Ethan had lied to Marcel. His dialogue with Maria Stonewater lasted for the better part of two hours, circling the tangled origins of his parentage.

  Yet it was far from revelatory, though he had never expected it to be. Nonetheless, hearing the tale filtered through another’s mouth – one less sentimental, yet still complicit – provided a broader, if bitter, perspective.

  According to Maria’s account, His Grace, Lord Dunwald Harbinger – Duke of Daesach, Marquess of Cadefal, Viscount of Flavew, and Baron of Flavewell – had become formally betrothed to one Elspeth Oagonrun in the spring of seventeen-seventy-five. The match, though legal, had not been publicly celebrated at first. Rumour placed its origin in shaded corridors and behind pavilion drapes, murmured of by servants and overlooked by heralds.

  Elspeth, by the official record, was the only surviving child of Thane Cailean Oagonrun, a minor Aury noble by court influence but a venerable one by bloodline. House Oagonrun, diminished as it was, still retained control over a portion of the Aury highlands, its name derived from his lineage and sustained more by custom than force. The Oagonrun Earldom was one of those ancient lands whose prestige exceeded its actual reach – valuable not for what it governed, but for what it signified.

  The union between Elspeth and Dunwald, once disclosed, was painted as a romance that had endured trial and secrecy. Whether genuine or manufactured was irrelevant; it had been sanctified in law. And law, as always, was more binding than love.

  The political advantage was plain. Upon the Thane’s death, the Earldom would pass to his daughter – and thereby, to her husband. As it happened – either by providence or premeditation – Cailean Oagonrun did not survive the year.

  The transfer was seamless.

  With the Oagonrun lands absorbed, House Harbinger extended its reach across all of Aury’s southern ranges, binding them to its own holdings. From stone-fortified fjords to frostbitten mountain roads, the Harbinger domain became, in effect, uninterrupted – an unbroken sprawl of snowfields, cliff towers, and deepwater ports.

  That was the version printed in official ledgers, at any rate. The truth, as always, was far more convoluted.

  Dunwald had vanished two years prior – gone without explanation, leaving his stewards and adjutants to govern Daesach in his stead. His return, in the spring of the supposed marriage, had been abrupt, unannounced, and accompanied by two new acquisitions: a hawk-faced woman with hair black as crows’ feathers, and a pale, dark-haired infant scarcely six months old.

  The woman had no name. Nor did the child.

  Rumour, always swift and slanderous, surged through the courts like fire through drywood. Stories abounded. Some whispered of sorcery. Others suggested elopement, illegitimacy, or treason. It made no difference. Richard Best, Royal Spymaster and lifelong friend to Dunwald, mercilessly snuffed out each one. Those who failed to hush met the usual accidents: an errant shot during a noble hunt, a vessel sunk in fair weather, an unfortunate encounter with highwaymen. Discretion, it seemed, could be purchased – or enforced – at a high standard.

  Maximillian Stonewater and Maria herself, not yet in possession of their Barony then, had lent their efforts to these silencing endeavours. Her confession came without pride, but also without shame. Business was business.

  With tongues cut and threats removed, the Duke of Daesach had staged an invasion of Oagonrun. The Earldom fell in a single night. Thane Cailean, his kin, his wives, and his mistresses, his bastards and cousins – all executed without spectacle. Not even the servants were spared.

  The massacre, ghastly as it was, produced no war. The King of Aury – a vassal monarch of Helvecone with more debts than dignity – chose pacifism. The bribe offered by Dunwald, quintuple Oagonrun’s value over a decade, helped ease his moral uncertainty.

  Thus the black-haired woman became Elspeth. The strange child was dubbed Ethan. A tale of star-crossed affection and political inevitability was constructed, polished, and paraded to placate the courts.

  The payoff had been substantial. With Oagonrun absorbed, the Duchy of Daesach became the largest contiguous landholding in the entire kingdom. Ethan’s father had now ruled more territory than any other noble house in Helvecone. His influence was equal to other Lord of Lady, rivalled only by King ?thelric – still sane then, if not quite wise. In effect, Dunwald stood as the kingdom’s unmoving pillar.

  And, as such, he the natural successor for Prime Minister of Helveconean Parliament.

  He refused, of course. Publicly. Dramatically. Declared he had no desire for such power. Jested that, were he truly hungry for the throne, he would have already seized it. His loyalty to the Crown, he claimed, was absolute. He served best by remaining where he was, ruling Daesach with the same unwavering hand that had raised it to glory.

  Ethan already knew the rest.

  Master Harbinger had been granted the courtesy title of Viscount Flavew while still young. His father ensured the entire realm was aware of the boy’s promise – keen intellect, physical aptitude, impeccable pedigree. A worthy heir, paraded before the peerage like a prize pig.

