Tibs joined the crowd heading for the dungeon area’s gate. This early, the sun barely tinted the sky, it consisted of Runners and those looking to become one. He was surrounded by armors, from simple to complex, worn to new, mostly reflecting the strength and social status of the wearer. Simple to complex mainly accompanied the Runner’s strength, as he sensed it through the density of their essence. A few wore what reflected they aspired to become, and their unease at the weight made that more apparent than their faint, colorless essence. Worn to new invariably followed the social status, as coins were needed to keep armor looking like it had just been purchased.

  “He’s here, Baricron.”

  As with all dungeon cities he’d visited, no one here had the feel of a criminal forced to be a Runner. Those were only used to feed a new dungeon, to speed it through its early floors, so it became attractive to those with money.

  He sensed a few with enchanted items ahead of him, and paid attention to the gate’s weave as they went through the process of gaining access. A few words and they were let in. The weave didn’t react.

  He’d be fine, then. He told himself and fought the urge to rub his left wrist.

  He repeated it, reminding himself it had been over a decade since the st time an adventurer had sensed through the etching he’d perfected to hide the brand. And he’d been through other such gates and had been fine too. He’d gone as far as engaging such adventurer with a sleeveless shirt in one of the warmer city, and the only attention the ‘ink’ he made the etching appear as, to cover the bck band of the brand, has been a mix of snide comments about the waste of good ink on his brown skin, and curiosity as to why he’d gotten it.

  As the adventurers at the gate became visible, the urge to scratch the brand shifted to leaving the crowd. They’d question him too much. One of them would be from Kragle Rock and recognize him, or realize he understood him too well, then question how someone without an element could have the nguage enchantment only the criminals used to feed a dungeon received to avoid the chaos of no one understanding each other.

  He’d be fine.

  “Reason to enter?” the adventurer asked in a bored tone, and Tibs made out her faint accent, which he wouldn’t if they shared the nguage enchantment.

  “I’m hoping to become a Runner.” He made his voice tentative, that of someone who wasn’t sure if he deserved the honor.

  “What does he mean, become a Runner?” the dungeon asked. “He already has his elements.”

  “I don’t know,” the helper replied. “It’s not like I’ve seen one like him before yesterday.”

  Tibs moved in the direction the adventurer indicated, the exchange having made him miss what she said.

  He’d made it in; the first step in his pn to be a Runner again. To test himself against a dungeon, regain his strength, grow beyond what he’d had, and use it to bring the guild down once and for all.

  And if anything went wrong? All he’d have to do was escape past trained adventurers, Runners, and a gate he had no idea what its enchantment did, but keeping anyone from crossing through it had to be part of it.

  He’d be fine. No one here knew he had an element, so wouldn’t be prepared if he needed to use essence in his escape.

  The knowledge did little to slow his breathing, and that might give him away faster than anything else.

  “Tibs, what are you doing?” the dungeon asked, as Tibs followed a handful of people without an element toward a building.

  He almost answered.

  “That’s for the easy one,” Baricron continued. “Those like you—”

  “No one there’s like him,” the helper interjected.

  “Those with an element,” the dungeon said with a tone of ‘you knew what I meant.’ “Go to the other side. They have the new ones, like him, fight to decide which floor he’ll start from.”

  Tibs smiled. He could imagine it gring at the helper, if it was a person like him.

  The room inside the building was rge, but only had one of the nine tables occupied, and the only people, the six, not counting him, lined up before it.

  “Yell when he reaches the table,” Baricron said. “I’m going to check in on the Rhurgars. Hopefully, they’ve finally learned not to make a mess of their corner.”

  He filed the name as something to search for the next time he was in a library. It might not correspond to an animal, like Sto, other dungeons named their creatures, but it sounded like they were something it was training, instead of had made, so it might be something it had taken in.

  Two adventurers entered the room and Tibs actively didn’t pay attention to either. Light essence was always dangerous, and the adventurers were in the range of Epsilon. Tibs couldn’t hope to slip an outright lie past him, and the woman next to the fighter had Darkness as her element, so if Tibs tried to use that to hide the lie, she’d know.

