he was becoming.

But more than that—it might be a day to explore something else.

Something warmer. Closer. He couldn’t stop thinking of Cantor. The weight of her arms around him, the scent of her hair, the smile she’d given him in the torchlight. Something had shifted between them. He didn’t know what, exactly, but it had. He could feel it.

He smiled into the dark, and rolled onto his side.

But then—unbidden—came the flicker of Illiar’s face in his mind’s eye. Her bright, defiant eyes. Her quick wit. Her strength. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image away. She has no interest in me, he told himself. She never did.

It didn’t matter what he told himself.

Dreams have no sense of boundaries, no regard for reason.

And when they finally came, they did not let him choose.

Cantor and Illiar both filled his dreaming mind—sometimes together, sometimes not, always confusing. Voices called to him, half-familiar and half-divine, their meanings lost in mist. The Glittergreen whispered from somewhere far below, and the scent of mint and dragon-flower drifted through visions of glowing caverns and hands reaching out to him—one soft, one calloused.

Rishmond tossed in his sleep, brow furrowed.

By morning, he would try hard to forget the dreams.

But some things don't let go so easily.

Tybour followed Rosa up the narrow spiral staircase that wound toward the top floor of the garrison. The stone steps were steep, tightly packed, and dimly lit by torches spaced far apart along the wall. Shadows swirled as they climbed.

The view directly in front of him didn’t help his focus.

Rosa’s figure moved with casual grace, each step a subtle shift of leather over muscle, and the tight cut of her breeches left very little to imagination—though Tybour’s imagination hardly needed the encouragement. He let his thoughts drift, just a little, appreciating the confident rise and fall of each stride ahead of him.

Then she stopped abruptly.

Tybour’s face bumped full-on into the curve of her backside. He stumbled back half a step, blinking.

“What the—?”

He realized too late that she’d been speaking—breaking the quiet of the climb—and he hadn’t heard a word.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, looking up.

She’d turned to face him, half-twisted on the stairwell, one eyebrow raised, her head tilted in a way that somehow made her look both bemused and dangerous.

“Something distracting you, Tybour?” Her voice dripped with amusement. “You looked a bit mesmerized. Like a man under the sway of... well, something gently swaying.”

He grinned, playing along without apology. He climbed the last step between them so his face was now level with her chest, close enough to catch the scent of steel oil and mint on her collar.

“Oh, I was just wondering where a garrison commander out in the wilds of The Reaches finds such... exquisite tailoring.” He let the words linger just a little too long. “I mean, I thought you’d given up the high-fashion life when you took up sword and stone—but clearly, you still have your secrets.”

He gave a slow, theatrical glance at her breeches, then met her eyes again with a mock-solemn expression.

“Are they custom-made?” he asked. “Or is there some hidden atelier out here in the barrens that specializes in... dangerous curves and battlefield practicality?”

Rosa’s smile vanished.

Her gaze dropped slightly, her voice lower and flatter than before. “Quality clothing is important, even out here in the ‘sticks.’” Her fingers touched his shoulder—not affectionately, but deliberately. A clear, firm signal.

“And I see you haven’t spared a single coin on yours, First Mage.”

Her hand gave a slight push. Not rough. Not playful. But unmistakably dismissive.

Tybour straightened as she turned and resumed her ascent, her boots clicking against the worn stone. The playful edge in her voice returned, muted but unmistakable.

“Come along. If you truly mean to go into the mines tomorrow, you’ll want your rest.”

She climbed the last steps quickly and turned down a dim hallway, her stride confident and composed. The corridor was quiet, the torches fewer and dimmer. Just ahead, a large wooden door sat along the left wall, bound in thick iron bands. Blue and white paint marked it, soft in the low light. There were no other doors visible along the hall—only stone and shadow.

Rosa reached beneath the collar of her tunic and withdrew a heavy iron key from the chain around her neck. The key scraped faintly as she turned it in the lock. She pushed the door inward and stepped to one side, her silhouette framed in candlelight.

Tybour entered.

A single, wide candle burned in the center of a low wooden table. The flame flickered lazily, casting a warm circle of light across the stone floor. Beyond it, the room stretched into darkness.

Shadows pooled around the furnishings—chairs, trunks, and some tall armoire against the wall. To the right, shutters let in a slice of moonlight, pale and thin. The silver light didn’t so much brighten the space as deepen the contrast, painting long shadows across drawn curtains and carved wood.

The room smelled of old wood and lavender oil. A bed sat somewhere in the gloom, barely outlined. It was large. Comfortable, surely. But in the flickering half-light, it looked cavernous. A place for dreams, or memories.

Rosa did not enter.

The door closed with a heavy, muted thud—followed by the sharp click of the lock sliding into place.

Tybour turned toward the sound.

Rosa stood with her back to the door, the candlelight painting her features in flickering gold and shadow. Her breastplate caught the glow, drawing Tybour’s eyes to the curve of her chest before he could stop himself.

Without a word, she unfastened the buckles. The armor slid from her body and crashed to the stone floor with a resonant clang that shattered the silence. The echo hung in the air, sharp and final.

She stepped forward—slowly, deliberately. At some point, she’d removed her boots. Tybour hadn’t noticed when. Now, her bare feet moved silently over the scattered rugs, her gait unhurried but purposeful. Piece by piece, the rest of her armor and clothing fell away, until nothing stood between her and him but the soft weight of the moment.

There was strength in her nakedness, not fragility. A command in her stillness, not submission.

Tybour felt heat stir low in his chest and belly, anchoring him to the spot. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He simply watched, unwilling to break the spell between them.

Rosa reached the bed and sank onto its edge, extending a hand.

He crossed the space and let her pull him down beside her. For a moment, he hovered above her, breath caught in his throat. Her eyes met his—bright, unflinching, and filled with something deeper than desire.

It was trust. It was need. It was history.

