We begin the descent along a spiral ramp carved directly into the cavern wall. The lower we get, the more the hum of the city rises to meet us. A melody. A living pulse.

  Once at the bottom, the shock is visceral.

  Lunaria’s main street is a pulsating artery paved with polished onyx slabs. They reflect the glow of a thousand fruit-lanterns—translucent gourds the size of pumpkins hanging from silver vines stretched across the street. Inside them, colonies of captive mini-fireflies pulse gently, bathing the crowd in a warm, amber, living light.

  And what a crowd.

  It’s a human tide… well, a Minimoon tide. There are thousands of them. The first thing that strikes you is their fascinating uniformity. They all share the same skin, a warm terracotta hue, smooth as fresh pottery, drinking the light rather than reflecting it. They radiate health, a far cry from the usual pallor of subterranean creatures. Their ears, long and thin like bamboo leaves, twitch in rhythm, creating a constant rustling above their heads like a wheat field in the wind.

  The air is thick with scents. It’s an olfactory assault, but for once, it’s divine. It smells like heated pine resin, sweet musk, and above all, food. My stomach, familiar only with bland protein bars, twists with hunger.

  To my left, a merchant is roasting skewers on a glowing lava stone. Segments of giant worms, cut into thick medallions, sizzle and caramelize in their own fat. They’re glazed with a syrupy purple sauce smelling of blackberry and pepper. The smoke rising from the grill is blue, drawing arabesques in the air.

  Right next to him, an old Minimoon with drooping ears stirs a copper cauldron the size of a bathtub. A thick stew bubbles inside. Glowing mushrooms float like eyeballs, alongside bright orange tubers and chunks of white meat falling off the bone with indecent tenderness. The rich, earthy smell carries a hint of cinnamon that makes my mouth water.

  “Look at that…” Chris breathes, his eyes wide, practically forgetting his bodyguard detail.

  Stalls are groaning under mountains of underground fruit. Clusters of glass grapes chime when touched. Stone-skinned melons require a hammer to crack open, revealing sweet, juicy, blood-red flesh. Green, spongy moss cakes are sprinkled with sparkling golden pollen.

  “It is the Festival of the Spore,” Nectarine whispers from under Kim’s tunic. “That is why there are so many people. It is the celebration of the fungal harvest.”

  I check out the crowd’s clothes. They’re wearing tunics woven from spider silk so fine it looks liquid, dyed in colors I didn’t think existed underground—deep indigos, vivid carmines, pale golds. The women wear polished insect chitin jewelry probably worth more than my life. The men sport supple reptile skin capes that shimmer depending on the angle of the light.

  Everything is beautiful. Rich. Alive.

  Musicians jam on the street corner using improbable instruments made of hollow shells and gut strings. They produce a percussion-free music born entirely of breaths and vibrations that resonate right in your sternum.

  It’s a mix of a giant Christmas market, a Middle Eastern bazaar, and the forest from Avatar.

  “It’s… it’s magical,” Kim admits, lowering her rifle slightly, captivated despite herself.

  I nod. I try to spot a flaw, but I have to hand it to the art team. “Yeah. Not bad.”

  I watch a fountain flowing with silvery liquid that kids are drinking by the cupful. “I have to admit the art direction is impeccable. The lighting, the details… It’s the kind of dream setting I spent years trying to replicate on my screens. Except here, it’s real. It’s the kind of city where you just want to blow all your gold to taste the local cuisine.”

  I turn to Nectarine, who’s making herself as small as possible under Kim’s tunic. “Your people live in a five-star underground resort while we fight in the mud upstairs. It’s downright indecent.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  She doesn’t answer, but I see her violet eyes scanning the crowd with absolute terror. In the middle of this festival, this abundance and joy, she’s the only discordant note. A hunted princess terrified of her own subjects.

  “We’re not lingering,” I order, tearing my gaze away from the glazed worm skewers. “If we stay here, I’m going to end up robbing a food stall and it’ll end badly for diplomacy.”

  Nectarine nervously tugs at Kim’s sleeve, hiding her face under her improvised hood. “Too many people… Too many people…” she murmurs, on the verge of a panic attack. “If a royal guard sees me, it is the end. We must disappear.”

