Darkness pressed in on all sides.

  Tareth coughed—dust in his throat, grit on his tongue. His hands scraped blindly against stone, palms raw. The air was thick, unmoving. It tasted like old iron and wet roots.

  I can’t go back up.

  He’d tried already. Twice. The slope had collapsed under his boots, too steep, too slick. Every time he climbed, more soil gave way.

  His knees were bruised. One ankle throbbed. But the worst part was the silence.

  Even the wind didn’t follow him down here.

  He pulled himself forward through the narrow tunnel—hands brushing broken roots, bones of ancient trees. The sword at his hip knocked against stone with every step. He shifted it, carefully. Almost reverently.

  The darkness wasn’t just black. It was thick. Felt close. Like it was watching.

  He didn’t call for help. No one would hear.

  No one was coming.

  They’ll think I ran. That I ran and didn’t look back. Maybe I did. But not this far.

  Then, ahead—space opened up.

  The tunnel widened into a circular chamber. The floor changed—cut stone, arranged in rings like ripples frozen mid-motion. At the center stood the arch.

  Freestanding. Seven feet tall. Carved with spirals and silver-veined grooves that shimmered faintly in the dim.

  It didn’t hum. Didn’t glow.

  It just waited.

  Tareth moved past it, not ready to face it yet.

  The walls pulled his eye—etched murals faded with age but still clear enough. He stepped closer.

  Goblins crouched low around a fire—sharp teeth, hollow eyes. Elves in silver-threaded armor, bows raised. Humans under a blue flag. Orcs with axes and suns burning in their fists. A dragon stretched across the upper rim, wings spanning wall to wall.

  His mother had told stories like these. His father had scoffed at them.

  But here they were.

  Etched in stone.

  He touched the edge of the dragon’s wing. Paint flaked off beneath his fingers.

  What is this place?

  Why are these stories here?

  Were they ever just stories?

  He stepped back and turned in a slow circle.

  The tunnel gaped behind him—steep, high, impossible to climb.

  Even if I scream, no one’s coming. Even if they come, they won’t find this.

  How do I leave this place?

  He whispered it. Not expecting an answer.

  He paced the chamber once, hands at his sides, thoughts looping, looping. His heel scraped the inner ring. His mind somewhere else.

  Then—without meaning to—

  he stepped through the arch.

  No sound. No flash. No resistance.

  Just one foot forward—

  —and he was gone.

  The chamber stood still.

  The arch remained.

  Ten long minutes passed.

  Dust settled.

  Light shifted.

  Then a faint glow traced through the veins of the stone—silver lines rising from base to crown, slow as breath.

  And finally—

  shhhck.

  The arch sealed.

  Above it, the dragon kept watching.

  The sun rose slow over Orden’s Field, bleeding gold through the morning mist.

  Chickens were already loose in the square. A pot clattered somewhere near the well. Smoke curled from the thatched roofs, lazy and blue.

  Inside the house, breakfast simmered.

  Tareth’s mother stirred the pot absently, sleeves rolled, hair tied back with twine. The smell of roots and river herbs filled the room.

  “Tareth,” she called. “Up now. Food’s hot, and I’m not warming it twice.”

  No answer.

  She frowned. Wiped her hands. Called again, louder. “Tareth!”

  Still nothing.

  She stepped to the curtain and pulled it aside.

  His cot was empty. The blanket undisturbed.

  She turned back to the main room. “Reginald.”

  He looked up from lacing his boots.

  “He’s not answering,” she said.

  Reginald stood with a stretch, rubbing his neck. “It was a rough night. Festival didn’t go well.”

  “He’s not in his room.”

  “Maybe he left early. Went walking. You know how he is.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  But he was already pulling on his coat. “I’ll check the square after my talk with the priest. Maybe he went for bread.”

  The morning passed.

  By noon, her hands were still flour-dusted, but her eyes kept drifting to the door.

  He didn’t return.

  That evening, the village was winding down.

  Reginald stopped by the bakery first. Hal was stacking trays behind the counter.

  “You seen Tareth today?”

  Hal frowned. “No, not since the festival. Figured he was laying low.”

  Reginald nodded once, left.

  The clothier was next. Ressa looked up from her mending.

  “Boy of yours? Not today.”

  Then Mari, the herbalist. Her brow furrowed.

  “He didn’t pick up his fennel. I figured he was tired after… well. You know, i saw him run off at the festival.”

  Reginald didn’t respond.

  By the time he reached the smithy, his shoulders were tight.

