I watched the single source of light flicker—its flame dancing in the cool darkness of the unknowable safe house of the DuskRunners.

  Now this was the peak.

  It might not look it—hiding in the dusty confines of a hidden basement room, surrounded by nothing but four people and a disturbing number of trophies—but this was where it all happened. Where the real power was held and the real deals were signed. The ones that ended lives. Or worse.

  Around us stood glass cases, lined with monster parts and mystic scraps of jewelry. Bits of polished bone. Shards of soul stone. Trinkets stolen from Wellsprings most people didn’t even believe existed.

  I sat across a massive desk from Fennor Trosk, handler for the infamous band of thieves and mercenaries.

  To his left stood Old Donn, a grizzled brute with white streaks running through his thick hair and braided beard. His age might fool someone at a glance—but the bulging arms and the actual harpoon cannon strapped across his back quickly corrected any assumptions of frailty.

  Behind me, I knew Vess Brindle was watching.

  Waiting.

  The cutthroat thief didn’t need to speak. Just being in the same room was enough to remind me that one wrong word could get me gutted before I hit the floor.

  Fennor tossed the letter he’d been reading onto the desk like it bored him, his eyes finally drifting up to meet mine with lazy indifference.

  “Here we are,” he said.

  I nodded.

  Great. Games.

  “Yes, we are,” I replied, forcing a grin I didn’t feel.

  “What is it you would have of us, sir Tarnlow?”

  The smirk behind his tone was as plain as the bastard’s pulse.

  He knew why I was here. He knew what I’d written when I asked for this meeting. The formality was just for show—meant to waste time and remind me that I was the one asking.

  You know, I was probably faster than Vess. I’d heard of her. Take her out first, fast, then dive across the desk and bury my knife in Fennor’s throat.

  Only problem was the giant.

  I glanced at him again—Old Donn. Still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t blinked.

  “I need the key for the Wellspring in Jinaral,” I said, flat and direct, “I’m making a play for the heartscale. And I know you have the final piece to get through.”

  I met Fennor’s eyes and didn’t blink.

  “I want to trade.”

  He looked at me, matching my intensity.

  “That is a weighty item. Very very weighty indeed. Who are you exactly, to come in requesting such….. Treasures? Your reputation does nothing to help your case. I believe everyone present has heard of the incident at Nereah.”

  I scowled and saw him smirk. Damn, he was well informed. Even all the way here in Kaldris, far from the free cities. I hadn’t wanted to come back, but everywhere I went. Death, Destruction. It was all I knew.

  No words would move him.

  Action would.

  And actions? Those, I knew.

  I raised my hands slowly, not in surrender, but to show I was about to move. No sudden motion. Just clarity. From the pack beside me, I pulled a shimmering lump of jagged orange carapace, nearly twice the size of my head.

  The room lit up—not by fire, but by the soft, unnatural glow pulsing from the fragment. It pushed back the candlelight like dawn overtaking embers.

  Fennor’s eyebrows lifted.

  “A... Belisharkina heart? No. You can’t truly have killed one.”

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and smiled. Not kindly.

  “Please, don’t insult me. I’ve made mistakes—who hasn’t? But I’m still breathing because I’ve succeeded too. This is your proof.”

  Behind me, I heard Vess scoff.

  Fennor nodded along with her, as if waiting for the punchline.

  “Anyone can forge a Belisharkina heart,” he said. “Rune-smiths make better fakes every year. This means nothing without—”

  I reached into my pack again.

  This time, I pulled out a stone the size of my fist, glowing with a deep, sullen light—the kind of glow that didn't just illuminate the room, but changed the mood inside it. I threw it on his desk.

  Even Old Donn let out a low gasp.

  “…It’s the Molvane,” he muttered.

  Fennor shot him a glare. But now, he said nothing. Slowly he squinted at the stone in his hand, picked up off the desk. I knew what he saw, the slowly moving green script across the surface of the stone.

  “What did you do?” he said darkly.

  I shrugged, “Keeps the pair together. Take the Molvane too far from the heart and well….. Bad things happen.”

  Fennor looked uncomfortable but squinted closer at the stone, “ I don’t see a signature. Which rune witch did this for you.”

  I just smiled at him saying nothing, and as he went pale we both knew he knew. Wild magic. Take the pair too far away from each other and, entire cities could be destroyed.

  “You would play with wild magic?”

  Again I shrugged, “I do what I have to. Again, will you provide me with the key?”

  He sighed, looking at the glowing treasures before him. Worth more than more of the trophies in the room. Finally he nodded.

  “You can have it. But first the contract.”

  Great. There was always a catch.

  “This is a valuable item to us.” Said the man,” You will show us proof that you obtain this heartscale or you will return the key to us. There will be no negotiations on this.”

  Slowly I said, “But the artifact itself. Is mine to do with as I please?”

  The man nodded.

  “Yes. As long as we can confirm the key was used and the key was likely destroyed in its use the contract will be considered completed. That is what we request.”

  Just do what no one had done before. How hard could that be?