  Dunwald spared nothing in his son’s education. Fencing masters of continental repute were summoned to instruct him in the art of the blade. Musketeers from the Crown’s elite trained his eye and hand with flint and matchlocks. Tutors arrived bearing scars and accolades in equal measure, each tasked with filling the boy’s mind as efficiently as the armoury filled his hands.

  Then came Mister Best’s men – agents, spies, phantoms. They taught Ethan the quieter arts. How to vanish in plain sight. How to breach a lock without leaving a scratch. How to lift a purse from a duke or a dagger from a table. How to run when caught, and how to make sure being caught never occurred.

  The Stonewaters, after establishing their barony, had extended frequent invitations to the Harbingers over those years. Ostensibly to expand Ethan’s social graces. In reality, they sought to position themselves favourably for Dunwald’s expected ascension. Each invitation was rebuffed with the same formal excuse: pressing obligations, unavoidable duties, the weight of governance. All lies, but consistent ones.

  Yet Dunwald’s choice of instructors was never static or marred by scruples. So, it was no surprise that the tutors he hired were less formal and more... eclectic.

  His father had brought in vagabond Elves from the Augustine Weald, gnomes from nobles’ courts, hags from The Caravans, even exiled dwarven smiths. No expense spared, no arcane stone unturned, all in an effort to awaken his son into something… more.

  It was, as expected, a failure. Like all humans, Ethan lacked the capacity to manipulate aether as the faye did – no wellspring, no resonance.

  But there was something different. A sensitivity, perhaps. An aberration.

  The elves in particular, unwilling to return without having earned their coin, pursued this anomaly. In the end, Ethan learned nothing so grand as spellcraft, but his eyes had begun to glow with a faint, azure light in the presence of magic.

  The scars – both mental and physical – had lingered long after the lessons ended. Ethan bore them still, hidden somewhere in the repressed recesses of his mind, in the fleshy folds of his body.

  As such, by the time Ethan reached adolescence, he was already a competent operative – skilled, if still somewhat na?ve. Dunwald had wasted no time. The “missions” began early.

  First, simple observation: trailing an Aury diplomat, eavesdropping on border conversations. Then came subterfuge – planted documents, stolen seals, illicit ledgers secreted beneath beds in high estates. Sabotage followed: a collapsed aqueduct here, a destabilised bridge there. Not dramatic, but consequential. Every act served a political end. Ethan learned, quickly, that precision in damage could be more effective than murder.

  Until murder itself was required.

  At sixteen, not even legally a man yet, Ethan received his final examination. He was to assassinate Chevalier Louis Robert Bourbon – a minor nobleman of Falchovarii and outspoken republican. A relatively low-value target in diplomatic terms, but one whose death would nonetheless send a message to Falchovarii’s growing revolutionary movement.

  He succeeded. Crude, perhaps, but effective.

  Ethan waited until midday, when the Chevalier paraded through the market square atop a white gelding. One shot – clean through the heart – and the man crumpled as quickly as his body registered death. Ethan vanished before the dust from the horse’s hooves had settled.

  His father had been... satisfied.

  But not impressed.

  “You have a great deal yet to learn,” Dunwald had said, voice clipped with the faintest edge of disappointment. “If you truly believed his politicking was what brought him death, then you are a fool, my son.”

  The reprimand stung. Not because it was harsh, but because it was true.

  Maria, seated silently across from Ethan now, remained unaware of these memories rolling through his mind. She would have never seen the full scope of his training. Would know only what whispered reports and court murmurs hinted at. Yet even in their brief week of acquaintance, she had doubtless learned enough to see that the tales had not been exaggerated.

  The story was reaching its final, inevitable conclusion.

  One summer night in seventeen-ninety-two, Dunwald Harbinger met his end. Mysteriously. Violently. Elspeth followed soon after, grief-stricken and purposeless. She left no note.

  With no siblings and no living kin, Ethan inherited the vast holdings of Daesach. In theory, at least.

  He was not yet eighteen. Thus, the lands were placed into the care of a Crown-appointed regency – Alfred, the castellan of Cadefal Castle. A temporary measure, they said. Routine. Sensible. Necessary.

  He was exiled to Oaleholder in the interim.

  Three years passed. Each with its own excuse. Its own complication. Its own legal obstruction. And despite all efforts, Daesach remained out of reach. Always out of reach.

  “Unfortunately,” Maria said at last, voice quiet but unwavering, “I do not know who killed your father, Mister Harbinger. Nor, frankly, do I understand who benefitted from his death – at least not in any direct fashion. Regent Duke Alfred rules in his absence, but he is decaying, even if his holdings fatten with each passing annum.”

  And yet as duke by birthright, my pockets see nothing of Alfred’s growing tallow.

  Ethan exhaled. The direction Alfred’s money went could be investigated later.

  “That is... acceptable,” he said, the sadness uninvited but audible. He coughed into his hand and reasserted composure. His gaze met Maria’s with renewed steel.

  “Why, then, did you wish to parley with my family in those days? What was your aim?”