  Garen paused mid-sharpening, reading his face before a word was said.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Tareth’s missing.”

  Garen set the blade aside. “How long?”

  “Since yesterday evening. No one’s seen him.”

  The blacksmith’s expression shifted—concern drawn tight across his jaw. “I’ll check the fields.”

  “I’ll head to the ridge,” said John, who’d joined them quietly, bow slung across his back. “Storm last night knocked some trees loose. If he wandered—”

  The words caught in his throat.

  They were all moving now.

  No one said it out loud.

  But panic was rising.

  Night crept in slow.

  The ridge search turned up nothing—no prints, no trail, no sign of a boy wandering where he shouldn’t.

  By the time Reginald pushed the door open, his boots were heavy with mud, face drawn tight beneath his brow.

  Tareth’s mother was already pacing.

  “Nothing?” she asked, before he even stepped fully inside.

  He shook his head. “I asked everyone. No one’s seen him since the festival.”

  Her hands trembled. “He wouldn’t just leave. He wouldn’t do that.”

  Reginald eased the door shut. “Maybe he’s hiding. Embarrassed. That boy—Meric—he humiliated him.”

  She turned, voice sharp. “Hiding all night? Without a word? Without his things?”

  Silence. The fire cracked low in the hearth.

  Then, quietly, she said, “You don’t think he overheard us, do you?”

  Reginald sat heavily. “I don’t know.”

  “He wouldn’t run,” she snapped. “Not because of that.”

  “He’s twelve. And probably scared.”

  She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “We should’ve told him.”

  “Told him what? That the Empire might take him away if they find out about the skill? That even we don’t know how to stop it?”

  “I’d rather him hear it from us than in whispers.”

  Reginald didn’t answer.

  The room settled into silence, thick and unmoving.

  She dropped into the chair beside him, burying her face in her hands.

  They didn’t eat that night.

  Didn’t speak much after that.

  Just sat near the cold fire, waiting for a knock that never came.

  And when sleep finally brushed their eyes, it brought no rest.

  Just fear.

  And silence.

  Days slipped by like ash on the wind.

  The first week, Reginald searched every morning. Every night. The hills, the treelines, the path to the river. Always alone.

  The second week, his wife stopped cooking.

  She sat at the table instead, elbows on the wood, staring at the door like it might open on its own.

  By the third week, the village stopped asking.

  And the bed stayed empty.

  Nearly a month had passed before the signs returned.

  A red banner went up outside the chapel. Merchants dropped off crates—canvas, metal stakes, ration tins with the seal of the Imperial Survey Corps. The priest began sweeping the square steps every morning, like he was waiting.

  The Empire was coming.

  Mari and Ressa stood near the well that morning, hands full of herbs and folded cloth.

  “They posted the notice at dawn,” Mari said quietly. “Same one they use for field clearances. Standard military header.”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Ressa adjusted the satchel on her hip. “I heard they’re testing the twelve-year-olds again.”

  “They are.” Mari hesitated. “And the ruin.”

  Neither spoke for a breath.

  Then Ressa murmured, “I haven’t seen her. Tareth’s mother.”

  Mari shook her head. “Not since the second week.”

  “I thought she might come in for rootstock. Or anything.”

  “She hasn’t left the house,” Mari said. Her voice tightened. “I don’t think she will.”

  They both looked toward the ridge, where fog still clung to the slope.

  Then back to the banner, flapping soft in the breeze.

  Joren Meric stood with his back to the wall of the smithy, coat freshly pressed, flame flickering between two fingers like it cost nothing.

  “They’ll want me first,” he said, loud enough for the square. “I’ve already been listed. Got the letter. They just want to see proof.”

  His friends hovered nearby, eyes full of envy.

  He laughed. “Figures. My father said I’d shine eventually. He was right.”

  He flicked the flame into the dirt, watched it hiss out.

  “And that Vael boy?” he added, voice dripping with smugness. “Said I was just a noble in a tiny village.”

  He looked around, then leaned in, voice quieter now—but not kinder.

  “I said he’d end up just like his father. Man who ran from a failure he couldn’t handle.”

  He straightened.

  “Guess he did.”

  His friends laughed—awkward, too loud.

  But Joren didn’t join in.

  He glanced toward the ridge—just for a second—then looked away.

  The flame flickered out between his fingers.

  Then Garen stepped out of the forge.

  He wiped his hands on a cloth, voice low but cutting.

  “You boys don’t know Reginald. And you damn sure don’t know Tareth.”

  The laughter died.