He bent toward her slowly, reverently, and she rose to meet him with the same aching hunger. Their bodies met like a memory returning, familiar and urgent all at once. Time narrowed to breath and heartbeat, the space between their bodies vanishing.

For one long, exquisite moment, they stilled—wrapped in heat, in quiet, in the knowledge of each other.

And then the silence gave way to motion, soft and deliberate, the world outside forgotten.

Tybour couldn’t recall when his clothes had come off. Had he removed them, or had she? The question flickered and vanished as soon as skin met skin. A slow ember ignited within him, swelling into something deeper, hotter, as her body arched to meet his.

The moment their bodies joined, something else ignited.

A shimmer of lotret, unseen but unmistakable, surged around them—drawn in by instinct, by desire, by the primal rhythm of two powerful beings surrendering to each other. Tiny pinpricks of light shimmered briefly in the air, like stardust drifting in the candlelight.

Then came the lotrar—deep magic, older than words, older than gods. It pulsed once, a low thrum in Tybour's core, echoed in Rosa’s breath. The floor beneath them hummed faintly as something vast and old stirred in response. For a brief moment, their joined passion became a beacon, a flare of resonance in the weave of Rit itself.

Rosa’s fingers dug into his hips, grounding him even as the magic threatened to lift them both beyond the room. Her eyes blazed gold for a heartbeat, and Tybour felt his own aura crack open, as if the air inside his lungs had turned to fire. He gave in to her hunger, matching it with his own.

Their rhythm grew desperate—scratching, biting, breathless. The lotret danced around them now, visible with every motion, pulsing and shifting like the auroras of the far north. They moved across the room, through the flickering haze of it, never breaking contact. Rugs were swept aside. Shadows danced on the walls.

On the second crescendo, Tybour cried out—a burst of light flashing from his fingers into her back. She arched and answered, her own power surging to meet his, wrapping around him like silk and flame. The room itself responded: the candle flickered wildly, the floor creaked beneath them, and the very air tasted of ozone and mint and jasmine.

They reached the edge again and tumbled over it together—this time slower, deeper, more complete. The lotrar throbbed once more, low and lingering, then faded, leaving behind only echoes and the scent of charged earth and spice.

Finally, they collapsed into the bed, the candle burned low, its pool of light now no larger than a handspan.

Rosa lay on his chest, her breath steadying. Her dark curls fanned across his pale skin like calligraphy, one hand resting on his ribs where the last of his magic still flickered faintly beneath the surface.

Tybour studied the contrast between them. Her warmth, her strength, the softness of the moment.

The magic had stilled.

So had the world.

"Well… Husband." She spoke the word with deliberate emphasis, a hint of mischief curling in her tone. "I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I was no longer desirable to you. No kiss hello, no flirtatious banter, not even a hidden grope of my ass at dinner. Have I become unattractive to you after all this time? Or perhaps your desires have been captured by another?"

She was teasing—probably. Tybour thought so. Mostly.

"My dearest Wife," he replied, the word spoken like a title, a truth, a name he’d never grown tired of saying. "You know there is no other for me than you. Since the day you beat me senseless in a fair fight, I have been wholly and forever yours. No one could ever take your place in my heart."

A flicker of memory flashed through his mind—Semmolee Turnsol, smiling at him across the flickering light of a long-dead campfire. He banished the image before it could settle.

Rosa’s fingers tensed slightly on his ribs. She tugged him closer until their bodies were flush again, warm skin against skin.

"As you say, Husband," she murmured, her voice soft but weighty. "Ours is a love for the ages—even to rival Ceitus and Romalea. And that seems to be our problem."

"Rosa..." Tybour’s voice dropped low, almost pleading. "Not tonight. Not now. Let us live tonight for tonight, and leave what must be for tomorrow… to tomorrow. There will be time to speak of it. But not now. Not here. I want only to be with you tonight."

She lifted her head, twisting against his chest, her eyes catching what little light the dying candle still cast. In the dark, he could still see the spark in her gaze—wild, clever, unflinching. Rosa Asherton was not one to postpone a reckoning.

But after a long pause, she gave a single nod.

"As you wish, Husband. Tomorrow, then."

She dropped her head onto his chest again, curled in close—and bit him. Not gently.

Tybour winced with a low laugh as she snuggled in tight.

Rosa always got the last word.

Tybour listened as Rosa’s breathing deepened and grew steady. The warmth of her against his side, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the faint scent of jasmine and steel—these things anchored him in the moment, and soon, he followed her into sleep.

Morning came early for some among the expedition.

Today, a few would enter the Glittergreen Mines, seeking the sacred place where the Gods had once walked—just before the Blessing, and just before they vanished from the mortal realm.

The mountains loomed above, silent and watching. Its entrance yawned wide and high, flanked by ancient carvings etched deep into the stone over countless centuries. Fantastical designs adorned the stone—totems, wards, and depictions of strange, watchful creatures meant to guard and grant luck to those who dared delve beneath the mountain.

A long, dark vein of stone ran parallel to the entrance, stark against the pale gray-white of the wide clearing that fronted the mine. It formed a deliberate boundary, a line etched with power and dread. Along its edge, ancient words had been chiseled into the rock, their letters darkened with age but still legible, still ominous:

"Beyond here lies madness and death. Within, magic betrays those who wield it. Your soul is forfeit, and your mind is lost beyond this line."

The legend of the Glittergreen Mines—and indeed, the mountains themselves—lived in those ancient words carved at the threshold.

Any mortal with even a spark of magic risked madness if they spent more than a few days within the mountains. The mines were worse.

Learned Wizards believed the cause lay in the intense concentration of raw magic that permeated the glittergreen crystals, found nowhere else in all of Rit. The stronger one’s magic, the faster the descent into insanity. For those with only a modest spark—enough to use lotret but not much more—survival for ten or even fifteen days was possible. But for Wizards… a strong Wizard would feel the effects within the first day or two. By the fifth day, they were lost—utterly consumed by the visions, the whispers, the slow unraveling of mind and soul.