  Maria’s eyes drifted as though viewing some scene long vanished.

  “Conspiracy, of course,” she said, mimicking his sigh. “We were younger then. Foolish, driven. Reckless, really. We sought more than comfort – we wanted control.”

  Ethan watched her face tighten with the strain of old memory. Her mannerisms, sharpened by years of aristocratic necessity, could not entirely hide the fatigue.

  She continued. “Our aspirations were... ambitious. We intended for Dunwald to take the mantle of Lord Protector. ?thelric and his cortège of sycophants would have been pushed out. Quietly or otherwise.”

  “You plotted to establish a republic,” Ethan said, his voice low, eyes wide, and heart entirely disbelieving. “You. Of all people. A newly minted Barony.”

  Maria offered a slow-spreading smile – the sort worn by someone who had outlived their mistakes but not their regrets. “I did say we were younger. Passionate. I shall not name the others, but understand this, Ethan: of us all, your father and Richard were the sharpest. Ruthless, yes – but capable. Richard most of all. He has not lost it. I suspect he never will.”

  Her voice softened. “I would prefer if we did not speak of treason any longer.”

  “Understood,” Ethan said simply. “Thank you, Lady Clayton... Maria.”

  There was more deference in his voice than before. Earned, perhaps, or simply extended as professional courtesy. “It would appear Richard and I are due a more... thorough discussion. Possibly even a reckoning.”

  The final word bore weight.

  “But that is for another day,” he continued. “For now, I dare to hope we shall meet again, preferably under better circumstances.”

  “Better circumstances,” Maria echoed with a vacant gaze. She inhaled and looked to the centre of the table, though her eyes were still clearly fixed on something distant and far older than the map itself. When she returned to the present, her gaze was steady.

  “Godspeed, Ethan. May fortune favour you and your comrades.”

  He inclined his head. “Likewise, Maria. Farewell.”

  To Ethan’s mild surprise, the others had not dispersed in his absence. They lingered near the outer courtyard, loitering like guards outside a billet, laughing with that exaggerated levity born of looming violence. Whatever small delight they found in the moment evaporated the instant they spotted him approaching.

  Marcel was the first to rise. The youth dismounted from the rock he had occupied; his sleeves bore the damp smear of freshly wiped eyes, and he moved with the faltering momentum of a man walking the gallows.

  “I… I suppose this is farewell, Mister Harbinger,” he said with a tremulous attempt at solemnity, his lip twitching from the effort not to weep again.

  Ethan regarded him a moment.

  “Nonsense,” he said, tone flat as flint. “You are at the age where rebellion is expected, and you damned well ought to behave accordingly.”

  “W–what?” Marcel blinked, uncomprehending.

  Ethan tapped him once, curtly, on the shoulder and began hobbling past. “Come along. I find myself possessed of a rather spiteful temperament today, and what better target than the baroness herself? We are descending into the mines – and you are coming with us.”

  John looked half ready to object, but then caught sight of Marcel’s slack-jawed astonishment. His expression buckled, and he laughed – a sharp, stuttering bark that echoed down the corridor.

  “Well bugger me backwards with a crooked spoon,” he wheezed. “That’s the spirit, that is.”

  The others, quick to sniff out mutiny, followed suit with grins and laughter of their own. Warren clapped Marcel’s back. Simon cackled in delight. Even Mary permitted herself a crude giggle.

  Marcel stood suspended in the moment, caught between duty and desire, the warm pull of camaraderie at his back and the cold architecture of command before him. In the end, he turned, jaw set with the kind of fragile defiance only the adolescent can muster, and rushed to join them before the path was lost.

  They entered the network through tent seven, fittingly enough. The descent was long and bitter, the air thick with ancient damp and the slow weeping of stone. Ethan’s wounded leg proved a continual impediment, forcing him to brace against his crutch while favouring the injured arm, which still throbbed with every pulsebeat. Lantern duty fell to the others. He had neither hand free to hold it.

  Not that he required it.

  Darkness was no obstacle to him, and he took point beside Warren, pace measured and eyes never idle. Though their path was familiar, repetition was no guarantee of safety. They had learned that lesson.

  John still murmured warnings when subterranean streams cut across the path, their trickle disguised beneath the echoing silence. When necessary, they took side tunnels – narrow, fetid, and uneven beneath the foot.

  Every course correction carried with it a reminder: this place had claimed lives, and would again. Ethan felt each painful step as an echo of that first encounter – claws in the dark, blood on the stones, ears ringing with tinnitus.

  Sentiment, however, was not an indulgence he entertained. Not here.

  “Knockers ahead,” Ethan said, voice barely above a whisper.

  “Uh-oh!” Simon called out cheerfully, slapping his sabre hilt. “Hope you lot packed yer sammiches!”

  “Wait.” Ethan raised a hand. “Something is wrong.”