  Garen walked closer, eyes hard. “He didn’t run. And even if he did, it’d be more courage than any of you have ever shown.”

  Joren tried to speak. Didn’t.

  “You want to mock the dead? Do it somewhere else,” Garen said. “Be gone.”

  The boys scattered like ash in wind.

  Garen stood in the square for a long moment, jaw tight, before turning back to his work.

  That evening, John found Reginald near the fence line, sharpening a rusted plow blade that wasn’t his.

  “They’re sending people,” he said.

  Reginald didn’t look up.

  “Not just scouts. Full survey team. Engineers, guards, scholars. Mage corps. Fort Nelres flagged it as high-interest. They think the ruin might matter.”

  Still nothing.

  “They’re not saying it’s connected,” John added, “but it’s close enough that I know what they’re thinking.”

  Reginald paused, just for a breath.

  John studied his face. “They don’t send mage corps for forgotten stone. They send them for power.”

  Reginald’s hands went back to the blade.

  The rasp of metal was the only answer.

  Dust came first.

  A low haze rising on the far ridge, barely visible through the trees. Some thought it was a storm. Others, a caravan.

  By the time the first wheel creaked over the northern path, half the village had gone still.

  Children stopped playing. Chickens scattered.

  Then the banners came.

  Silver and deep red, stitched with the tri-ring seal of Fort Nelres. Not bright, not decorative—military cloth, weather-beaten and cold.

  Six wagons. Two dozen riders. And more on foot.

  Soldiers in light armor flanked the first cart, spears upright, eyes forward. Behind them, scholars rode stiff-backed beside crates of scrolls and etched brass instruments. A mage with white-gold cuffs sat near the center, eyes closed like she was listening for something just out of reach.

  At the front rode a man in a black longcoat—no armor, no insignia on his chest.

  He didn’t smile.

  Didn’t wave.

  Just rode straight into the square like it belonged to him.

  Garen stood outside the smithy, rag still in hand.

  “That’s not just a testing party,” he muttered.

  John stepped beside him, arms crossed. “They bring scholars for testing?”

  “Not this many,” Garen said. “And not with a mage that high-ranked.”

  Across the square, the village priest stepped out from the chapel, brushing flour from his sleeves. He eyed the banners, then the man at the front of the column.

  “Marshal Dalrick Thorne,” he said, almost to himself.

  Garen turned. “That mean something?”

  “He doesn’t get sent to count chickens.”

  John frowned. “They think it might be important, then?”

  “They don’t know,” the priest said. “But they’re not taking chances.”

  By midmorning, the Empire was in motion.

  Wagons lined the outer edge of the square, forming a half-circle perimeter. Soldiers unloaded crates—tents, survey rods, spellbound instruments, small chests marked with sigils. The scholars moved like clockwork, calling measurements and checking off lists without once looking at the villagers around them.

  No one gave orders.

  Not until the man in the black coat dismounted.

  Marshal Dalrick Thorne walked through the center of the square like he already knew the shape of it.

  “Who’s in charge of this settlement?”

  Silence.

  The villagers looked at each other.

  Garen cleared his throat. “We don’t have a head.”

  Thorne turned toward him.

  “No formal leader,” Garen clarified. “Not really needed. Small place. Closest would be… Reginald Vael, I suppose.”

  Thorne’s eyes sharpened. “Reginald Vael?”

  John stepped forward, brow creased. “You know him?”

  The Marshal gave a slow nod. “I know of him.”

  Then, flatly: “Fetch him.”

  “I’ll go,” John said, already turning. “He won’t ignore me.”

  Across the square, Thess Aerun stood just beyond the inn, arms crossed, her gaze locked on the northern ridge.

  She wasn’t watching the trees.

  She was watching the ground.

  “Something’s off,” she muttered.

  A junior scholar beside her blinked. “The ruin?”

  “Not just the ruin,” she said, frowning. “The slope. Too much earth displaced for how little damage the surface shows. Pressure lines are uneven.”

  “So… unstable?”

  “Buried. Or worse—intentional.”

  The scholar hesitated. “You think it’s more important than the report said?”

  Thess didn’t answer. But she didn’t look away either.

  Near the herb cart, Mari and Ressa stood half in shadow, watching the exchange from a distance.

  “He’s not going to like this,” Mari murmured.

  “Reginald?” Ressa whispered.

  Mari nodded. “Being asked to speak for all of us. After what they did. After… after Tareth.”

  Ressa’s eyes dropped. “It’s cruel, making him face them again.”