No one driven mad by the mountains had ever returned.

No ward had ever protected against it.

They said the madness did not extend beyond the marked border. But already, Rishmond heard the whispers. Distant. Faint. But there.

He’d tried to tell himself last night’s experience had been exhaustion—trickery of the mind. But this morning, there was no denying it. He’d heard the voices again since waking, quiet and persistent like wind curling under a door. Ghostly flickers haunted the edge of his vision—too frequent, too deliberate to be imagination.

Tybour had confirmed it: he too was hearing the voices.

“We’ll need to move fast,” Tybour had said as they prepared that morning. “Three days. No more. A day down. A day at the shrine. A day back.”

No delays. No errors. No lingering.

Because beyond three days, madness waited.

The area in front of the large entrance was a broad, flat expanse of gray-white stone, about sixty feet deep and forty wide. Altemen moved equipment across the space or tended to the carts that came up out of the mine, pulled by stocky, hairless kathtwips whose compact size and immense strength made them ideal for subterranean labor.

Rishmond, Tybour, Bantor, Haningway, Illiar, and Cantor walked together, keeping a little apart from the rest of the expedition who were also preparing to descend. Lieutenant Norft, VanLief Aericksen, Ueet, and Gregor Tranto rounded out the company. Rosa walked with them as well, along with three important-looking Altemen from the village, serving as official escorts. A small contingent of Altemen miners led the group toward the yawning entrance of the mine.

Tybour glanced at Rishmond. “The whispers seem stronger this morning. Have you been hearing them as well? All morning—like they know we’re coming? Like they’re anticipating us? Excited, even, at the thought of you and I joining them in the deep?”

His face twisted into a strained grin. The fact that the whispers and ghost-like visions unnerved Tybour somehow gave Rishmond a strange comfort. If it scared Tybour, then the fact that it scared him made Rishmond feel just a little less afraid.

The group stepped across the warning line etched into the stone. Rishmond tensed, and Tybour noticed.

“It won’t get immediately worse,” Tybour said quietly. “A bit, maybe. But it won’t reach its worst until we hit the bottom of the elevator shaft. That’s when it really starts. And when it does, you’ll have to fight it. Just remember—it’s only echoes of magic. Nothing real. Talking helps. Listening helps. But whatever you do, don’t use magic. Not even a flicker. Inside the mine, any use of magic will be... unpredictable.”

He placed a steadying hand on Rishmond’s shoulder. “You can do this.” His smile was gentler now, more natural. Rishmond managed to return it, small but real.

As Tybour stepped away, Cantor and Illiar moved in close, flanking Rishmond without a word. Each took one of his hands and gripped tight.

“Is this what you heard last night?” Illiar asked, her voice low, almost a whisper. “Those whispers—like the dead trying to warn us, but we can’t understand what they’re saying?” She leaned into him, shoulder brushing his arm.

“I don’t like this. Too weird,” muttered Cantor. She pressed close too, her fingers tight around his.

Neither of them looked at Rishmond. Both were scanning the space around them, eyes shifting restlessly, as if trying to pinpoint the source of the voices now slipping into their minds.

Torg marched just ahead of Rishmond, the lights within his head sparking and dancing in steady rhythm. Rishmond watched them for a moment, then wondered—how did Tybour’s warning about magic apply to him? Torg was animated entirely by magic. His very being was an enchantment in motion. Would he need to shut down? Would his magic distort or go wild once they crossed deeper into the mine?

No one else seemed worried. Surely Tybour had considered it. If he’d dismissed it—or trusted that it wouldn’t be an issue—then Rishmond would trust it too.

“It’s going to be fine,” Rishmond said aloud, trying to push steadiness into his voice. “It’s just noise. Echoes of magic, Tybour says. Talking to each other helps. Listening helps. He told me he’s been down in the mines more than ten times.”

He found it was true—saying the words helped. His anxiety eased slightly, like pressure lifting off his chest.

The group slowed to a stop just inside the mine’s vast stone mouth. A gray-haired Alteman stood atop a raised platform carved from the rock ahead, waiting for them. The rest of the group gathered close, instinctively tightening their circle beneath the shadow of the mountain.

"Welcome to the Glittergreen Mines. Magic is concentrated here, and it should not be used once you are inside. Please be absolutely certain you do not use even the smallest bit of magic."

The old Alteman’s voice was strong but rough-edged, like stone worn by wind. Rishmond couldn’t help but wonder just how old he was.

“We’ll be passing out something for you to chew during the journey to the Shrine,” the Alteman continued. “It will help with the echoes and visions. It may also cause some mild euphoria. More importantly, it will make magic harder to access—not impossible, but difficult. That should help prevent... complications.”

Rishmond, Cantor, and Illiar exchanged startled glances. None of them had been told about this beforehand. As one, they turned toward Rosa and Tybour, who now stood together near the platform, watching. Both nodded—silent reassurance that this was expected, and allowed.

The old Alteman’s gaze swept across the gathered group. “Each of you has sworn an oath not to speak of what happens here—or what you see here. That includes this. Do not tell others about it. Not even those you trust.”

A young Alteman woman approached, her movements smooth and precise, serpentine. She came to Rishmond and the girls beside him, handing each of them a small packet.

Inside were five slim sticks of something greenish-white.

“Chew one each day you're in the mine,” the woman said. “Keep chewing, even after the flavor fades. You may discard a used stick when you sleep—wrap it in the original wrapper and return it to one of the escorts each evening. Any unused pieces will be collected when you leave the mine.”

They each took a stick and unwrapped it. The substance was stiff at first, resistant between their teeth, but slowly softened and became pliable. The flavor was unexpected—sweet and minty, with a faint medicinal bite, like licorice.

Not unpleasant, Rishmond thought. In fact... oddly calming.