  She points to a building set slightly back from the main artery. It’s a massive structure built from heavy blocks of black stone. Its curved, polished walls make it look like a posh bunker or a giant dark pebble resting on the ground. Round windows glow with a warm light. A wooden sign depicting a mug and a moon hangs above the door.

  “Over there,” she whispers. “The Moonlight Inn. It is a discreet establishment for travelers and merchants. We can get a room and hide until the crowd disperses.”

  I look at the sign. I look at the joyful crowd. I look at my muddy boots. “An inn, a bed, and potentially a bar?” I say. “Princess, that’s the first sensible thing you’ve said since we pulled you out of that cage.”

  “Let’s go,” Kim agrees, looking just as uncomfortable as Nectarine in the middle of this Minimoon tide.

  We push our way through the festival, ignoring the calls of vendors and musicians, until we reach the massive oak doors of the inn.

  I place my hand on the handle. “We keep a low profile, grab a suite, and we don’t come out until tomorrow,” I instruct.

  I push the door open. The hubbub of the street cuts off, immediately replaced by the hushed murmur of conversations and the smell of mushroom beer. The outside was a magical festival. The inside is a straight-up cutthroat den.

  The Inn looks like a furnished bunker, miles away from the surface’s luxury. The room is massive. Its heavy, raw black stone walls seem to literally absorb the light. The air is thick with a purple, eye-stinging smoke spewing from weird water pipes sitting on every table. You can barely see two meters ahead. The only illumination comes from large orange orbs hanging from rusted chains, giving everyone a sickly, jaundiced look.

  And what a clientele. The place is packed to the rafters. Not a single square inch is free. Massive stone tables are cluttered with metal mugs overflowing with greenish foam. It reeks of stale beer, strong tobacco, and the collective sweat of a thousand travelers who haven’t seen a shower in weeks.

  Over a large fire in the center of the room, a large six-legged lizard turns on a spit. Its fat drips into the flames with a loud sizzle that barely covers the bursts of loud voices.

  The vibe is completely different here. The joyful crowd has given way to mercenaries and scarred mugs. We’ve hit the rough part of town. Soldiers covered in scars, mercs playing dice with real bones, and hooded types exchanging shady packages under the tables.

  You get the distinct feeling a bar fight could break out over a sideways glance.

  “Uncle Ben…” Chris whispers, sticking close to my side. “I’m not sure we’re safer in here than outside.”

  “Keep your hand on your sword,” I whisper back. “And don’t look anyone in the eye.”

  I regret this already. Outside, we risked getting recognized. In here, we risk getting stabbed over a pair of boots. It’s the kind of joint where you walk in for a drink and leave feet first.

  We push our way through the room, dodging waitresses balancing heavy trays loaded with black stew.

  Suddenly, the sharp crack of breaking glass rings out to our left.

  Around a large round table in the darkest corner, a group has cleared a wide berth. Five of them. They’re Minimoons, but way bigger and more massive than the average ones outside. They’re wearing studded black leather gear, their pale faces covered in tribal tattoos.

  Their leader sits dead center, his boots kicked up on the table. He’s missing half an ear. He holds a black dagger, rhythmically stabbing it into the wood right between the splayed fingers of a poor merchant shaking in his boots.

  The leader laughs. A greasy, vicious laugh. He snatches the purse of the merchant and dumps it onto the table. Gemstones scatter everywhere.

  “That’s the protection money, friend,” he growls. “You wanna sell your turnips in my sector? You pay.”

  He gives the merchant a hard flick on the forehead, sending him tumbling backward out of his chair while his henchmen laugh. Nobody else in the inn moves an inch. Nobody looks. They’re terrified.

  I zero in on the leader’s face. Scar over the left eye, gold tooth, psychopath stare. Future problem identified.

  “Don’t stop,” I tell Kim, who already has her hand resting on her knife. “Not our fight.”

  We reach the bar, a massive slab of polished stone. Behind it stands an elderly Minimoon built like a tank, wiping a glass with a highly questionable rag.

  She sizes us up with a critical eye. “What do you want, Surfacers?” she barks. “If you’re looking for a fight, take it outside. If you’re gonna puke, use the bucket.”

  I don’t answer right away. It’s all well and good to have a virtual balance floating on a holographic screen, but down here, cash is king.

  I swipe my hand to open my inventory. I spot my Cosmic Gold counter in the bottom right corner. There’s a small button right next to it: [Materialize].