  Mari clutched the hem of her apron tighter. “Cruel or not—they’ll get what they want.”

  John didn’t knock when he reached the Vael house. Just pushed the door open, slow.

  Reginald was seated near the hearth, sharpening a worn belt knife against a stone that didn’t need the work.

  He didn’t look up.

  John cleared his throat. “Empire’s here.”

  Reginald’s eyes flicked toward him. “I heard the wagons.”

  “They’re setting up in the square. Survey team’s bigger than I expected.”

  Reginald gave a small nod.

  “They asked who speaks for the village. Garen named you. Thorne asked to see you.”

  That made Reginald stop.

  His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “What name?”

  “Marshal Dalrick Thorne.”

  The knife stopped mid-stroke.

  Reginald’s grip tightened. He stared at the blade a moment too long, then set it down and stood.

  “I’ll be there shortly.”

  Back in the square, Thess Aerun moved through the half-raised tents like a needle through cloth, giving orders without raising her voice.

  “Establish outer lines. No closer than twenty paces to the ridge edge. If the slope breaks, I don’t want bodies in it.”

  A soldier gave a clipped nod and turned.

  She gestured to another. “Anchor the instruments on stable stone. No dirt placements until I’ve read the strata.”

  “Ma’am,” the soldier replied, already shifting crates.

  Thess exhaled through her nose. Sloppy terrain. Weak surface. She hated working blind.

  Near the chapel, a second figure approached the village priest—a tall woman in dark robes with silver embroidery along the cuffs. Her demeanor was sharp, but not cruel. Efficient. Calculating.

  “Inspector Veran Dehl,” she said simply, extending a scroll. “I oversee class identification and skill testing for the region.”

  The priest took the scroll, eyes flicking over the seal.

  “We’ll need a cleared space,” Veran continued. “Quiet. Large enough to separate subjects.”

  “The chapel’s open,” the priest offered. “We can move the benches.”

  She nodded. “It will do.”

  He hesitated.

  “There are... sixteen children of age.”

  Her brow rose. “Sixteen?”

  “Yes. But only fifteen now.”

  She paused, just slightly. “Explain.”

  “One’s missing. A month back.” The priest’s voice softened. “Reginald Vael’s boy. Tareth.”

  Veran’s eyes narrowed. “Cause?”

  “Unknown. The family believes he ran, but… most here don’t.”

  She said nothing for a moment.

  Then: “How many have shown signs of skill acquisition?”

  The priest looked down at his notes. “Five. Confirmed.”

  “And Class awakenings?”

  “Just one. Joren Meric. Noble’s son.”

  Veran’s mouth tightened. “We recieved your letter on the boy.”

  She turned back toward the chapel, muttering more to herself than to him.

  “One promising candidate. That’s all this backwater has to offer.”

  The chapel had been cleared.

  Benches pushed to the walls. A sigil chalked on the floor in pale gold, faintly humming with containment wards. One by one, the village’s twelve-year-olds were gathered and lined up against the far wall—nervous, fidgeting, some barely awake.

  Inspector Veran Dehl stood in the center of the space, sleeves folded neatly at her sides. She did not raise her voice. She did not smile.

  “This will proceed quickly,” she said. “Step forward when called. You will be asked your name, and then to demonstrate your known skill, if any. If you have none, say so clearly.”

  She didn’t wait for acknowledgment. Just unrolled the scroll.

  “Joren Meric.”

  He stepped forward immediately—already grinning.

  “Should’ve called me first anyway,” he muttered, just loud enough for the others to hear.

  Veran gave him a long look.

  “Name?”

  He gave a small bow, exaggerated. “Joren Meric, son of Alvar and Lys.”

  “Skill?”

  “Fire magic. Classed.”

  She paused.

  “Class name?”

  “Fire Mage,” he said proudly.

  She gestured. “Demonstrate.”

  He didn’t hesitate. Snapped his fingers, let a flame blossom in his palm, then shaped it—twisting into a flickering strand, then a ring, then a coiling serpent that hissed once before vanishing.

  The other children oohed. One girl clapped before catching herself.

  Joren looked smug enough to levitate.

  Veran made a note.

  Class: Fire Mage. Confirmed. Essence channeling stable. Control adequate.

  Does this boy really think Fire Mage is rare? Every noble’s son with a tutor earns a class by fourteen.

  Still—she had to admit, he was composed. Controlled. Confident.

  “You will do well,” she said aloud. “Return to the line.”

  He smirked at the others on his way back.

