Alph ducked through the heavy canvas flap of the supply tent. Cavern air hit him; the chill sharpened against the oil-scented heat where Haldrix remained. He pulled his leather pack straps tight. The weight of the gear settled.

  Ahead, the staging area surged with movement. The disorganized tents and crates had coalesced into a singular, driving force. Hundreds of laborers and mercenaries flowed toward the basin’s center like filings drawn to a lodestone. Shouts for order and the clank of guard equipment echoed off the distant metal ribs; the sound swallowed the hiss of geothermal vents.

  Alph recognized Thorfin and Rugnir stationed near the thoroughfare's edge. Thorfin anchored the position, shield leaning against his leg, as Rugnir worked the crossbow's tensioning lever. Alph cut through the crowd and took position between them. Their eyes tracked the ruin gates—jagged teeth of brass humming with latent power.

  The crowd fell silent as Urengal mounted the dias. His monocle flashed in the torchlight. He lifted the rune-carved horn to his mouth, and his voice rolled through the cavern, magnified by the relic.

  "Today, we stand at the threshold of history itself!" His words echoed, sharp as a blade. "Beyond these gates lie the bones of our ancestors—their triumphs, their failures, their forgotten glory. The Age of Brass Colossi was not just a time of war. It was the crucible that forged Val Karok!"

  He swept an arm toward the ruins. "Here, the first runewrights bent metal to their will. Here, the Founders carved their names into the earth. And here, the secrets of our bloodline sleep, waiting to be unearthed!"

  His voice dropped, deliberate. "Some say the past should stay buried. I say the past demands to be remembered. Every rune, every relic, every shattered machine—it is ours. And we will take it back."

  The crowd roared. Alph felt the moment settle heavy against his ribs. This was no simple dig. It was a reckoning.

  The horn’s final note lingered, sharp and bare. Urengal adjusted his monocle. His voice dropped to a gravelly rumble.

  "Rules are simple. Each team picks an entrance. The ruins shift—paths close, new ones open. You’ll cross others. Rivalry dies at the threshold. This isn’t about guilds or gold. It’s about us." His finger stabbed toward the brass gates. "What we find belongs to Val Karok. Not to the fastest. Not to the strongest. To the dwarves who remember what it means to stand together."

  Thorfin snorted, low and derisive. He leaned in, breath hot against Alph’s ear. “Bureaucratic bullshit. Once those gates open, every team’s a competitor. First to schematics or dwarf gold? Finder’s keeper. No solidarity when the real prize’s on the line.”

  The strap of Alph’s pack dug into his palm as the crowd pressed forward, a living tide of greed and purpose. Then Haldrix appeared—shoulders hunched against the cold, beard rings pulsing faintly with agitation. Alph turned, meeting the old dwarf’s amber eyes.

  "Move," Haldrix said, already turning. "That entrance—the one with Vahl carved into the threshold. That’s ours."

  "Elder," Alph said, voice low but cutting through the murmur of the crowd, "if the paths inside change, why fixate on that entrance? President Urengal made it sound like any route could lead anywhere."

  Haldrix’s iron-gray braids rattled as he gave a sharp, knowing grin. "Lad, do you know what Vahl means in the old tongue? It means well. Even those who build shifting mazes leave a straight road to basic necessities. It will be hidden behind false routes, but we will find it. Now, move." He gestured toward the gate with his brass-plated arm.

  Alph nodded, falling in behind Haldrix. Thorfin and Rugnir flanked the elder dwarf as they approached the Vahl entrance—stone worn smooth by centuries. The moment they crossed, the portal flared with unnatural light. The world changed.

  Nylessa’s fingers twitched against the obsidian dagger’s hilt. The blade bit into her palm, sharp and real. Alph’s dark curls disappeared into the Vahl gate’s glow, swallowed by the ruins. Her breath caught.

  Damn it.

  She released the dagger, knuckles cracking.

  “Let’s move,” the dwarven mage growled, voice like rusted hinges. "We’re taking the Durn entrance. Less competition."

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Nylessa nodded. She followed the group to the Durn entrance.

  Separate first. Then find him.

  The Durn entrance gaped—a jagged maw of blackened brass, its runes sputtering like dying embers. The mage stepped through, staff carving eerie shadows. The fighter followed. Then the laborers, guild escorts, boots scraping ancient stone.

  Nylessa paused. One breath. Two.