  He so wanted to rub his left wrist, even if he knew that unless she focused, there was no chance she’d picked up on the etching. He’d tested it by engaging Darkness adventurers of ever-growing strength, and reworked the etching each time one of them noticed anything about his left arm, even if it they didn’t procim he had an etching hiding something.

  He hadn’t found anyone at Gamma to test it against yet, but he’d made it close to that. They headed to a door on the left wall without looking in his direction.

  “He’s next in line,” the helper yelled, and Tibs winced.

  “Name?” the clerk seated behind the table asked the young man before her. Her element was water, and she used it to move the ink from the pot to the paper as he answered her questions.

  Dressed as he was, he’d be a minor noble. Alone meant he didn’t have his family’s approval, probably. The more minor families needed their money to maintain their status, instead of hiring guards for all their children. Still, if his family approved, there would be an older sibling with him.

  Once done, she handed him the paper, and the man headed for the exit.

  “Name?”

  “Ti—Tyborg.”

  “That’s not what he said his name was,” the dungeon said.

  He wished he’d thought to warn them not to speak while he was here. This could get annoying.

  “I’m more curious why she’s bothering with it,” the helper replied. “Why isn’t she sending him with the others to be tested?”

  “Citizenship?”

  “Sintabary.” He never picked the kingdom he was in, because no matter how good he got at the local nguage, someone better could pick up on the remaining accent.

  She looked at him, the ink pausing in the air. “I didn’t know there was anyone from there with your skin color.” Her tone called in question what he’d said. While he hadn’t expected anyone to be so familiar with a kingdom so far from their own, he was ready for it.

  “My mother was from Hertian,” he answered in a tired tone, the one of someone who had to expin over and over how he could be from there. “She escaped the war when I was in her belly and made it to Pokishish by the time I needed to come out.”

  “Is he lying to her?” the helper asked. “Did he lie to her about his name, or to us?” they sounded offended.

  The clerk studied him.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t lie at all. Maybe his name is Tibs Tyborg, and he gives one to certain people and the other to others. People can be odd at times.”

  Her frown didn’t lighten. But if she’d had an etching to tell if he’d lied, she’d have used it. His teacher had told him that any element could be used through etchings to recreate the effects of another, and books had supported that. Tibs had never bothered figuring out how to use Water to tell truth from lies, since he had Light.

  Why would she doubt him? If she knew enough about Sintabary to know nearly everyone there was fair skinned, she had to know they and the Hertian kingdom were always fighting over something. The books had been filled with lists of conflicts between them. And if she knew of Pokishish, she’d know it was at the border. She should also know that anyone born within their border was automatically made a citizen.

  The ink added his citizenship to the paper. “Have you sought, and been refused, admission to a dungeon before?”

  “No.”

  “That can’t be true,” the dungeon said. “Can it? Can people get their element without going through us?”

  It was true, technically. He did like that word. He’d never been refused admission, because he learned enough in the process of seeking it to know if he could risk it. It had yet to be worth the risk. Too many processes were in pce to keep undesirables out.

  But there was always a chance this was the one dungeon where the guild had grown x.

  “Do you have a team of your own?”

  “No.”

  “Have you been tested for css assignment at another dungeon?”

  “No.”

  She looked him over, and the ink wrote: fighter, rogue, archer. On the line. If she knew how much he read, she would have added sorcerer. How did she determine who to test as sorcerers? Those too physically frail to have a chance of surviving as another css?

  Had she met sorcerers? Tibs couldn’t think of one who had been frail. Not as muscur as the physical csses, yes, but frail?

  The ink stopped flying, and she handed him the page. “The testing building is on the other side. It’s fifteen electrums to be tested. We only take Cartirian coins. If they’re from another kingdom, get them exchanged and return tomorrow.”

  “How do I get my magic?”

  “What is he doing?” the dungeon asked, tone bordering on exasperation.