  They gathered near a fork where three support beams met in a splay of warped timber. Beyond the lantern’s glow, Ethan could make out movement – figures crouched low, their outlines too short for miners and far too erratic for humans.

  Knockers, yes. But not scavenging or nesting. They prowled, restless and unsynchronised, sniffing at rock seams and twisted supports. Occasionally, one would glance toward the lantern light, eyes narrowing, faces crinkling in visible agitation before they withdrew again.

  “Ethan’s right,” Lyra stepped beside him. “They seem… unnerved.”

  “They’re feral, them ones,” John muttered, drawing his shortsword with a slow scrape of steel. “Teeth sharper than sense. Dead surprised we didn’t find ’em sooner, truth be told.”

  As though prompted by his voice, all three of the creatures shrieked and broke into a charge – limbs lashing, mouths open in ragged snarls, galloping low to the ground like twisted dogs.

  No words were exchanged. There was no need.

  Mary and John immediately shifted to the rear, flanking Marcel like a brace of hounds at heel. The rest drew weapons and formed up at the front.

  One of the knockers lunged at Simon first – spittle flying from its distended mouth, eyes wild.

  Simon ducked low beneath the creature’s leap, and raised his sabre. He drove it forward in one smooth stroke. The blade caught beneath the sternum and tore through the abdomen, carving through liver and stomach. Blood and offal sprayed across his face as the thing collapsed behind him, its intestines coiling out like wet rope.

  To his left, Lyra swept her arms forward in a clean arc. A gust of conjured air erupted low along the ground, knocking the two remaining assailants off their feet. They skidded across the uneven stone, limbs flailing.

  Warren stepped in without hesitation. He drove his sabre through the first knocker’s neck. The blade bit deep, severing the trachea and major arteries. He released the hilt immediately, seized the second creature by its ankles, and swung it with force against the stone wall. Bone cracked, lungs caved. It crumpled to the ground, choking.

  Without ceremony, Warren retrieved his embedded weapon and plunged it into the dying creature’s chest. The heart ruptured. It convulsed once, then lay still.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Well done,” Ethan said mildly. He had observed from a slight remove, unhurried and expressionless.

  “Simon,” he continued, “two hands. If your sabre had caught on a rib, you might have been disarmed.”

  “Yeah, but didja see how fuckin’ artsy that was?” Simon grinned and flourished the blade. “Clean arc, perfect timin’. That’s warrior’s blood, right there, that is!”

  Ethan’s gaze did not flicker. “Lyra. Warren. Solid coordination, though I must question the wisdom of abandoning your blade in a still-living enemy.”

  “Yes, well,” Warren murmured, scratching the back of his head. “Call it... artistic improvisation. As Simon said.”

  “Style!” Simon barked, and clapped him hard on the back. “No better inspiration.”

  “You’re one to talk,” Lyra said sweetly, glancing sidelong at Ethan. “Mister two-limbs-out-of-four.”

  “Touché,” Ethan allowed, mouth curling slightly. “Now then. Let us proceed. Quietly, this time.”

  The knockers’ settlement sprawled out in crude order – huts of stacked timbers, crevices dug into granite, little bone talismans strung above doorways like poor man’s icons. The air reeked faintly of damp lichen and refuse. As the party passed through, the knockers broke into their gleeful chant – "Mendapatmakanan!" – large noses lifted, long arms waving.

  Their elation was ill-timed. Ethan observed the scene in detached silence, noting a small specimen – presumably a child – with a crude flute of bone, a one-legged cripple hopping in celebration. Wordlessly, John handed over the bribe: a cloth sack stuffed with stale bread and cured ham. Though the wince on his face betrayed his nerves.

  Best to leave before one of the others decided to do something irreparably stupid.

  They departed immediately and crossed the threshold into the pillar chamber soon after. Nothing had changed. The trail of blood still traced a path across the stone from where Simon and Warren had dragged Ethan previously. The central structure stood unaltered: a single stone pillar rising ten feet high with the crystalline cylinder atop it still aglow, pulsing in incandescent cerulean, casting glyphs against the hemispherical ceiling in circular procession.

  Gooseflesh prickled Ethan’s arms. The proximity to the magic apparatus elicited its usual symptoms – slight disorientation, a faint pulling sensation behind the eyes, and the uncanny knowledge that something in the room knew more than it should.

  He steadied himself. Reflex now. The vertigo ebbed.

  "I had not observed it previously," Marcel exclaimed, squinting up at the hovering sigils. "But the bluecaps – the Ailbean keys, that is – their glow, and that of the cylinder itself... it all matches the hue of your eyes, Mister Harbinger."

  They all stopped, synchronised as marionettes. Several heads turned to Ethan. Then to the glowing cylinder. Then to Marcel. Then to Ethan again.

  A sharp intake of breath. Marcel’s hands rose defensively. "Oh, um... merely an observation?" he added with a strained laugh, voice quivering just enough to betray his attempt at nonchalance.