  Cold. It was cold and dark in the depths of the caves, deep under the surface of Lyvaria. Only monsters and nightmares roamed these halls, carved from sharp, unforgiving stone. The air carried the unnatural chill of despair, the kind that seeped into bone and spirit alike. Death’s herald, a ghastly apparition wretched in blue flame and swirling black smoke, hovered above the twisted smoldering corpse.

  A skeletal hand, flesh melting and dripping from jagged bones, reached out from tattered rags as if to pull me into the flames of hell alongside it. Nothing mattered anymore, I would join the dead soon enough. The shade walker floated towards me, the eyes pinpricks of white light that watch the black Smokey tendrils that reached to touch me, to grab me.

  This couldn’t be how it ends, not like this. I hadn’t found the entrance yet. It was too soon for me to die, in the darkness alone. Struggling against the apprehensive aura exuded by the creature I looked up at it. As i squinted against the pain and blood running down my arm i saw a faint symbol, glowing between its eyes. It hovered closer and it felt as if all the heat had been sucked from the stones, from my body, from the world. Distantly the voices spoke.

  “Auren! Help us!”

  I couldn’t save anyone if I cant even save myself. Among the ghosts a softer voice sounded. A voice heard on nights where the dark carried no threats or danger, as he was tucked safely to sleep.

  “Auren, never, ever should you write the mark of a shade walker on a human body. It holds the power of the devils themselves. Better to die than ever carry that mark on yourself.”

  Sluggishly, i pulled my soul knife out of my pocket, struggling to grip it as it slipped with the blood. So, if i have nothing left to lose. Who knows what might happen. I positioned the knife over my lift hand, even as it drifted ever closer. The black tendrils wrapped around my hands and cheeks, burning painfully with their touch. Slowly, horribly i cut into the hand, tearing the bandages and releasing fresh pain. I could just barely see the curves and lines of the sigil through the tears in my eyes. It froze in the still air, watch as fresh blood flowed down the wreckage of my hand.

  I made the last cut and cupped my hand to my chest, dropping the knife in the process. The shade walker just floated there, starring at me for moments that stretched into eternity. Without warning it turned, returning to hover over the corpse that held all of my equipment and gold. I tore a strip of cloth out of my belt and fashioned another makeshift bandage for my hand.

  “Shit” I whispered, feeling a panic of fear even as i glanced at the creature to make sure it hadn’t noticed me again.

  I crouched and picked up my dagger painfully. I can’t believe that worked. That shouldn’t have worked. What did i do?

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  “Better to die than carry that mark upon yourself”

  I limped painfully away from the creature, picking up the dropped lantern as i made my way out of the cavern and back into the tunnel entrance.

  I didn’t look back.I couldn’t.

  Every muscle screamed as I forced myself forward, limping down the tunnel, my bandaged hand throbbing in time with my pulse. The shade walker didn’t follow. Not yet. But the wellspring wasn’t done with me. Not by a long shot.

  The tunnel twisted ahead, leading me back the way I came—past the battlefield I wanted to forget. The moment I stepped into that space again, the stench hit me like a hammer to the gut.Spatbrung entrails. Crevice worm bile. My own blood.

  The bile had dried, but that only made it worse. Rotting sweetness, acrid stomach acid, the cloying thickness of something that shouldn’t have been exposed to air. My eyes watered, my throat clenched, and for a moment, I nearly retched.

  I staggered forward, the scent clinging to me like a second skin. The bodies were still here. What was left of them. The carcass of the Spatbrung lay collapsed where I’d left it, its hollowed-out exoskeleton split in two from my soul knife. The crevice worm’s crushed remains were smeared along the stone like some foul, bloated mural, a mess of ruptured organs and broken chitin. I didn’t stop.I couldn’t stop. It was hard to tell what was worse—the death, or the stench.

  The air had changed.Not just the smell—the weight of it. The wellspring was shifting.The deeper I went, the more twisted the cave became. The starshade vines were brighter now, their luminescence bleeding across the cavern walls, casting everything in a sickly silver glow. The Grevich mushrooms had grown too—far larger than they should have been. Some brushed the ceiling now, their thick caps trembling like they were breathing.

  I was running out of time.

  If the mushrooms had grown this much, then the wellspring was near its toxic phase. Soon, the air would turn deadly. The last adventurers who had stayed too long hadn’t even made it to the entrance—their bodies were found half-melted, their bones etched with the patterns of whatever lived in the dark too long.

  I wasn’t planning to join them.

  A sound broke through the silence.A sharp, wet clicking.I stopped.That wasn’t cave noise. That wasn’t water. Another click. Then another. A low chittering, followed by a scrape of something hard against stone.

  Slowly, I turned my head.The first thing I saw were the mandibles.Long, serrated, and glistening in the dim light. Saliva dripped from the tips, steaming as it hit the cavern floor. Then came the scythe-like hands, twitching against the ground. The limbs bent in too many places, its black carapace blending into the walls like a living shadow.