The group began to move again, deeper into the mine. Daylight from the entrance still spilled across the wide stone floor, but it thinned the farther they went. The path sloped gently downward, and the passage narrowed to a mere fifteen feet across and less than ten feet high. They followed its gradual curve to the left until the entrance was out of sight, swallowed by rock. Darkness settled in behind them, held at bay only by the torches lining the walls—no magic lights here, not in the Glittergreen mines.

The slope steepened bit by bit, until each step down took effort.

The passage continued its slow turn to the left, the descent steady—challenging, but not yet dangerous. They walked for nearly two hours before the group stopped for rest and water. A large chamber had been carved out of the stone, its edges smoothed by countless years of foot traffic. Benches lined the outer wall in a gentle curve, and many sat down with weary sighs. Altemen miners passed quietly, keeping to the right as they traveled up and down the sloped corridor. Their muscular, snakelike lower halves allowed them to move with fluid ease, seemingly unaffected by the incline.

Rishmond's pack was light. They wouldn’t need much down here—food and water would be provided by the mine administrators—but he’d packed a few changes of clothes and some extra rations. Tybour and Halmond had both drilled into him that luck favored the prepared. He’d also picked up one of the utility belts he’d seen Haningway wear, with four pouches that each held a light metal canteen of clean water. It added a little weight, but not enough to slow him down.

He noticed that Illiar and Cantor had come similarly prepared. Both carried extra water, and their packs looked fuller than what had been recommended. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who had taken Tybour's warnings seriously.

So far, the mines were not what Rishmond had expected.

He had always imagined winding tunnels carved through jagged stone, with bright green, glowing crystals of glittergreen exposed in thick veins—long, unbroken stretches of them lighting the mines like a sun burning green beneath the earth. But so far, he hadn’t seen anything he recognized as glittergreen. The only light came from torches burning in iron sconces along the walls.

The passage they followed felt more like a hallway than a tunnel—smooth floors, walls, and ceilings, shaped and fitted like the corridors of the garrison they’d stayed in the night before. It was uncanny. Precise. It didn’t feel like a mine at all.

The temperature underground wasn’t what he’d imagined either. It was warm—bordering on hot—and nearly everyone in the group except Ueet and Bantor had stripped off their coats. Even Tybour had put away his gleaming white-and-gold cloak. Rishmond found his eyes straying more than once to the bare midriffs of both Cantor and Illiar, though he tried not to stare. The Altemen, by contrast, moved through the swelter as if it didn’t affect them at all.

The whispers and visions hadn’t gotten worse either. In fact, they’d nearly vanished. Rishmond had brought it up quietly with Cantor and Illiar during the walk, and both had agreed. Maybe they’d built it all up in their minds, let fear spin the stories out of proportion. Cantor had suggested that maybe the chewing sticks they’d been given worked far better than anyone realized.

Rishmond considered asking Tybour about it, but the First Mage was deep in discussion with Haningway, Rosa, and the elderly Alteman—Elder Geriswald—who was guiding them to the Shrine. Their conversation seemed intense, heads bent close and voices low. Rishmond decided it was best to wait for a better moment.

After more than six hours of steady downhill walking at a brisk pace, the passageway finally opened into a vast cavern.

The ceiling vanished into darkness above them, beyond the reach of the many torches scattered around the space. Large iron braziers stood on thick tripods across the floor, their flames casting strange pools of light and shadow that shifted with every movement. The air here was cooler—several degrees lower than it had been in the passage. Not cold, but no longer warm enough to make Rishmond sweat just by standing still. The change was immediate and undeniable.

More than a dozen passages branched off from this central space. Altemen and kathtwips moved through them with practiced ease, keeping to the walls as they entered or exited. None crossed the wide, open center of the chamber.

There, across the smooth stone floor, stood a large metal structure—squat and square, more like a shed than a true building. Its walls were solid, but didn’t quite reach the floor, leaving thin gaps of shadow beneath. At each of its four corners, massive iron chains rose straight up into the darkness, disappearing into the unseen ceiling above. Each link was enormous—larger than Halmond’s cart back home. Alongside them, half a dozen smaller chains ran in tight parallel.

The elevator.

Rishmond stared, breath caught somewhere between awe and unease.

It far exceeded the description Tybour had given them a few days ago.

This was how they would reach the lower levels of the mine—without spending days trudging down endless, twisting tunnels or climbing the ladders Tybour and Ueet had warned them about. Tybour had explained that the elevator ran along a shaft cut straight through the stone of the mountain, plunging hundreds of feet down. They would ride the platform all the way to the bottom—three hundred feet—and hopefully, back up again when their work was done.

Tybour had expressed great confidence in the structure, and Rishmond had caught some of that excitement. He couldn’t wait to see how it worked... to see what waited for them at the bottom.

But his awe fractured in an instant.

The whispers returned—sharp, insistent, flooding his mind. Shadows flickered just outside his vision, darting and curling like smoke, like figures just out of reach. Hallucinations, vivid and sudden, crashed over him like a wave.

The whispering rose to a roar, drowning out every other sound. The cavern, the voices of the others, even his own breath—gone. He could see Cantor and Illiar in front of him, faces full of worry, mouths moving, but he couldn’t hear a word.

Torg stood between them, one stubby arm extended toward him, head tilted slightly as if puzzled.

Odd, Rishmond thought dimly—Torg’s face was on level with his own.

And stranger still: Cantor and Illiar seemed to be bent down to speak to him.

Until now, the whispers had been nothing more than noise—shifting murmurs without meaning, words he couldn’t quite grasp. But now… now they were different.

The whispers spoke.

And as the words sank into his mind, a vision bloomed before his eyes, blocking out Torg, Cantor, and Illiar. The flickering shadows melted away, replaced by a single, vivid presence.

A woman’s face emerged—beautiful, austere, and cold as carved stone. Her eyes blazed with light the color of ice, and her expression held no warmth, only purpose. Rishmond recognized her instantly—from the portrait that hung in the sanctuary of Denisisie.

