he runes blaze again—bright, urgent, like the pulse of something waking up. Not fast, but steady. Measured. A rhythm that doesn’t match any heartbeat she knows. Not hers. Not theirs. Not even his.
Older. Watching.
The pressure builds behind Selene’s eyes. Like static, prickling under her skin, hunting for a way in.
Then the man speaks.
His voice splits the silence—low and brittle, like it hasn’t been used in years. Dry at the edges, but not hollow. There’s weight behind it. Something layered. Curiosity, maybe. Or awe. Or that strange pull of familiarity that hits when you smell a place you’ve never been.
His tone is smooth, almost practiced. But it carries an edge, too. Like a prayer muttered under your breath when you’re not sure anyone’s listening.
Gorik reacts instantly. Shoulders back. Feet planted. That old soldier reflex, muscle before mind. The kind of readiness that doesn’t ask questions until after the threat is buried.
But Selene doesn’t move.
She can’t—not yet.
Not when something in her gut is already unraveling.
Gorik’s voice rips through the link, tight and tense, the way a bowstring feels right before it snaps.
“I... I don’t know.”
She answers aloud, quietly. Every word dragging behind the weight in her chest.
Her fingers move on instinct, flipping through the worn vellum pages of her grimoire. They whisper and hiss, but the motion brings her no peace.
And that? That rattles her.
She’s studied more languages than most people have friends.
The man doesn’t move. Still rooted in the center of the chamber like he belongs there.
But the room doesn’t stay still.
The floor trembles—barely noticeable at first, like the place is holding its breath. Then a stronger shiver ripples through the stone, not violent, just… unsettled. Like the castle itself heard his voice and didn’t know what to make of it.
Selene steadies herself against a weathered archway. The stone is warm beneath her palm—slick with magic that pulses slow and steady, aware of her touch.
But still, the man doesn’t flinch.
He’s not armored. Not prepared. His clothes are a patchwork of stories—worn denim, stitched leather, a tunic that looks like it lived a whole life before finding his shoulders. Mud crusts the edges of his boots. The laces are knotted wrong.
A wanderer, sure. But not from anywhere close.
And his eyes—his eyes give her pause.
They don’t match the rest of him. They move fast. Too fast. Scanning the room, tracking details like he’s searching for a memory he’s not sure he owns.
He looks like someone dropped in the middle of a half-finished dream.
And he knows it.
Or worse—he knows this place, but it doesn’t know him back.
Selene holds her breath.
The runes glow under her boots, still pulsing in time with him. Syncing with him.
And something in her—quiet, sharp, and painfully clear—starts to unfurl.
The magic knows him.
And that changes everything.
Gorik leans against the stone—cold, solid, real in a way nothing else in this cursed place feels.
The air's off.
Too still. Too heavy. Like breath caught in the throat. The kind of pressure that makes greenhorns piss themselves before the fight even starts. And if he's being honest, he's a half-step from doing the same.
Which, for him, says a lot.
Magic sparks at the edge of his senses—jagged, wild. It tastes like burnt copper and old lightning. Not clean. Not respectful. The kind that doesn’t knock before barging in.
“What in the name of stone...”
His voice grinds out, low and rough.
Next to him, Selene barely breathes. Her eyes dart between the flickering runes and the massive binder she hauls like a second spine. The book pulses in time with the runes—slow, steady, too damn intentional.
Her hand clamps down on his arm. Strong. Too strong.
“Something isn’t right.”
“Understatement,” he growls.
She shoots him a glare. He shrugs. They both know she’s right.
“I mean it, Gorik. That magic—it’s not just here. It’s aware.”
Yeah. He feels it too.
It moves beneath them, through the stone, writhing in the air like roots drawn to water. Reaching. Knowing.
Selene’s still clutching his arm. She’s trying to hide the tremble in her wrist, but he sees it. Of course he does. He always sees her tells.
And that’s the signal.
This isn’t just some magical burp.
This is intentional.
So is the man.
The stranger swallows hard—like something sharp just tore down his throat—and speaks again.
Still raw. Still ragged.
But not weak.
Annoyed, maybe. Or… impatient.
Nobody answers.
Silence tightens around them. Thick and waiting.
Then the air splits.
No flash. No crack. Just—gone. A seam opens in the world like it finally gave up pretending to be whole.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
And something steps through.
Gorik sees it for what it is immediately:
A cannon. Small, heavy, humming with power older than gods.
The man moves. Not fast. Not rushed. Just… sure.
He reaches for it like a soldier reclaiming his blade—starved, reverent, certain.
His hands know it.
Know the balance.
He spins it once. Smooth. Practiced. Muscle memory.
Gorik shifts, hammer tight in his grip. His eyes flick between the stranger, the runes, and Selene.
She’s drenched in sweat. Ears twitching. Tail curled tight. Her magic’s spiking—burning too hot.
Bad sign.
Her voice reaches him through the mental link. Thin. Almost scared.
He nods.
A pause.
The question hits like a hammer to the chest.
Gorik doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t need to. His face locks into that unreadable, carved-from-bedrock expression.
Selene swallows hard. Shivers like something just scraped her soul.
That’s all she says.
It’s all she needs to say.
No soul.
No aura.
No resonance.
No tether.
Gorik doesn’t ask for clarification. Doesn’t waste breath.
This man isn’t just a curiosity.