  Ethan turned slowly, deliberately, until he faced Marcel directly. One foot pivoted. He leaned forward, lowering his face to the boy’s eye level.

  "Well, dear Marcel," he rasped, drawing out the words like an executioner announcing sentence, "I am an Ailbean Bloodmage. Here to sacrifice you all in order to resurrect our blessed Emperor!"

  The jest had lost some novelty since the first time he had said it. Still, it elicited a few stifled laughs. Even Marcel’s voice cracked into a chuckle, despite the nervous sweat forming at his brow.

  Lyra groaned, hand slapping her forehead. The party’s laughter rippled even louder behind her as she turned back to the pillar and began unpacking her tools. Inkwell. Quill. Parchment. A pouch of sand. Her motions were precise, almost ceremonial. Ethan noted that she set her workspace outside the cylinder’s direct glow – conscious of its arcane interference, most likely.

  He did not interrupt her.

  Nearby, Mary and Marcel had taken up the same pursuit with altogether less elegance. The two crouched in a corner, heads bowed close, parchment spread between them. Ethan noted the frequency with which Marcel gestured at specific characters and the intensity with which Mary scratched charcoal into shape. The others leaned in now and again, offering whispered contributions.

  Curiosity got the better of him.

  He limped over. Mary looked up, narrowed her eyes, and – without hesitation – yanked the parchment away.

  "Sod off," she muttered.

  "You may either show me what you are doing," Ethan replied, voice flat, "or I shall burn the parchment to ash the next time you blink."

  She scowled. A quick glance at his expression – devoid of irony or exaggeration – convinced her. She handed the papers over, sullen and tight-lipped.

  He accepted them delicately, inspecting the contents with scholarly care. A primitive lexicon of images – symbols, gestures, even rough stick-figures. They were building a language. No, not a language. A warning. This was a pictorial attempt to inform the knockers of the baroness’s impending betrayal.

  "Would you have truly allowed them this little defiance, John?" he asked without looking up.

  John snorted, mouth stretching into a broken grin. "Course not. Ain’t daft. Were waitin’ ‘til she blinked, then I’d’ve torched the lot."

  Mary shot him a narrow-eyed look. John offered a lazy shrug.

  Ethan handed the sheets back to her. "Redraw them. No mention of the baroness, nor Clayton, nor anything that could trace the warning back to us. Add flame-wielding mages. That should suffice."

  "There are no flame-wielding mages," Warren interjected mildly from behind him.

  "They do not know that," Ethan replied.

  Mary stared at him. "Ye ain’t against it?"

  "Not at all. I find I have developed a peculiar fondness for the little monstrosities," he said, lowering himself to sit beside them with a grunt.

  The two exchanged glances, baffled. Marcel beamed. Mary handed him a blank page. They resumed scribbling.

  A short distance off, Simon, John, and Warren were huddled together. Simon was gesticulating wildly, pantomiming some bawdy story. John’s laugh echoed off the stone. Warren, dignified as ever, tried to maintain a straight face and failed.

  Lyra remained at her work, utterly absorbed. The tip of her quill darted across parchment in elegant arcs, matching the rhythm of her murmured dictation. Ethan observed her from across the chamber – she had set herself apart by design. Not isolation, but focus.

  With everyone thus occupied, Ethan returned inward. He let his breathing slow and allowed his thoughts to uncoil in silence.

  Maria Stonewater. His birthright. The betrayer among Best’s agents. Clayton’s fate. Oaleholder.

  Each matter turned over like coals in a dying hearth, yielding more smoke than heat. Every answer proposed raised two new uncertainties. Every thread he pulled unravelled further into ignorance. By the second hour, he had reached only one conclusion.

  He knew almost nothing of consequence.

  The awareness was not enlightening. It settled in his gut with the consistency of cold tar.

  Eventually, the ache in his limbs became intolerable – the flagstones doing him no favours. With a low exhale, he rose. His knee jolted sharply beneath his weight, and his shoulder throbbed as he braced himself on the crutch. A chorus of pain reminded him that his body remained a battlefield of half-healed wounds and itchy scars.

  He limped over to the supply sacks, rummaged through one, and retrieved a ham sandwich and a waterskin. Dry meat. Over-salted. Bread crumbling at the edges. He chewed without enthusiasm.

  From where he stood, he could see that Mary and Marcel had filled half a journal’s worth already. John was pacing now – restless energy without an outlet. Simon, persistent as rot, continued pestering Warren.

  "Y’wanna hear the one about the capon?" Simon called for the umpteenth time, grinning.

  Warren made a sound like a man praying for death.

  “Didn’t ask ye to groan,” Simon laughed. “Asked if you wanna hear the story about the capon?”

  Ethan – ignoring both – took another bite, chewed, and scanned the chamber. Also for the umpteenth time. Walls, exits, shadows, ceiling. No changes.