  She stepped through.

  A single shadow flitted through the crowd, hugging the stone floor as it trailed them unseen by anyone. It reached the blackened brass entrance and vanished into the dark.

  The assassins stood in front of the fissure's rusted brass teeth. The air carried the stench of old blood and ozone.

  Rowan's scarred jaw tightened. His greatsword rested on his shoulder, heavy as a vow. Nixy moved ahead, silent as shadow. Her twin blades caught the dim light, sharp and ready. Her ears flicked at the faint rustle of the deep dark.

  Geralt trailed behind, gauntleted fists flexing. His slow, deliberate gaze scanned for threats. Tarian lingered at the rear, heat radiating from his scaled form. Amber eyes fixed on the abyss where the earth pulsed like a festering wound.

  They crossed the threshold. Rough stone gave way beneath their boots, replaced by a shimmering rift reeking of dust older than memory.

  Rowan stepped through first, his frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the writhing light. Nixy flowed after him, fingers curling around hilts. Geralt's footsteps cracked like snapping bones. Tarian followed, scales rasping like flint, the air distorting around his smoldering body.

  Inside, darkness thickened. Nixy's fingers twitched. She felt the shadows; they were her domain as an Umbral Cutpurse. She knew her next move.

  The contract demanded Tier 2 or higher expedition members dead. Here, where magic hummed in the air and walls breathed secrets, she worked better alone.

  Nixy exhaled, slow and controlled. Then she melted into the dark.

  One moment, she was there. The next, she wasn’t.

  Geralt’s gaze flicked to the space where Nixy had been. A flicker of irritation crossed his face, but he didn’t call out. Didn’t slow. The others wouldn’t notice her absence for minutes, maybe longer. And by then, it wouldn’t matter.

  He had his own targets.

  The Runewrights.

  His fingers curled into fists, the heavy gauntlets groaning under the pressure. The Society had taken everything from him—his labor, his dignity, his future. They had kept him on the fringes, close enough to taste the knowledge but never let him drink. And when he had finally awakened as a Fighter, they had tried to bury him again.

  He wouldn’t be buried.

  Geralt turned away, heading deeper into the ruins. The Society’s teams would flock inward, drawn like moths to flame. He would be there when they arrived.

  Rowan’s grip tightened on his greatsword. The ruins stretched before him, a labyrinth of brass and stone, the air thick with the scent of old magic. He had expected resistance. He had expected targets.

  He had not expected silence.

  He glanced back to see Geralt leaving and Nixy already gone. He didn't call for stop. He had no need. He turned to the Lizardfolk who was sizing him up in silence.

  Rowan’s grip tightened on his greatsword. "Leaving? To hunt alone, lizard?" His voice was steel dragged across stone.

  Tarian’s amber pupils constricted, flicking toward the tunnel. "My terms differ. Our paths don’t entangle—yet."

  Rowan barked a laugh, the sound cutting short. "Spare me the lies. When they do, your reputation won’t shield you. I’ve gutted men faster than you scum burn your kills." The blade shifted in his hands, a silent challenge. "Go. Test your scales elsewhere."

  Tarian’s tail lashed against the stone, a slow, deliberate crack. A hiss escaped the lizardfolk, the sound vibrating between fury and concession. He turned and vanished into a dark tunnel, his heavy form dissolving into the black mouth of the maze.

  “Worst contract. Worst team.” Rowan muttered, shoulders rolling as he chose a new tunnel. No scouts. No eyes. Mana haze dulled his senses, leaving him blind in the stone labyrinth.

  Damn, that half-goblin should have been a boon here. But she had to go off like a loose cannon.

  Tarian moved through the tunnels, tongue flicking, tasting heat in the air. His goal wasn’t the contract. It never was. Advancement to Tier 4 demanded geothermal vents, mana-saturated stone — the ruins offered both. The bounty? A convenience. Coin mattered less than the climb. Let the human and the half-goblin chase ghosts. I’ll be the one who emerges changed.

  Tarian never considered Rowan or the others teammates. They were fellow travelers, nothing more. Now at the crossroads, their paths diverged as expected. He had sensed it. The human reeked of the Lord of Light’s worship and despised demihumans. That he’d tolerated them this long was a miracle. Tarian swore he’d show the human how the wilds worked—once he reached Tier 4 and stood equal to that arrogant fool.