  I hadn’t seen it earlier. How long had it been watching me? The Scythera crouched just beyond the starshade’s glow, waiting. And from the sounds coming from the tunnel ahead… It wasn’t alone. I slowly reached for my dagger. One more fight. I had one more fight in me if it meant freedom. Down a forked tunnel opposite from them, I knew a rope hung down from the ledge we had to climb earlier, left to make the return trip easier. If i could just make it there in time.

  I had just enough time to glimpse three sets of glowing eyes before I dashed down the tunnel. The chittering behind me rose into a screech, a sound that clawed at my back as I ran. My leg throbbed, throwing me off balance, but I didn’t stop. The rope came into view, swaying slightly where I had left it. Without hesitation, I threw my hand through the lantern’s hook and hauled myself upward.

  Pain exploded through my body—muscles screaming, wounds tearing open—but my mind was already ahead of me, flashing images of blade-like arms slicing into my spine. Gasping, I pulled myself over the ledge and looked down. The three Scythera glared up at me.As one, they bent their six powerful legs and leapt.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  Still gripping the rope, I rolled back over the edge instead of getting up to flee as they expected. My feet found the wall, and before they could correct their trajectory, I rappelled downward, landing with a harsh thud. The impact sent me falling onto my back, gasping for air.

  I looked up. The Scythera perched at the ledge, staring down. Waiting. They weren’t mindless. They knew I was slowing down. They had cleared a 20-foot height with ease. Now they loomed, mandibles clicking, their blade-like arms twitching in anticipation.

  They weren’t in a rush. They knew I couldn’t outrun them. They knew I couldn’t outclimb them. And they wanted me to know it too.

  Again, they jumped. But they didn’t need to. Powerful as they were, strength alone didn’t win fights. I wasn’t still alive because I had brute force. I was still alive because I used my brain.

  The cavern stretched high into the darkness above them, giving them plenty of leaping space—too much space. Whether by habit or sheer lack of understanding, the Scythera jumped straight up, following some instinct burned into their hours-old minds.

  For a second, they vanished into the haze of shadows above. Then, they came slicing down toward me. I didn’t move to stand. I had no energy left. Breathing was an accomplishment. Staying conscious was a victory. Instead, I rolled—as close to the wall as I could. The crunch echoed through the cavern.

  All six legs snapped on impact.

  The Scythera shrieked, their bodies thrashing on the stone, black blood splattering against the cavern floor. I sat there, heaving, drenched in sweat and filth, watching them writhe. One still tried to crawl toward me, dragging its shattered body, mandibles snapping in defiance.

  I let out a breath.

  Then, with every muscle screaming, I turned to the rope and began the climb again. The climb felt endless. The rope burned against my torn hands, my grip slipping more than once. Every muscle in my body screamed, but I didn’t stop. Stopping meant falling. Falling meant breaking. And breaking meant being left behind.

  By the time I hauled myself over the last ledge, my vision swam with exhaustion. My chest heaved, every breath a struggle as I collapsed onto the rough stone floor just beyond the tunnel’s mouth.

  For a moment, I just lay there, feeling the cooler air brush against my filthy skin. I made it.

  But I wasn’t safe yet.

  The entrance to the wellspring caves was never quiet.

  I could already hear them—the voices of the scavengers, the opportunists, the desperate. Their laughter, their curses, the ring of axes against stone and the chop of blades against wood.

  By the time I forced myself to my feet, the harsh light of dusk hit my face. The cave mouth opened onto the quarry, where at least three dozen people worked to strip the land bare before the wellspring disappeared—and took the resources with it.

  Piles of stone, ore, and lumber were stacked haphazardly, as workers hacked at rock and uprooted trees with no care for what came next. Oxen-drawn carts lined the makeshift road, loaded with raw materials ripped from the earth.

  And then there were the adventurers.

  I spotted them immediately—clusters of armed mercenaries, rogue traders, and scavengers watching from the edges, lingering by their half-built outposts.

  Some stood over half-dead survivors, haggling over whether to offer aid or let them rot where they lay. Others counted coin purses, bargained over maps, or argued over which mine shaft still held something worth dying for.

  A few noticed me.

  I could feel their eyes on me—calculating, assessing. Some had seen me go in and were likely surprised I came back out at all. Others were already wondering what I brought back—and if they could take it.

  I clenched my aching hand, feeling the sting of the sigil still carved into my flesh.

  Nothing. I had come out with nothing—no treasure, no artifacts, just a body barely holding together. That was enough for some of them.

  To scavengers, a wounded man was easy pickings. No Rest for the Living

  I forced my legs to move, dragging myself toward the nearest cart driver before anyone got ideas.

  The old woman barely glanced at me as she tightened the straps around a bundle of stone slabs.

  “Need a ride?” she asked, voice rough as gravel.

  “How much?” I rasped.

  She eyed the state of me, then smirked.

  “Depends,” she said. “You paying with coin… or debt?”

  I exhaled sharply, my mind already working through my next move.

  No treasure. No money. No strength left.

  But still a long, bloody road ahead.