Rowan broke the stale air of the maintenance shaft. His broad shoulders scraped shored-up timbers, forcing the wood to groan under the intrusion. He adjusted the matte-black hilt of his greatsword. Leather wrappings stank of bitter lye and old oil.

  "Quiet," Rowan said. His voice dragged across the stone. "Sound travels."

  "Planning again, Rowan?" Nixy asked.

  She darted behind him, a flicker of motion in the dim shaft. A gold coin tumbled over her knuckles, catching the faint light.

  "This isn't your team," she said. "We're here for the gold. Not your orders. The moment those gates show, I'm gone."

  Geralt snorted from the third position. He flexed his hands, thick fingers tracing the calloused ridges of his knuckles. Ten years watching runewrights from the dirt ended today. He intended to bury them in it.

  "She's right," the dwarf said. He exhaled a sharp breath, the scent of Fighter's Pit tobacco sour in the confined space. "My grudge against the Runewrights put me here. Your discipline doesn't interest me."

  Tarian hissed from the rear. Dark green scales rasped against the granite wall. He tasted the air, tongue flickering. The bickering meant nothing. His amber pupils locked onto heat signatures rising from the geothermal vents ahead. These weren't teammates. They were the loudest prey in the tunnel.

  Nixy softened her step. Her soles kissed the grit. The coin vanished into her sleeve. Her eyes locked on the bulging leather pouch at Rowan's hip, seams stretched taut around a dense weight. She edged closer. Fingers stretched, twitching with the muscle memory of a thousand successful lifts. The space between her hand and his belt evaporated.

  A guttural rumble vibrated through the silence behind her.

  Nixy stilled. She didn't turn. Her ears swiveled backward. Geralt loomed at her shoulder, gaze heavy on her wrist. No hand moved toward a weapon. He simply stood there, radiating the menace of a man who survived the Pit by waiting for mistakes.

  Nixy snatched her hand back. She tucked it into her cloak.

  Her lips peeled back. "Keep staring, stone-biter. Watch too close, and you'll wake up with a cold line across your throat before you finish your last breath."

  Geralt's stride held its rhythm. Boots struck stone with deliberate weight.

  "Try it," he said. The scarred ridge of his nose twitched. "You'll find no opening. I sleep with my eyes open and my back to the wall. You're just noise in the dark."

  "Keep the chatter short, you imbeciles," Rowan barked. "I already regret leading you clowns into the Undermantle."

  Geralt’s laugh cut through the damp air, sharp as a chisel on stone. "You? Lead us?" His flattened nose wrinkled. "Don’t make me laugh, boy. I carved my name into these tunnels before you even held a training sword."

  Nixy fell back. She sidled up to Tarian.

  "Hey, lizard," she whispered. "Why don't we team up? Let the stunties and humies fight. Demihumans should stick together. What d'you say?"

  Tarian flicked his tongue. Amber eyes slid toward her, unblinking.

  "No," he hissed. "Find another."

  Rowan planted his lead foot and pivoted. His heavy cloak snapped against his shins. He stood a full head taller than the rest, a wall of scarred muscle choking the narrow tunnel. He raised a hand, palm out.

  "Stop." Rowan's voice dropped to a rumble that shook the damp walls. "Every one of you, shut your mouths and listen."

  The group shifted. The air grew thick with wet granite and musky lizard hide. Rowan's eyes held a beat too long on each of them, assessing the volatile mix.

  Rowan’s boots scuffed stone as he turned, his cloak dragging against the damp wall. "One job. One bounty."

  His voice cut through the silence. "Killing blow on the expedition members. Coin goes to whoever lands it. That’s the contract."

  He let the words hang, heavy as the air in the tunnel.

  "Look at you." His gaze swept over them, sharp as a blade. "Tier 3. Tier 4. Not gutter brawlers. Not recruits."

  A beat of silence.

  "Fighting each other before we even catch their scent?" His lip curled. "Pathetic."

  Nixy leaned against the serrated rock wall. She picked at a long fingernail, but her restless energy died. Tarian's tail stopped its rhythmic thumping.

  Rowan’s finger jabbed toward Geralt. "You. Those hands—too steady for a brawler. You’ve spent years tracing runes, learning where they break. You’re the hammer."

  His gaze snapped to Nixy. "And you. Slip through cracks like smoke. No one hears you coming. You’re the ghost."

  Then Tarian. "Heat doesn’t slow you. Those scales, that hunger—you were born for this dark. You’re the hunter."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He exhaled, sharp and dismissive.

  Rowan’s fingers tightened around the greatsword strap. The leather groaned under his grip.

  "Perfect world?" His laugh was a dry crack. "We’d move like a blade. Flanks tight, strikes clean. But this?" He jerked his chin toward them. "Stubborn. Greedy. Broken. You’d rather choke on your own pride than follow a damn order."

  The strap settled with a final creak.

  "Loyalty? Cooperation?" His voice dropped, low and deliberate. "I don’t need it. Just don’t get in my way. Save your teeth for the expedition. Cross me, and I’ll put you down faster than you’d drop them."

  Geralt spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the tunnel floor. Wet. Final. He refused to look at Rowan. His focus remained on the jagged ceiling where a Mana-fed fungus pulsed with sickly violet light. His fingers drummed against the leather hilt of a short-handled maul.

  "Big talk for a man whose shadow is longer than his reach," Geralt said. He stepped forward, heavy boots grinding grit into granite. "I'll stay out of your way, human. Just make sure your knees don't buckle when the Titan's Wound starts screaming."