  Veran didn’t look up.

  Next name.

  One by one, the others came forward.

  Lina Harrow — minor weaving skill. Level 3. Precision in fine threadwork. No magical potential detected.

  Toman Yell — early stonecutting affinity. Level 4. Good hand-eye rhythm. Practical.

  Serra Nethe — herblore, Level 5. Demonstrated recognition of seven common roots without prompt. Slight attunement noted—possible latent alchemy.

  Bran Coster — archery, Level 6. Grip correct, stance instinctive. Lacked focus under observation.

  Eli Renn — water magic, Level 7. Low control, strong resonance.

  Veran paused slightly at that.

  Two children with elemental affinity. One classed.

  Still—Eli kept his head down. Didn’t boast. Didn’t look up once during the demonstration.

  Veran made another mark.

  Not exceptional. But worth watching not a nobles child either very interesting.

  She reached the next name on the scroll.

  Then paused.

  There was a blank space.

  A line where a name should be.

  She looked at the priest.

  “Tareth Vael,” he said quietly. “Gone a month now.”

  Veran didn’t blink.

  Just drew a line through the blank.

  Two weeks passed.

  The village adjusted.

  The chosen children—Joren, Eli, Serra, Lina, and Toman—were escorted out by Imperial riders. Their families watched them go with quiet pride.

  No one cried too loudly.

  The priest blessed their names.

  Mari handed off a pouch of herbs to Serra’s mother—“for the nerves,” she said.

  Ressa gave Lina a small scarf she’d woven the night before.

  The children didn’t cry. Most of them didn’t even look back.

  The wagons rolled out before noon.

  Garen watched from his forge, arms crossed. Said nothing.

  John stood beside him. “They’re proud of that boy.”

  “They would be,” Garen muttered.

  “He does have talent.”

  “He has ego. Not the same thing.”

  A beat.

  “You make him anything?” John asked.

  Garen snorted. “Not a nail.”

  Some in the village celebrated that night. Quietly.

  It wasn’t a feast, but a few bottles were passed, and songs hummed at low volume near the well.

  But not everyone was there.

  And no one mentioned the boy who should’ve gone with them.

  On the fifteenth day, something changed.

  The sun hadn’t cleared the ridge yet when a shout rang up the slope.

  “Stone!”

  Thess was already moving, boots thudding up the slope. When she reached the edge, she waved the others aside and crouched low beside the clearing crew.

  Flat stone.

  Seamed edges.

  Deliberate cuts.

  “Stop digging,” she said without raising her voice.

  The crew obeyed instantly.

  Thess called for brushes, smaller tools. No magic. Not yet.

  For the next hour, she didn’t speak.

  She just worked.

  Bit by bit, the dirt gave way—until a tunnel revealed itself. Half-buried, rimmed in twin carved columns, the seams too perfect for erosion, the stone too smooth to be anything but worked.

  No text. No signage. Just faint spiral motifs etched along the sides, curling toward the darkness.

  The air around it felt stiller. Heavier. Like something was holding its breath.

  She stood slowly and turned toward the slope.

  “Marshal.”

  Thorne arrived without ceremony.

  She didn’t look at him.

  “Not a ruin,” she said. “Not a wall. It’s an entrance.”

  He stared at it a moment.

  Then nodded once.

  “No one enters but us.”

  Later that night, they returned to the slope.

  Just Thorne.

  Just Thess.

  They cleared the crawlspace themselves—no magic, no crew. The opening was narrow, pressed between roots and hardened earth, just large enough to squeeze through. Just large enough for a child to slip in.

  Like one already had.

  The tunnel dipped downward—angled like a rib cage, lined with smooth stone and spirals half-swallowed by age. No carvings on the floor. No runes. Just silence.

  They stepped inside.

  The chamber was circular.

  Perfectly so.

  The floor was carved in rings, each stone set like a ripple in water—motion frozen by ancient hands.

  The murals wrapped around the walls like stories painted into the bones of the earth:

  Goblins, crouched low, teeth bared in crude red.

  Elves, tall and silver-clad, bows drawn but unreadable.

  Humans, marching in lines under a blue banner.

  An orc, holding a cracked axe and a dying sun.

  And at the top of it all—arching across the entire ceiling—a dragon, wings stretched across clouded sky, painted in fire and gold.

  Thorne looked in the center.

  And there it was:

  The archway.

  Seven feet tall. Freestanding. Spiral-carved.

  Silver-veined grooves ran through the stone, not glowing—breathing. Faint. Subtle. Alive.