It was her voice that filled him now. Not loud, but overwhelming all the same—firm, commanding, impossible to deny.

“Come, young Wizard Rishmond. Come to the Glittergreen Shrine and speak with me.”

Her lips did not move, but the voice filled his mind completely, vibrating through his bones.

“The Gods have chosen you for a task. Come, and answer our summons. Torg will guide you and protect you. The Gods need you, and we would place this geas upon you.”

The word struck him like a weight dropped upon his shoulders.

“Come and accept it—and save mortals. Or decline… and doom them.”

Rishmond’s vision cleared.

He found himself staring at Torg’s stubby feet, unmoving just in front of him. He was on his knees. Several hands gripped his arms, helping to lift him. Illiar, Cantor, and Tybour crowded around him—Tybour awkwardly reaching over Torg to support him beneath both arms.

Sound returned in a sudden rush.

Voices—his friends’ voices—urgent, worried, calling his name.

“I… I’m fine,” Rishmond said, breath catching. “I… I just… a voice. Denisisie. It overwhelmed me. I’m fine. Please.”

His legs finally steadied beneath him. He took Tybour’s arm, held it briefly, looked into his eyes, and offered a small, reassuring smile.

“Really. Thank you. I’m okay now.”

He turned to Illiar and Cantor, placing one hand gently on each of their shoulders. Looking into their eyes, he tried to project calm, confidence—control.

“Really. I’m fine. I saw the Goddess Denisisie. She spoke to me.”

He glanced down at Torg. The golem stared up at him with his smooth, square crystal face, unreadable as always. Inside, tiny sparks and streaks of light pulsed and shimmered, blooming and fading within the crystal matrix of his mind.

Rishmond met the golem’s gaze.

“Was that really her? Did you see it too, Torg?”

Torg’s response came with his usual calm certainty.

“I am not sure exactly what you saw, Wizard Rishmond, but I did see my Goddess’ aspect—and I heard what was spoken to you. I do not believe it was the Goddess herself speaking directly, but more likely a recording, set to play when you entered this place. That does not make the message any less true or serious.”

Torg tilted his head slightly.

“We must press on to the Shrine so you may speak with the Goddess and accept your geas. I will guide and protect you to the best of my ability. I believe what I saw and heard was very similar to what you experienced.”

“Are you sure you’re okay, Rishmond?” Illiar’s voice was quiet but steady, her face very close to his. “Don’t try to be a hero. Maybe you should sit for a minute—let me check you over.”

Her eyes searched his, intense and unwavering. Rishmond had the unnerving sense she might actually be able to see into him, to find any hidden harm.

“Rishmond, yes, please let Illiar check you for any ill effects,” Cantor said, louder, more insistent.

It was only then he realized that both she and Illiar had subtly positioned themselves between him and the rest of the group. They were close—very close. He could feel the warmth of their bodies, catch the distinct perfumes each of them wore. The soft press of them against his sides made him acutely aware of every point of contact.

His mind, still scrambled from divine revelation, now scrambled for an entirely different reason.

He looked up—and caught Tybour grinning like a fool, while Rosa stood beside him, smiling with amusement and slowly shaking her head.

Mortified, Rishmond slipped his arms free from the two girls and gently placed them around their shoulders, turning them to face the same direction as him. The sudden movement broke the intimacy of the moment, and the heat in his face began to ease.

He made a point of not looking at Tybour or Rosa.

Maybe—hopefully—they’d assume his flushed cheeks were from the whole mind-shattering vision-from-the-Goddess thing.

He stepped forward and felt his knee bump something solid. Looking down, he saw Torg, awkwardly backpedaling out of his path, his crystal face tilted up at him with an almost apologetic expression.

“Come,” Rishmond said, steadying his voice, “we have places to be and things to do. I’ll tell you all about what happened on the way. I promise—I’m fine. No harm done.”

Without waiting for a reply, he led the way toward the low, square structure in the center of the cavern.

As they approached the elevator, the great chains began to move—slowly at first, then with steady force, sliding upward into the ceiling. The sound was immense, a grinding, echoing thunder that filled the chamber and drowned out all other noise. Dust shivered loose from the high, unseen rock above. The vibration traveled up through the stone floor and into their bones.

Rishmond stood frozen, staring in awe as the elevator platform rose from the depths. It emerged like the crown of some buried titan, forged of metal and stone, etched with strange markings and thick with ancient purpose. When it locked into place with a final clang, a small number of Altemen in bright orange livery stepped forward and swung open the heavy steel gates.

The expedition group gathered behind Elder Geriswald, waiting—some with reverence, others with barely contained impatience—to board the ancient, God-crafted machine.

Rishmond, for one, felt a bubbling excitement rise in his chest. Adventure. Discovery. This was why he’d come. Maybe not everyone shared his enthusiasm. Ueet, for instance, stood apart, his sinewy arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looked like a man preparing for war—or doom.

Rishmond caught his eye and offered his most reassuring smile. This was God-built. It couldn’t be any safer.

Ueet didn’t smile back. His eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He shook his head slowly before turning away.

An Alteman in tan and gold robes approached the Elder, the soft clink of chain accents on his garb almost lost beneath the echoes of the great chains settling into place. On his head was an unusual flat, circular hat that seemed almost ceremonial.

“Your Grace,” he said with a bow. “We are honored to take you to the Shrine once more. Everything has been prepared as you asked. Shall we board? We can begin the descent at your pleasure.”

“Thank you, Mine Supervisor Haltoo,” Elder Geriswald replied, nodding graciously. “Your work is appreciated, as always.”

The Altemen, Rishmond had noticed, were almost always formal in their speech—especially when there was a clear difference in rank. It reminded him of the deference soldiers showed between officers and subordinates, but somehow stiffer... like an army of librarians.