  Lyra remained hunched over her parchments, though her movements had grown slack. Where once her quill danced with enthusiasm, it now scraped wearily, and the gleam of scholarly hunger had dulled behind her eyes.

  Ethan finished his ration and drained the last of his water. Then, stiff-legged and with the grace of an injured mule, he limped over to her.

  She gave no sign of recognition, her attention split entirely between the glyphs above and parchment below.

  “Lyra,” he said.

  No response.

  “Lyra.” Louder this time.

  She inhaled as though pulled suddenly from beneath deep water. Her head snapped around, eyes darting as if half-expecting a knife. “What?” she snapped, more startled than angry.

  “You have been at this for hours,” he said, tone level. “Eat. Drink. The murals shall not abscond while your back is turned.”

  “I am not–” Her stomach rumbled, low and insistent. She paused. “Or… perhaps I am.”

  The pale elf attempted a smile. It came out cracked and slanted, fatigue fraying the edges. Rising with a graceless groan, she nearly toppled over as her legs reminded her of their disuse. The spindly contortions of parchment-work had not agreed with her joints.

  “I shall watch over your writings,” Ethan said, gesturing mildly. “It would be a shame if a sudden draught carried them away.”

  Lyra gave him a look of deep suspicion, ignorant of the jest – they were probably the first thing to breeze through this tomb of a chamber in millennia.

  “I cannot read this gibberish,” he added, deadpan. “Your secrets are safe.”

  She hesitated, then broke eye contact. “True.” Her ears coloured slightly, the precise hue lost in the cyan luminescence of the chamber. She handed over the sheaf before retreating to the provision bags.

  Ethan sat in her place and began scanning the parchment with idle detachment. It took minimal effort to locate her point of commencement – her notation was crisp, each line methodical – and even less to spot where she had left off. Lacking any understanding of the script's meaning, he amused himself by matching sequences of glyphs, noting where patterns repeated and where they fractured.

  He became so engrossed in the geometries of the language that he did not notice Lyra’s return until she was seated beside him.

  The symbols were not decorative. That much had become apparent. They possessed grammatical structure – rules, syntax, patterns. A framework that mirrored, albeit imperfectly, the language families of the Omoritsian continent. The resemblance was not exact, but it was there – in the rhythm, the clustering, the occasional flourishes that marked sentence boundaries.

  And beyond that, the text pulsed. Not in light, but in presence. His aether-sense picked up on it faintly – like hearing music through stone walls. Not merely illuminated script, but a command; language wedded to magic. It made the hairs on his arm rise involuntarily.

  It was, he thought grimly, just the sort of nonsense one would expect in a story meant for children, before the fire burned the estate.

  “You look worried,” Lyra said softly.

  The sudden voice made him flinch. His neck jerked so hard it caught and spasmed. A curse escaped through gritted teeth as he reached up to massage the seized muscle.

  “I believe I am beginning to decipher this flannel,” he replied, kneading his neck.

  “Oh?” Lyra tilted her head, intrigued. “Do tell.”

  “I cannot make out meaning, but the glyphs follow rules. Observe – this segment here,” He traced the line with one finger. “Begins at this point, has a clause inserted here, independent clause there, sentence termination here. These symbols likely denote structural particles, perhaps even tense or subject markers. Not unlike old Helveconean or Falchovarian, if one squints and ignores the foreign alphabet.”

  “I fail to see the resemblance,” Warren chimed in drily from behind.

  “The devil’s a clause?” Simon interjected. “And what’s it bleedin’ independent from?”

  John shrugged. “Sounds like sorcery, that.”

  Ethan exhaled slowly through his nose. Their ignorance was staggering, but consistent.

  “You are entirely correct,” Lyra murmured, eyes wide. “You said you had no formal study in Ailbean lore, yes?”

  “I know only what others relayed to me. Never sought it myself,” Ethan said. It was the full truth – for once.

  “Remarkable. And exceedingly useful,” she said, quickly extracting another sheet of parchment and a spare quill. “Here. If we split the transcription, we might finish before the next epoch dawns and save ourselves ever returning to this dreary ruin.”

  “It ain’t that dreary,” John mumbled from somewhere beyond.

  Lyra ignored him entirely. She outlined which portions she had completed, then gestured at a separate section of the ceiling for Ethan to begin. By the time he considered refusing, she had already planted herself at his back and resumed her work with renewed vigour.

  He sighed and shifted his sabre across his lap, angling the scabbard as a makeshift writing desk. The parchment went atop, and he got to work.

  His left hand – burned, bandaged, and half-numb – gripped the page; his right – splinter-lodged from the crutches – scratched the quill along the surface. The pain was steady, but not sufficient to halt him. His handwriting, however, looked like the panicked footprints of a wounded sparrow across snow. Compared to Lyra’s elegant script, his scribbles resembled the diary of a madman.

  Still, they were legible, if barely.

  One can only hope that will suffice.