  Thess didn’t speak for a long time.

  Then: “It’s not a ruin.”

  “No,” Thorne said.

  “It’s a dungeon.”

  He nodded once. “That makes seven.”

  “There were only six.” Her voice dropped. “And none found in five centuries.”

  “Dormant.”

  “Until now.”

  She crouched, touching the arch’s base gently.

  “It’s been activated.”

  Thorne looked down at her. “By what?”

  She looked up.

  “Not what,” she said.

  “Who.”

  They emerged from the crawlspace fast—Thorne already shouting.

  “Everyone in the square. Now!”

  People gathered quickly—confused, tense. Whispers rose. A few still laughed nervously, until they saw Thorne’s face.

  “This is not a ruin,” he barked. “It’s a dungeon. An active one.”

  Gasps. A few made signs of warding. The priest paled.

  Garen and John exchanged a glance.

  Thorne continued, louder.

  “Someone went inside. It’s sealed. That means the dungeon has been triggered—and someone is still alive in there.”

  “Who?” someone called.

  “Who went in?”

  Silence.

  Then the priest stepped forward. “Tareth.”

  Thess frowned. “Who?”

  “The Vael boy,” he said. “Missing since the storm.”

  Thorne’s head snapped toward him. Then he turned and started marching, straight for the Vael house.

  Thorne didn’t knock when he arrived.

  He pounded once, hard.

  “Reginald! Open the door!”

  It swung open a second later.

  Reginald stood in the frame, eyes already narrowed. “What?”

  “Is your son missing?”

  “You know he is.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Why are you asking me that now?” Reginald said slowly, suspicious.

  Thess caught up, out of breath.

  “Is your boy in that dungeon?” she asked. “Do you know about it?”

  Reginald’s face drained.

  “A dungeon?” he repeated.

  She nodded.

  He turned to Thorne. “Why the fuck would I let a twelve-year-old into a dungeon?”

  No one answered.

  He stepped forward, voice rising.

  “Those things kill entire armies, Thorne. Groups of Classed adventurers. You remember the Archmage? From the Yvareth expedition?”

  Thorne’s jaw tensed.

  “Never came back,” Reginald spat. “And that was the youngest dungeon we had, the oldest no ones entered in four thousand years according to the empire.”

  He turned to Thess.

  “Can you open it?”

  Before she could answer, a voice from behind—

  “Did you find him?”

  They turned.

  Tareth’s mother stood in the doorway.

  Eyes wide.

  Hands trembling.

  “Did you find my boy?”

  Thess stepped toward her gently.

  “Come inside. Please.”

  Time passed.

  The sun dipped low.

  The ridge cast long shadows down across the square.

  Then—footsteps.

  John and Garen returned, breathless. Thorne met them halfway.

  “Can we get in?” John asked.

  “No,” Thorne said. “Not unless he dies. Or finishes it.”

  “And if he never does?”

  “Then the arch never opens but no ones ever finished one of those.”

  Garen’s face darkened.

  They stood like that in silence—until a shout echoed up from the ridge.

  A mage ran toward them, cloak flapping.

  “Sir! You need to see this!”

  Thorne turned.

  “What is it?”

  “The portal! The arch—it’s opening!”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing! We didn’t touch it!” The mage gasped. “It’s just—waking up. You know how this works.”

  Thorne stared at him.

  Then turned and shouted.

  “Get Thess. Get the mother. Now.”

  They all ran.

  The group gathered at the tunnel mouth ten minutes later.

  Just before the slope.

  Just before the crawlspace.

  Mari and Ressa refused to leave her side.

  Thess let them stay.

  Everyone else was sent back.

  The wind moved. The torches flickered.

  Then—

  a scream from inside.

  Boots.

  A mage stumbled out, eyes wide.

  “There’s something—there’s something coming out.”

  He fell to his knees.

  “Not human.”

  Thorne drew his blade.

  “Get ready.”

  No one moved.

  Then—

  footsteps.

  Soft.

  Bare.

  Not rushed.

  A figure appeared in the tunnel.

  Small.

  Cloak torn.

  Feet scraped raw.

  A linen-wrapped steel sword strapped across his back.

  And on his face—

  A fox mask, rough and white.

  Red spirals curled over its surface like scars that didn’t heal.

  He stepped into the torchlight.

  Didn’t speak.

  Didn’t stop.

  Thorne raised his blade. “Stop there.”

  The boy did.

  “Remove the mask.”

  Silence.

  Then—

  “I can’t do that.”