He chuckled quietly to himself at the image: hundreds of Altemen marching into battle, each wielding a massive tome, shouting passages at one another in loud, declarative tones until their enemies collapsed—hoarse, bewildered, and exhausted from verbal combat.

The thought didn’t last long.

Torg shoved past his leg with surprising force, knocking Rishmond slightly off balance. The little golem rarely touched anyone unless absolutely necessary—this was something different.

Rishmond watched, startled, as Torg strode purposefully across the cavern toward the elevator’s open gate. His odd, rolling gait moved with uncharacteristic urgency, each heavy footfall striking the stone with a solid clack-clack. He didn’t hesitate—gently but firmly parting a few surprised Altemen who stood in his way, he marched straight onto the elevator platform.

Conversations in the chamber stopped mid-word.

Rishmond moved quickly to follow, heart thudding. Tybour followed at once, his face drawn tight with focus. The others weren’t far behind—grabbing packs, exchanging quick glances, and hurrying to catch up.

Elder Geriswald and Supervisor Haltoo remained behind, blinking in surprise. A few of the Altemen guards looked to their leaders, uncertain whether to pursue or stay. The ritual order of things had been upended.

The golem had decided. And everyone, it seemed, followed.

Torg strode onto the elevator without hesitation, heading directly to the back corner where a single Altemen stood silently before a strange pedestal.

The stand rose from the floor to about five feet in height and was shaped from a single, seamless piece of dark material—a substance unlike anything Rishmond had seen except once, long ago, in the throne room of Retinor Castle. It had the hardness of polished wood, but with a subtle give beneath the touch, and it lacked the coldness of stone or metal. It was neither natural nor forged—it simply was, the kind of material that spoke of divine origin.

Set into the top of the stand was one of the ancient tablets of the Gods, nestled into a platform shaped precisely to hold it. The surface of the platform sloped forward, angled perfectly for someone to access the tablet’s face while standing before it. There were no joints, no seams—just a single smooth structure holding something unimaginably old.

Torg stood before it with quiet intensity, his small frame dwarfed by the solemn gravity of the object before him.

Rishmond had never seen a working God tablet in his life.

But this one was unmistakably active—glowing with a soft blue-white light. Not as bright as a mage-light, but distinct, even amid the flickering torchlight. The glow pulsed faintly, steady as breath, as if the tablet itself were alive and watching.

An Altemen stood before it, planted firmly between the tablet and Torg. His arms were raised, palms out, blocking the golem’s path. His face was set in a deep scowl—resolute and unreadable. Whatever this creature was, he clearly didn’t recognize it, and he wasn’t about to let it approach the sacred device.

“Torg! Wait!” Rishmond called, rushing forward. He placed a hand on one of Torg’s hard, square shoulders. The golem didn’t flinch, but the lights within his crystal head flickered faster.

“What are you doing?”

Tybour arrived a heartbeat later, stepping to Torg’s other side. He lifted one hand toward the Altemen in a calming gesture, intercepting the growing tension with the practiced ease of a diplomat. His voice was measured but firm.

“Please. This one is under divine geas and has been charged with escorting the boy by Denisisie herself. He will not harm the tablet.”

The Altemen didn’t lower his arms, but his eyes flicked toward Elder Geriswald for guidance, his jaw clenched with uncertainty.

Torg had stopped moving. His head tilted slightly to the left, crystal face angled up toward the glowing tablet. He didn’t push past the guard, nor did he back away. He simply waited—still, resolute, expectant.

“Wizard Rishmond. Wizard Tybour,” Torg said, his gaze never shifting from the tablet, even with the Altemen still barring his path. “The Goddess Denisisie gave me a standing order, and I must obey. I am tasked with repairing certain items that may have ceased to function, as I find them. This has mostly applied within her Sanctuary, but I believe this command remains in effect here as well.”

There was a soft hum beneath his words, as though something inside him vibrated in resonance with the tablet.

“I was able to diagnose the tablet’s systems when it came within communication range. The controls are malfunctioning and must be repaired, as per my instructions. I do not wish to intrude or cause conflict—but I must follow the will of my mistress.”

“What do you mean, repair?” Tybour asked, stepping closer. He motioned toward the guard with a flick of his hand. “Step aside, man. We’re not here to damage or steal the artifact. We only wish to examine it.”

The Altemen reluctantly slithered back bit, still placing himself protectively between the group and the tablet. He cast a wary eye down at Torg.

“First Mage, of course you may look,” he said stiffly. “But what is that creature? And what does it want with the tablet?”

He gestured at Torg with open suspicion.

“No one is permitted to touch the sacred artifacts—not even you, First Mage—without express permission from the Elder Council. Those who do are required to complete extensive training, both practical and spiritual.”

As if to reinforce the point, several more armed Altemen arrived, arranging themselves in a tight arc behind the guard and the pedestal. Their weapons were held ready—not drawn, but definitely not idle.

Torg turned slightly, speaking now to Rishmond. “I apologize, Wizard Rishmond. I do not mean to cause disruption, and I pose no threat to the tablet or the Miners.” He said the word Miners with a certain reverence, as if it were a title, not a profession. “But I cannot interfere with the tasks set before them by the Gods—just as I cannot ignore my own duty, to maintain what the Gods crafted so their work may continue.”

Tybour raised a hand, stepping between the two sides. “Perhaps,” he said carefully, “we should consult Elder Geriswald.”

He turned to Torg, placing a calming hand on the golem’s shoulder.

“Can you wait, Torg? Can you delay your task until we’ve spoken with the Manager and received proper permission?”

Torg did not answer immediately, but his lights dimmed slightly, pulsing slow and steady like deep breaths.

Without waiting, Tybour turned and strode toward the elevator entrance where Elder Geriswald had just arrived with Supervisor Haltoo and the rest of the group—his cloak swirling behind him, the First Mage once again taking command of an uncertain situation.

