The torch vanished the moment it crossed the edge.

  Chronos stood at the ledge, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade, the other having just let go of the burning stick. The flame tumbled downward—then simply ceased to exist, not extinguished, but consumed by the thick black air only feet below the rim.

  “Well,” he muttered, voice echoing against the cavern walls. “That didn’t go as planned.”

  Xavert chuckled beside him, stepping forward with blackened hands raised. He conjured a sphere of flame that hovered above his palm, pulsing gently. “Let’s try a more refined approach.”

  The ball of fire hovered lower, dipped past the edge, and was devoured—utterly erased, with no glow, no reflection, no delay.

  “Most peculiar,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “This darkness doesn’t repel light. It devours it.”

  Behind them, Zentich frowned beneath his golden hood. “What should we do, then? If it consumes flame and magic alike—nothing will illuminate it.”

  Chronos answered without turning. “We go in blind.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Zentich said sharply.

  “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.”

  There was a pause. Then Chronos turned to his son, who was already barking orders to the camp.

  “Bring the climbing gear,” he said. “All of it.”

  Half an hour later, the camp at the cliff’s edge bustled with grim readiness. Ropes were anchored. Harnesses adjusted. Templars moved in disciplined silence, their faces lit only by the flickering torches held far from the edge.

  Manfred Chessire moved through the line of descending knights and priests, checking every harness personally. He offered small nods of approval, tugged knots tighter, barked small corrections.

  When he reached his father, he hesitated.

  “I wish I were going down with you,” Manfred said.

  Chronos glanced at him but said nothing at first. Then: “Your time will come. For now, I need you up here. If something follows us out of that hole, I need someone I trust.”

  Manfred nodded, jaw clenched and moved on.

  He reached Hrulk, who shooed him away with a grunt. “Leave me be, boy. I’ve worn harnesses since you were suckling goat’s milk.”

  “As you wish,” Manfred muttered, smirking faintly.

  Then to Zentich, who fidgeted nervously at his waist strap.

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  “Stand still,” Manfred said, tugging hard.

  “Yelp!” Zentich squeaked. “Is this necessary?”

  “You’ll live. Just do as the others do.”

  “Easier said than done,” the priest muttered.

  When Manfred turned to Xavert, he blinked in surprise. The wizard’s harness lay in a pile on the ground, completely untouched.

  “I have no use for such things,” Xavert said, waving a hand dismissively. “I float.”

  In total, twelve descended: Chronos, Xavert, Zentich, Hrulk, and eight Templar knights handpicked for their loyalty—and silence.

  Xavert was the first. He simply stepped off the edge, his cloak fluttering as he slowly descended into nothing, borne downward by unseen magic until the blackness swallowed him whole.

  Chronos followed.

  Then Hrulk shoved Zentich off with a grunt of amusement. “Go pray about it on the way down.”

  One by one, the Templars descended, the ropes groaning under their armored weight. And then, the last boot vanished beneath the black.

  Manfred turned to the four Templars who remained with him.

  “We set a watch. No one comes or goes from this place without my say. If the light shifts, if the air moves, if your piss runs cold—you wake me. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He watched the ropes sway one last time, then turned back toward the camp.

  Below, in the darkness, Xavert breached first.

  He landed lightly on a wide stone causeway, a black path carved from ancient rock, flanked on both sides by sheer drops into the void. There was no wind, no noise—just the endless press of nothingness.

  He summoned six spheres of soft white light. They hovered around him like slow-moving stars, illuminating no more than ten paces in any direction.

  Then the others arrived.

  Chronos. Zentich. Hrulk. The knights. One by one, they unhooked from their gear, drew weapons, and stared into the unknown.

  Chronos posted two men to guard the descent point, then began the march. The causeway sloped downward, slick with condensation, flanked by black nothingness. It wound like a spiral, cut into the earth by forces that had not left marks—only meaning.

  A cold breeze began to rise from below. With it came a faint scent—rot and iron, and something… ancient. Hours passed as they walked, the wind growing stronger, the weight in the air heavier.

  At last, they reached it.

  A massive stone archway, split down the center, glowing with sickly green light. The glow pulsed like a heartbeat.

  “Now what do you suppose we have here?” Chronos asked.

  Xavert stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “I detect the presence of magic. Something very old. I’ve never felt its like.”

  “I would agree,” Zentich said, voice low. “The winds of magic behave differently here. They bend, then resist. Like this place remembers being sealed.”

  Chronos nodded. “Caution, then. Hrulk—two knights. You go first.”

  Hrulk grunted, drew his sword, and stepped forward without a word.

  Inside the archway was a long, narrow tunnel—lined with dozens of tubes rising from the floor to waist height, each filled with thick, glowing green fluid.

  One of the knights muttered, “What the hell is that?”

  Hrulk didn’t wait. He stabbed his blade into the nearest tube. It popped with a wet hiss, green slime oozing out and clinging to the metal.

  He held it aloft.

  “I’ve never seen the like,” Xavert said, intrigued.

  “Nor I,” Zentich admitted. “And I’ve studied the Drowned Vaults.”

  Chronos examined the tubes. “They’re… egg sacs.”

  “What?” Xavert asked, eyes narrowing. “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m not. But I’ve seen their kind before. Not these specifically. But I know the shape of waiting things.”

  That was all it took.

  The entire party drew weapons.

  They moved onward—more slowly now.

  Eventually, the tunnel opened into a colossal chamber, its ceiling vanishing into darkness above. All around, more of the green sacs—hundreds, maybe thousands—lay across the floor and up the walls like a hive.

  Some were intact.

  Some were smashed. Empty.

  “That’s not good,” Zentich said quietly.

  “No,” Chronos agreed, voice like frost. “It is not.”

  At the far end of the room stood a massive bubbling pool of red liquid, its surface churning like boiling oil. Two enormous iron chains rose from the pool, stretching toward the back wall where they wrapped around a giant mechanical wheel embedded in the stone—an ancient mechanism.

  And etched into the wall above it, barely visible, was a name.

  Not written in ink.

  Not carved.

  Branded.

  MALEKITH