  With the workload split in half, it only took them several more hours to complete the final transcriptions. Ethan’s knuckles ached and the ink-stains on his fingertips had darkened to the hue of dried blood. But as the work concluded at last, the party began to make preparations to return topside.

  John, Warren, and Simon busied themselves gathering bags, containers, and the scattered detritus of their makeshift camp. Mary and Marcel lingered near the chamber’s edge, hastily finishing the final flourishes of their respective sketches.

  Within a quarter-hour, they had all assembled at the threshold. None said a word. After six days descending into this singular ruin, the silence that marked their exit felt more like a ritual than convenience. Even Simon had enough awareness to keep his mouth shut.

  Lyra, naturally, dawdled. Ethan heard the tell-tale rasp of metal slipping into stone and felt a momentary ripple in the ambient aether. Subtle, but sufficient. She had somehow deactivated the projecting mechanism; the glyphs began to fade and soon black void ruled suffocated the pillar chamber once more.

  Not that it would save it from being put to flame by the Guild and its Huntsmen.

  The solemn procession lasted until they reached the knocker settlement. A cluster of half-dozing knockers stirred at the first sound of footsteps, and within moments, they were up and swarming, clamouring for food and attention with outstretched, sooty hands.

  Mary and Marcel were prepared. They crouched low amidst the creatures, holding up parchment and gesturing frantically. Muffled exclamations escaped their lips as they pointed to their drawings: depictions of fire, of devastation, of magic-wielding human forms wielding ruin. Their sketches were crude but legible enough. Mages immolating the knockers. Fires dancing on outstretched hands. Screams inked in black.

  Mutton Chops stepped forward, eyeing the parchment with a frown bordering theological.

  “Mendapatmakanan?” he repeated, puzzled, scratching at his whiskers.

  Mary grew increasingly dramatic. She slashed a finger across her throat, pointed at one illustration, feigned shrieking agony, and flailed as if consumed by unseen flames. Sweat beaded on Marcel’s brow as he glanced sidelong at her, clearly wishing to be buried alive.

  No better salve then secondhand embarrassment to dismiss obtuse ideas.

  "Ain't seen shite this bad since the penny gaff banned livin’ donkeys and the lads had to play as 'em instead," Simon muttered. Ethan and Warren snorted at the memory.

  Despite the farce, comprehension began to dawn. The knockers muttered amongst themselves. Faces twisted in into wrinkled frowns. Mutton Chops squinted at the images again, then looked to Ethan’s group with narrowed, beady eyes.

  Mary took a breath and unfurled a next scroll. This one showed knockers departing the caves, wandering forests, building anew in distant caverns. The idea of the world outside their granite cavern clearly unsettled them. Half of them looked ready to bolt, the other half already had tears streaming down their dusty faces.

  Then, Mutton Chops stepped up onto a rubbish heap and barked a single word. Silence dropped like a guillotine. The knockers stared up at him.

  He pointed to the huts. Then to the tunnels. Then to Ethan’s party. Another string of incomprehensible mutterings followed, guttural and quick. The knockers watched, listened. A few still carried the look of a funerary procession. But others clenched their fists and nodded.

  Mutton Chops raised both fists to the ceiling and let loose a rough, barked cry. The knockers echoed it as one. Then again. And a third time.

  Finally, they moved.

  Fetishes were torn from the ground. Pelts folded. Sticks gathered. The camp dismantled itself with manic precision.

  John whistled. “Give over. They’ve actually gone an’ sorted it – headin’ topside. Look at ‘em, dead set.”

  Mary and Marcel rejoined the group, radiant with bashful pride. Their mission, ludicrous as it might have seemed, had borne fruit.

  Ethan gave a single nod. He located Mutton Chops atop a growing mound of knocker belongings, barking fresh instructions with all the gravitas of a newly anointed warlord.

  Ethan whistled – short and shrill. The knockers halted. Upon seeing where he looked, they resumed their tasks. Mutton Chops stared back.

  “Give him the provisions bag,” Ethan told John.

  John rolled his shoulders and ambled over, handing over the sack with a wry grin. Ethan raised a thumb. Mutton Chops returned the gesture without hesitation, then gave John one as well.

  John chuckled and offered a handshake. Mutton Chops accepted. Their hands clasped.

  The first handshake between humanity and knockerkind – diplomacy inaugurated. Not bad, considering the circumstances.

  Satisfied, the party departed. The knockers would be fine. Or they would die. Either way, his involvement was finished.

  The stairwells to the surface were still crowded with miners. No one risked squeezing past in such close confines. They queued instead.

  Simon immediately struck up conversation with the pitmen. They responded with an odd mixture of suspicion and reverence, their glances flicking between John and Marcel like gamblers awaiting a dice result.

  But slowly, inevitably, tensions eased. Talk turned to the mundane: tunnel conditions, loose stone, wages. Then to the world above – to news, rumour, and finally, as always, to the dead.