Most of the group had stopped short of boarding the elevator. Only Elder Geriswald, Rosa, Illiar, and Cantor stepped onto the metal floor, moving with purpose toward the corner where the tension still lingered around the glowing tablet.

Tybour caught Haningway's eye and gave a subtle nod toward the opposite corner of the lift. Haningway moved that way without a word, beginning to quietly organize the rest of the party.

“Yes, of course, Wizard Tybour. I can wait,” Torg said calmly. He turned back toward the tablet and fell still, lights in his head pulsing softly.

“What seems to be the commotion?” Elder Geriswald approached the scene, his steps heavy but even. The original guard moved aside respectfully, giving him a clear view of the stand and the glowing device. The other guards shifted in response, forming a loose perimeter rather than a barricade.

The guard bowed slightly. “That creature appeared to want to touch the artifact, Your Grace. I stopped him in accordance with my instructions.” He kept his head low, one hand still gripping his short spear, its metallic tip resting lightly on the floor. “I informed First Mage Insuritor that contact is prohibited without proper permission and the required training.”

“Good,” said Geriswald. “Thank you, Gerald. You’ve performed your duty well.” He offered a brief nod before turning his attention to the small golem.

He leaned forward slightly, studying Torg with narrowed eyes—curious, but not unkind. When the golem remained silent, unmoving, Geriswald glanced up toward Rishmond and Tybour.

“Torg,” Rishmond said, stepping forward, “please—tell Elder Geriswald what you told us.”

Torg stirred, turning his head slightly to address the elder.

“I am charged by the Goddess Denisisie to repair devices gifted by the Gods—tools needed by mortals to continue the work set before them. I am also tasked with maintaining divine works: stations, sanctuaries, and retreats. To the best of my ability, of course. There are some things… I may not be able to fix.”

Elder Geriswald studied him for a long moment, then reached out and touched the corner of the tablet nestled in the black platform.

“And you can repair this device?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, sir,” Torg replied.

The old Altemen nodded slowly. “Since the Blessing…” He trailed off, frowning. “Since the Blessing, the tablet—and other devices here in the mine—have ceased to function fully. But we’ve adapted. We continue to mine the glittergreen. We still use many of the tools left to us.”

He took a slow shift forward, now standing almost directly before Torg. With a wave of his hand, he motioned for the guards to step back.

“But what if you try… and make things worse?” he asked, his voice low, almost weary. “What if we lose what little function remains? What if we never get it back?”

Torg raised his head a little higher, crystal lights within his face glinting softly.

“Repair and maintenance are among my primary functions,” he said. “It is what I did for the Goddess before she departed—and it was the task I was performing when I was found by Wizard Rishmond and his companions. I can assure you that I am capable of completing this repair swiftly and without error.”

“I have already diagnosed the issue,” he continued. “But I cannot repair it from a distance. I must make physical contact with the device in order to restore its core functionality—and that of the mine.”

He paused briefly, lights in his face dimming a little.

“Your ability to operate the elevator manually, and your continued mining under these conditions, is deeply commendable. Frankly, it is statistically improbable. And yet, you endure. I am certain the Goddess would be proud.”

His voice softened at the edges.

“If you will not permit me to carry out this task, I will obey. But I must tell you: allowing the repair would benefit both you and the mine. It is… meant to function. As it once did.”

Torg fell still, gazing up at Elder Geriswald with quiet deference, yet with a spark of hopeful purpose.

“Geriswald,” Tybour said, stepping forward. “This creature—Torg—is undeniably the creation of a God. I don’t think any of us would dispute that. And given that, surely we can’t believe he bears any ill will toward the mine or the devices left behind by the Gods.”

He paused, scanning the gathered faces, letting his words settle over them like a soft blanket.

“I do not believe Torg would lie to us,” he continued. “Nor do I believe he would attempt to deceive us. I say we trust him—and allow him to attempt his fix.”

Elder Geriswald held Tybour’s gaze for a long moment, unreadable. Then he turned and gestured to Supervisor Haltoo. The two Altemen bent their heads together, voices low, exchanging quick, intense whispers.

At last, they parted.

Elder Geriswald turned back to face Torg, his expression still serious, but no longer closed.

“One question, Torg,” he said, raising a brow. “Answer it truthfully and correctly, and we will permit you to touch the artifact and attempt your repair. If you answer incorrectly, you will cease all attempts to interfere with this device—or anything else in the mines. Do you agree to these terms?”

“I will,” Torg replied evenly, without hesitation.

The elder then turned to Rishmond.

“And you, Rishmond. Will you be responsible for ensuring he honors that agreement?”

Rishmond hesitated, caught off guard. Could he truly be responsible for Torg? The golem was meant to guide and protect him. But Torg had never given him reason to doubt—never once acted without reason, or spoken without truth.

“Yes, sir,” Rishmond said, placing his hand more firmly on Torg’s cold, solid shoulder. “Of course.”

“Very good,” Geriswald said, nodding.

He looked down once more at Torg.

“Then tell me: what was the primary purpose of this tablet? And when did it lose the ability to perform that function?”

Rishmond’s eyebrows drew together. The question caught him off guard. How could Torg answer that?

As far as Rishmond knew, the golem had never been to the mines. He’d said himself that he’d been isolated in Denisisie’s sanctuary long before the Blessing. There was no way he could know the answer.

“That’s not—” Rishmond began, his voice rising with protest.

Torg interrupted calmly, his clear, crystalline voice cutting through the stillness.

“Primary function of this device is to control the mine’s functions: distribution of power to mechanical systems, and communication between sections of the mine. Secondary functions include recording mine operational status, gathering system reports, and operating the main elevator.”

His head tilted slowly from left to right, as if listening to some distant, invisible voice.

“Primary operational function ceased approximately three hundred thirty-one turns, seven months, two days, four hours, and twelve seconds ago, following a seismic event that damaged the mine’s primary power generation plant.”