  Tarian hissed. The low vibration rattled the air. He pushed past Nixy, dark green scales gleaming like oiled obsidian under the fungal light. The lizardfolk offered no retort. He moved, body low and fluid, a predator reclaiming the lead. Vertical pupils fixed on the shimmering heat haze rising from the vents.

  Nixy watched them go. A jagged grin cut across her face. She flicked her gold coin one last time, catching it with a snap of her wrist.

  The silence of the Undermantle swallowed them.

  Morna's boots ground against the limestone outcrop. Her grey eyes traced the Undermantle’s yawning hollow. No mine shaft matched this scale. The ceiling vanished into swirling mist, thick with minerals; the cavern floor sprawled wide enough to swallow Val Karok whole. Ribs of seamless metal, each thick as a tower’s foundation, tore through the stone like the bones of something buried alive.

  Morna yanked the armor straps taut, fingers working with practiced precision. The Duskryn investigation had earned her this—two months babysitting a lanky dwarf in the Undermantle instead of hunting real criminals. Jurgen’s message was clear: Dig too deep, and you’ll be buried yourself.

  Her gaze snapped to the dig site. Brass palisades glinted under rune-lamps, caging a nest of runewrights swarming over buried metal. The mechanisms pulsed, their vibrations crawling up her spine like a warning.

  Gloom pressed against Morna's skin, heavy with the scent of ozone and the metallic tang of stale mana. The air tasted of rust. She adjusted her velvet hat, her fingers brushing the wand hilt at her belt. Contractors, mercenaries, and the Guild’s pet specialists swarmed the site, crawling over the relics like insects. Guarding the President was a simple task, yet her gaze drifted past the torchlight. In the dark, the shadows shifted and coiled.

  The scrape of polished boots announced Urengal’s approach before his voice cut through the hum of the dig site.

  “Chief Arrester.” His monocle glinted as he stepped beside her, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve been patient. More than I expected.”

  Morna didn’t turn. Her gaze remained fixed on the skeletal ribs of metal jutting from the rock. “Duty doesn’t require gratitude.”

  Urengal exhaled through his nose, a sound like steam escaping a cracked pipe. “Still sour about Jurgen’s orders, then?”

  Her fingers twitched toward her wand. The muscles in her jaw tightened before she forced them loose. “I should be working on cases, arresting culprits, not playing nursemaid to a dig site that’s already crawling with Tier 5 muscle.” She gestured toward the clustered mercenaries, their armor gleaming under the rune-lamps. “This is redundancy. A waste of manpower.”

  Urengal’s crooked nose wrinkled. “And yet, here you stand.”

  Morna said nothing. The shadows beyond the torchlight seemed to deepen.

  Urengal flicked his monocle into place. "Morna, you haven’t changed since the academy."

  Her eyes slitted. "Which Urengal am I speaking to? The President of the Archaeology Guild, or the old teacher?"

  A faint breath escaped him. "Why not both?"

  She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze. "Because one’s a man I’m ordered to guard. The other’s the man who taught me. The words I use for each won’t be the same."

  Urengal shook his head. "Alright, have it your way, my dear student." His gaze drifted back to the runewrights, their mythril drills humming as they bit into the rock. "Why the hostility with Jurgen? Your uncle’s always thought the best of you."

  Morna’s scowl twisted. "Yeah, and this is his way of showing it—shoving me off my job."

  Urengal clicked his tongue. "Do you not know, or are you pretending? The case was closed. The council found evidence the victim had used underhanded means to secure his noble title. We don’t condone that."

  Her sneer deepened. "And how’d he become noble in the first place, if not for your lot looking the other way?" She huffed. "Half the council’s old coots, one foot in the grave, doing what their clans tell them. The other half’s as corrupt as obsidian. Tell me, teacher—do you really think, without a councilor backing Duskryn Manor, that pig would’ve survived in the dark this long?"

  Urengal went quiet, his chin dipping toward his chest.

  Morna watched him, guilt needling her. "I’m not calling you one of them. But you let them do it. That makes you just as bad."

  He lifted his head. "I know. Still, bureaucracy isn’t black and white. When you left for the adventuring bands, I was relieved. I thought you’d never fit inside this rusted machine. Then you came back, dead set on joining the very thing you hate. Why?"

  Morna’s tongue stilled. Varrick’s face surfaced in her mind. She saw the flash of steel and the spray of grit from their days braving the wild. The memory of his final goodbye surfaced, his voice heavy with the weight of the Grimforge name as he turned back to the soot of the smithy.

  "I wanted to prove myself," she muttered, her gaze dropping to her calloused palms. "I was angry. I chose wrong."

  Urengal studied her, fingers tapping his knee. "Should’ve hitched with that Grimforge lad. Boy needed a solid hand at his back."

  A cough rattled his chest. "Speaking of which—your old crew’s on the way. Bringing your would-be father-in-law with them."

  Morna's head snapped up, her grey eyes wide with genuine surprise. How could he have known? The thought, sharp and sudden, pierced through her professional facade.

  Urengal grinned. "What, you thought this old teacher didn’t know about your love life? Back in the academy, it was all anyone talked about in the staff halls. We figured you’d end up together sooner or later."

  Morna's cheeks flushed, a vivid crimson clashing with her auburn braids. The dwarf's blunt reminder buckled her professional composure.

  "I… Teacher!" she stammered, her voice cracking as she struggled to reclaim her authority. "Do not tease me like that."

  She shifted, calloused fingers digging into her uniform.

  Urengal simply watched her through his monocle, his pointy blonde beard twitching with suppressed amusement. Morna looked away, unable to meet his sharp, knowing gaze.

  The air thinned, tension easing.