  “Each time to make it out of the dungeon, you are tested. When you are judged to have the strength, you are granted an audience. If you survive that, you gain your element, and then you can be trained to do magic.” There was the bored tone of someone who’d had to repeat this often.

  Tibs exited the building.

  He had more questions. What was the process if he’d already done runs in another dungeon? Did a Runner with an element have to register with a team to do the run, or would they be assigned one? But he couldn’t think of a way to ask that wouldn’t have her question him in return.

  Each local guild office did things in different ways. Those differences could be slight, or rge. There had been a dungeon where the guild required everyone to have their teams made before being allowed to register.

  Tibs paused when he sensed essence mixing and looked in that direction. Those two adventurers that had walked through the building were standing before the entrance to the dungeon. Each had a hand on the shoulder of the woman in armor at the head of four others. They were forming one etching using both their essences. Light and Darkness.

  Tibs knew of mixed etchings. He’d read about them. They required skill and familiarity with your partner, or partners. It was possible to have etchings that contained each element; so twenty adventurers working together. He swallowed at the memory of eight sorcerers containing him, keeping him from saving Carina.

  He hadn’t known how they were doing it, then. Now he did. It didn’t make the pain of her death less.

  He studied what they did as they pced their hand on the next one’s shoulders. It was complex, he couldn’t work out how it would work, but there was a … roughness to the etching that made him think they either weren’t used to do this together, or not fully trained in mix etching.

  He took a risk as they moved on to the third team member; he approached the Metal adventurer in the high range of Epsilon.

  “Excuse me.”

  The man looked at him, the paper in his hand, and smiled. It and the eyes had care in them Tibs associated with a grandfather with young children. Even if the man barely looked older than Tibs, at that rank, he could be a century older.

  “How can I help you?”

  He pointed to the adventurers, who were on the fourth team member. “What are they doing?”

  The man looked. “They’re making sure any we let into the dungeon don’t have thoughts of using what we will teach them against this kingdom, king, or any interest they hold.”

  “So, it isn’t to make sure they won’t hurt you?”

  The man ughed. “I am not so simply brought down that even a team of Runners bothers me.”

  “But can’t they eventually take that and use it against the guild of adventurers?”

  The expression had care; that of the grandfather hearing a ridiculous idea from a child. “We aren’t something that can be brought down. We have been here for as long as there have been dungeons. We will continue even if they end. The guild is for always.”

  Someone didn’t know his history.

  He wanted to ask if they were always there; or if he might have to deal with more skilled adventurers? was only light and darkness used? But that would give away too much. So he thanked him and returned to pondering his conundrum.

  Should he return tomorrow as an Upsilon Runner and get more information? Rho, maybe?

  It was maddening such an organization couldn’t maintain a fixed way to operate across all their guilds. They had so much magic, how hard could it be to set the rules in pce and make sure they were enforced?

  Instead, in each city he had to start from the beginning, take a chance on what role to py and hope he could bluff his way past people with magic and training in working out who was trying to pull one over on them.

  And returning as someone with an element had its risk. If the clerk recognized him, or the gate guard, or anyone else. He’d be in deeper trouble than he wanted to deal with.

  This felt like the closest he’d been to becoming a Runner. He wasn’t worried about the audience, although he wondered how they’d react to him being strong enough for it after only one run.

  But there would be time wasted while they made arrangement. Then he’d have to py at being Upsilon, and just how much could he hold himself back when he had such an opportunity before him?

  If he started as what he was, a Rho Runner, he would start on the third, maybe fourth floor. It would be easier to keep himself to one element, instead of holding himself back from everything he could already do.

  He changed direction.

  “That’s not where she told you to go,” the dungeon said.

  “I need to think things over,” Tibs whispered.

  “But you said you wanted to be tested on my floors. This is the only way you get to go in.”

  That was if he could get in.

  They might not be experts at their mixed etching, but what were the questions asked? Could it sense through his own etching and to the brand that was designed to be noticed by adventurers?

  His tests had been against the adventurers, and in situations where they didn’t suspect something. Here they were looking for hidden motives and using an etching he knew little about. The combination of light and darkness was not a good one for him.