He’s a loaded relic.
The question burning now isn't what he is.
It's whose side he's on.
Friend?
Or the kind of enemy that doesn’t show up until the world’s already on fire?
A low rumble rolls through the chamber—deep, drawn out, like the earth clearing its throat.
Someone else might chalk it up to tectonic activity. Settling stone. Ancient infrastructure grumbling beneath its own weight.
But not Tibbins.
No, he knows that sound. Every gearhead instinct in him lights up.
Gears. Big ones. Grinding metal. Meshing teeth. Worn-down cogs dragged out of hibernation. It's not just sound to him—it’s music. Awful, glorious, terrifying music.
His ears twitch. A second sound creeps in—stone shifting.
He tilts his head. Wait. That’s not settling.
Clank.
Hiss.
He blinks.
Nope. Not natural. That’s hydraulics. A joint locking into place. A pressure valve venting steam. Ports. It has godsdamned steam ports.
And then the statues move.
The ones posted around the chamber like oversized gargoyles—silent and looming—they start to shift. Limbs crank forward, stiff from centuries of sleep. Stone fingers twitch. Spines flex.
Golems.
Real ones.
He squeaks—half gasp, half giggle. It just escapes him.
The runes along their backs flicker. Not just engraved—active. Light pulses through unfamiliar scripts. Symbols rise into the air and hang there like a system booting up, not speaking so much as humming with meaning.
Selene flinches beside him. Gorik mutters a curse in Dwarven—something about ancestors and poorly-timed awakenings.
And the stranger?
He’s just standing there. Calm. At the center of it all. Watching the machines like he’s been waiting for this.
No—like he built it.
One golem twitches. Its leg jolts forward, off-rhythm. Tibbins winces. Rust in the rotator. Too long without maintenance. You can’t just store this stuff in a tomb and expect it to pop up ready to dance—
They charge.
No ceremony. No warning. Just a full sprint of stone and steel. Siege engines with legs.
The man doesn’t flinch.
He lifts his weapon. Still calm. Still silent. His finger moves—maybe a switch, maybe a trigger—
Screeeee—
A mechanical shriek tears through the chamber, metal scraping itself raw under strain. Then—
BOOM.
BOOM.
Two shots arc through the air, bright spirals of magic fused with mechanical force. Hybrid rounds. Arcane-propelled.
Each one slams into a golem.
Tibbins doesn't even blink.
Stone ruptures. Armor peels like cheap shell plating. Shrapnel fans out. Dust billows in the wake of the impact.
Selene gasps. Not fear—something deeper. Her tail coils tight. She felt that magic—not just its force, but its age. Its complexity.
Gorik’s eyes stay on the man. Always watching the wielder, not the weapon.
But Tibbins?
Tibbins hears everything else.
The spin-up. The cooldown. The mana coils whining through a mechanical relay. Steam bleed. Runic converters humming with mismatched frequency. It’s a damn orchestra of precision chaos.
And it’s alive.
His heart is slamming in his chest.
He drops like a madman onto his pack, claws scrabbling through gear. Tools clatter. His notebook flips open with ink already bleeding through the paper. Fingers twitch. Grease smudges everything.
“I can feel it…”
His voice cracks. Doesn’t matter. He’s grinning like he’s just found the gates to heaven and hell bolted together with rivets.
“Magitech. Real. Actual. Magitech.”
He looks up—sweaty, wide-eyed, fingers stained with graphite and faith.
This isn’t just a relic.
This is history waking up.
And he’s never been more alive.
Gorik’s head jerks up.
A pit opens in his gut. A thought lands—cold, obvious, unavoidable.
This bastard is the delve boss.
He grits his teeth. Doesn’t swear. Doesn’t pray. Just breathes hard and makes a choice.
“Listen up,” he growls. “We are in way over our godsdamned heads. We need to leave—now.”
Not a suggestion. A command.
Selene doesn’t move. Just her fingers—tightening around her grimoire until the leather creaks.
“Leave?” she echoes, disbelieving. “You can’t mean that. Not now. Not—”
Her voice shakes, but she presses forward. “The Magister sent us here, Gorik. She trusted—”
“Fuck the Magisters,” Gorik snaps. “And fuck the Council.”
No filter. No soft words. Not when fear’s whispering in his ear.
Selene reels like he slapped her.
“What?” she breathes. Her chest feels tight. “Are you serious? You stood in front of the whole chamber—you swore.”
“I was wrong,” he says. Cold. Final.
He knows what that costs. And he says it anyway.
Tibbins places a hand on Gorik’s arm. Another brushes Selene’s knuckles. Light touch. Not to stop—just to shift attention.
His eyes go past them.
“He heard you,” he whispers. Urgent. Clipped. “Keep your voices down.”
They freeze.
The man’s not looking at them. Not directly.
Then he moves. Slow. Elegant. A sweep of the hand—no weapon, no cast. Like he’s trying to grasp something just out of reach.
Tibbins moves without thinking. Reaches into his coat. Pulls out a brass pocketwatch—his first build. Sentimental. Irreplaceable.
He presses it to his lips. Whispers something only the dead might hear.
And he throws it.
Clatter. The metal strikes stone with a sharp, echoing ring.
The man turns. Immediately. Clean pivot. Gaze sharp as a blade.
BOOM.
The watch is gone, broken into tiny, fragmented pieces.