Torg returned his head to center and looked up into Elder Geriswald’s face.

“The tablet has operated on secondary power since that time. It is apparent you have correctly replaced the glittergreen crystal many times to maintain limited function of auxiliary systems.”

For a moment, silence held the chamber.

Supervisor Haltoo’s mouth opened—then closed—then opened again. “But how—” he sputtered.

Geriswald lifted a hand, silencing him with a gentle but firm motion. He turned back to Torg, and though his face was solemn, there was something warm in his eyes.

“You are correct, Torg,” the elder said. “We will allow you access—and we will assist however we can.”

Rishmond watched, transfixed, as the colors within Torg began to shift. What had once been a swirl of chaotic sparks and flickering lights—random pulses of magical activity—now concentrated in the front of what Rishmond had come to think of as the golem’s mind. The sparks aligned into orderly lines, lighting up one after another in a rhythm that felt purposeful. Throughout his crystalline body, the flickers of light began to organize—flowing in smooth, connected patterns like ripples over still water.

Then came a quiet click, followed by a sound like small stones grinding together.

Torg began to grow.

His legs extended from beneath his squat body, unfolding and lengthening with smooth, mechanical grace. He rose until his head hovered nearly a foot above the tablet on the stand.

Gasps rippled through the onlookers.

Rishmond stared in wonder at the transformation. The little golem now stood over five and a half feet tall—no longer small and endearing, but commanding and strange, a creature clearly shaped by the divine.

Torg reached out, his hand steady and precise, and touched the tablet’s glowing surface. One by one, he pressed several of the glowing symbols, their soft blue-white light flaring briefly at each contact.

At first, nothing happened.

Then—from somewhere in the darkness beyond the cavern—a deep, distant grinding echoed through the rock. Something massive had stirred.

Torg’s head turned slowly, until he was looking nearly straight behind him.

“Elder,” he said calmly, “please have all personnel in the Gear Room evacuate immediately. It will not be safe once repairs begin—just as the ancient texts describe.”

Geriswald didn’t hesitate. He gestured sharply to the guards.

One of the Altemen slithered off at high speed, disappearing into one of the side passages with alarming urgency, his tail leaving faint streaks of dust in his wake.

Torg paused, utterly still, his head tilted slightly as if listening for something only he could hear.

Several long moments passed.

Then—a single bell tone chimed from the tablet before him. Soft, pure, and ancient.

Torg touched one final symbol on the glowing surface. Instantly, several rounded bumps on the ceiling—features Rishmond hadn’t even noticed before—flared to life with a blinding yellow-white light.

Hundreds more scattered along the walls and carved supports of the cavern followed suit, erupting in a sudden flood of illumination.

Everyone in the elevator—and throughout the chamber—winced and blinked against the brightness. It felt like the sun had been summoned underground.

And with the light… came the whispers.

They returned like a floodgate breaking.

Rishmond staggered as the voices poured into his mind—more urgent than ever, unintelligible but demanding, layered atop each other like overlapping waves. The light shimmered with movement, and grey, incorporeal forms drifted through the cavern—phantoms trailing clouds of vapor, circling the glowing space.

A sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes. He doubled over, gripping his head.

The whispers screamed for him to hurry. Time was running out.

Tybour winced too, staggered by the return of the visions. Around them, others were affected to varying degrees—clutching heads, pressing against walls, trying not to panic.

Only Torg, the Altemen, and Ueet remained untouched.

Tybour recovered first. He reached for Rishmond, pulling him close and steadying him by the shoulders.

“Hang on,” he said, already unwrapping a fresh piece of the chewable compound. He all but pushed it into Rishmond’s mouth. “Chew. It’ll help.”

He tore open another piece and shoved it between his own teeth.

Rishmond opened his eyes. Tybour’s face was only inches from his own, his voice steady and firm.

“No magic,” he said. “Just chew and breathe. Focus on me. We can do this.”

Rishmond realized—his hands had started to pull at the lotret in the air, instinctively reaching for magic. Anything to soothe the pressure. Anything to silence the voices.

But the voices weren’t soothing. They were commanding. Urging him forward. Pushing him toward something he couldn’t yet see.

He forced himself to lock eyes with Tybour. In the mage’s gaze, he saw himself reflected—wide-eyed, afraid, but still present.

Slowly, the whispers began to dull.

The grey forms receded, flickering like smoke as they retreated to the edges of the light.

It took several long minutes, but at last, both Tybour and Rishmond began to breathe normally again.

“Torg!” they said together.

“The voices,” Rishmond added breathlessly. “They’re back—and they’re urgent. Can we go now that the elevator’s fixed?”

“We do need to hurry, Torg,” Tybour said, still chewing.

Torg turned from the tablet, his head nodding slowly.

“Yes, Wizard Rishmond. Nearly. I must complete one task manually before we depart.”

With a soft grinding hum, the golem began to compress—his limbs folding inward, plates shifting with mechanical precision as he returned to his original, squat form.

“I must enter the maintenance tunnel just below this level to reset the braking chains,” Torg said calmly. “That cannot be done from here.”

Without another word, the golem turned and began walking—his small, stocky form moving with surprising urgency. He passed between Rishmond and Tybour, who instinctively stepped aside to let him through.

Rishmond turned to follow his movement, watching as Torg made his way off the elevator platform and toward the far side of the cavern. There, the stone floor gave way to a sheer drop—a cliff that descended into blackness.

Torg didn’t hesitate.

He moved toward the edge as if the abyss held no danger, only purpose. His crystalline lights shimmered softly in the gloom, casting faint reflections on the smooth stone around him.

The others watched in silence, the echoes of the whispering voices still lingering faintly at the edges of their thoughts.

Rishmond swallowed, his pulse steadying but his thoughts still tangled in the urgency that pressed against his mind like rising pressure in a pipe.

Whatever Torg was about to do... it would be the last step before they began their descent.