  Would any of the stories about his ‘ink’ fool both of them, if questioned? Could the etching register what they didn’t? The best story for it was that of falling in with the wrong crowd, being marked as part of the tests to be one of them. He could pull on memories of almost those things to make his voice, his body nguage, fit. But even his best story was a lie.

  It was possible to trick a light adventurer. He’s used almost truths, and not quite lies to fool that old Light guard more than once, back in Kragle Rock. But the questions had been simple, the story just about not a lie. The more he added, the harder it was for it to be just about true.

  And there was no simple way to expin his ink. All he had were extremely refined stories.

  He stepped through the gate without being questioned.

  “How about you expin yourself?”

  Without being questioned by people, at least.

  He headed for an empty alley. “I have to be sure I can go in.”

  “She told you where to go, but you left.”

  “Those two adventurers, they can tell if I’m lying.”

  “Are you?”

  “Not to you. Do you know if it’s always them?”

  “Them who?”

  “The light and darkness adventurer.”

  “It’s always a light and darkness adventurer there,” the helper answered.

  “But is it always them?” if it was, with how crude the etching was, and with a few days to study it….

  “How should I know?”

  “You can sense how strong they are. Are they the same strength as who was there yesterday? The day before?”

  “They aren’t stepping into me,” the dungeon said. “Why would I bother paying attention to them? Until the Runners are inside they don’t matter.”

  “You were paying attention to me.”

  “You aren’t like anyone there. You are hard not to pay attention to.”

  “Then I have to think about what I’m going to do.” He headed out of the alley.

  “But why? I want to find out how tough you are. With all those elements, you have to know so much I can use when you fail.”

  Tibs smiled at the dungeon’s overconfidence. He might risk it just to prove it wrong, but he had to consider the situation. He only had seven days to be certain how he’d proceed, or be stuck here, with a dungeon he couldn’t get in tempting him.

  To keep from the dungeon distracting him, he chose a tavern outside of its influence. He nearly left as an unseen bard started singing, but he’d already paid for the ale, and was almost at the corner table.

  Would it always be these two adventurers? Would their repcement be stronger, weaker? If they weren’t skilled, this could be used as training. It wasn’t like the guild cared all that much about what someone might use against a kingdom, no matter what they cimed. And they also couldn’t know what someone would actually do. All light could do was say if a person was lying now, or if they intended to change their minds. They’d need void for a chance to know what they’d do at a ter time, and none of the books he’d read that addressed that had confidence in how good those predictions were.

  And Darkness only lent an affinity to finding secrets. At Epsilon, she might be skilled enough she’d easily know he had secrets, but who didn’t? Could she know the kind of secrets he harbored? He’d only been able to know that when he was able to suffuse himself. And moving that essence to his node of sight had not been pleasant. Would she do that? He hadn’t sensed it happening.

  Time, he decided, would be the determining factor. He’d study the etching they used and—

  “Let me tell you of the Light-Fingers.”

  Tibs was up.

  “The hero of Kragle.”

  He headed in the bard’s direction.

  “The savior of Rocks.”

  He was going—

  “Of a hero turned Dastard.”

  He made her out, seated at the table, smiling.

  “Of the child turned Vilin.”

  He smmed the silver coin on the table hard enough she startled into silence as the ale in her tankard sloshed over the rim.

  “Sing about someone else,” he snarled. “No one gives a fuck about someone like that.”

  AnnouncementBottom Rung is avaible on KU: https://amzn.to/3ShmXzW

  You can read the previous arc in Tibs story here

  Do you have opinions and suggestions? feel free to leave them in the comments.

  Thank you for reading this chapter.

  If you want to watch me writing this story, I do so on Twitch: https://v/thetigerwrites Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, from 8 AM to 11:30 EST

  If you want to read ahead, you can do so by finding Stepping Wild, on Ream Stories where the story is multiple chapters ahead even at the lowest tier, and the support helps ensure I can work with a minimum of real-life interruption.