  "They’m done an’ took David an’ Angus, they’m sooty wenches," said a miner named Alexander, voice laden with soot and sorrow. "Oi ‘eard say three other gads gone missin’ from Billy’s lot. Bloodsuckers got ‘em too, arr."

  “I am most sorry to hear that, Mister Alexander,” Marcel said gently. “We have put measures in place to deal with the korrigans. Hunters have been hired. Their end will come soon.”

  Murmurs of approval rippled upward like chimney smoke. Word travelled with remarkable haste: the young baron intended to cull the korrigan infestation. By the time the group reached the middle tier, the entire Clayton workforce appeared informed, if not outright invigorated.

  "Their families shall likewise receive appropriate compensation," Marcel added, voice tremulous but resolute. "It is our sacred obligation, as holders of land and title, to safeguard our people and honour the dead. On my authority, none shall want while under my protection."

  "So very kind o’ thee, yer lor’ship," Alexander said, emotion thickening his Crowg tongue. "An’ byn we’re lucky indeed, in the service o’ thee and thee house."

  Marcel flushed scarlet at that, the proud posture of nobility slipping. Simon and Warren patted his back with coarse affection, both too seasoned to dwell on ceremony but not so bitter they could not praise honesty. The boy blushed deeper still, half-laughing, half-hiding.

  They emerged into the silvered hush of clear night beneath a full moon so bright it robbed the lanterns of their necessity. The camp bustled with activity; beasts of burden snorting and stamping in the cold as miners loaded carts with ore under superintendent oversight. The rhythmic clatter of pickaxes was replaced with the rustle of canvas and the muted groan of timber and wheel.

  Arthur perched atop their stagecoach, gazing blearily at the stars, smoking pipe clenched between molars. The man reeked of stale drink and tuppence-leaf, but he seemed lucid enough to manage the horses. Perhaps not a miracle, but certainly an act of restraint.

  Ethan turned, his boots grinding faintly against gravel, and addressed John and Marcel with the mannered finality of a man who had endured a hundred such partings.

  "It is time to take our leave."

  Both stiffened instinctively. Emotion was the obvious response, but neither appeared keen to express it outright.

  John was first to speak, hands tucked awkwardly into his belt. "Well, then. I’ll admit, when the baroness said ye was comin’, I said shite’d be a shiteshow. Thought ye’d be some deadweight pantywaists, all polish an’ no blade. But look at ye now. Went and proved me wrong, didn’t ya?"

  He gave a chortling laugh, shaking his head. "And after I were such a snide prick as well. Ah, well. Can’t hold that against meself forever. Ye lot’re alright. All of yous. Even the birds. Proper ‘uns, the lot of ya. I’ll be buzzin’ when I see you again, promise."

  He extended handshakes all around, rough palms meeting each companion with surprising gentleness. Even Mary and Lyra received his parting clasp, and none refused.

  "Now get gone, afore I get sappy. Bloody hate this bit," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck.

  Marcel approached next, blinking rapidly. He spoke with effort, as if reading from some invisible prepared script that now failed him.

  "I had thought to deliver a speech," he confessed. "But it would be overlong, indulgent, and unbecoming. So instead, allow me to say this: Clayton shall always welcome you. You need no summons nor cause. Return as you please. My only hope is that it be soon. Farewell. And Godspeed."

  The formal cadence only heightened the warmth of his sentiment. Laughter followed – gentle, unmocking. He too shook hands, every last one of them, despite the implicit violation of class decorum.

  Ethan clasped the boy's hand firmly. "I echo your words, Lord Stonewater. Farewell, and Godspeed, mo charaid. Until next time."

  Marcel smiled through wet eyes and stepped back.

  Their prolonged leave-taking concluded, the group approached the coach. Arthur did not descend to assist.

  "Greggs wen’ and put’ee shite inside," he announced, eyes squinting against his pipe smoke. "Lease’s done, by the bye. Nothin’ broke ‘cept some blood on the floor an’ a ripped pillow, so nowt to worry over."

  His tone was dry. Ethan leaned into the compartment and located his heirloom rifle nestled on one of the seats, still wrapped in tarpaulin. It was where it ought not to be – which confirmed Gregory’s thoroughness in searching rooms. And Ethan’s lack thereof in hiding his effects.

  Boarding the coach required a few awkward manoeuvres, none of which preserved his dignity. With Warren’s shoulder and Simon’s grip, he landed upon the bench with minimal groaning and considerable pain.

  Everyone else climbed in thereafter, save for Simon, who opted for the roof and Arthur’s company.

  The ore merchants bellowed orders. Whips cracked. Mules and donkeys brayed and heaved. The caravan – forty carts deep and one coach heavy – lurched into motion.

  Mary and Lyra stuck their arms through the windows, waving with a vigour more befitting children than adventurers. Marcel and John returned the gesture, shrinking by degrees as the road pulled them apart.

  Clayton faded behind them.

  Their task, at long last, was finished.