Quickly pausing where the tunnel had collapsed, I weighed my options.

  The path we had walked only moments before was sealed tight, stone and broken timber packed together where the ceiling had given way. Somewhere beyond were Rob and Amelia. The exit and my freedom were close. Too close. I listened, straining for any sign, any hint of movement, but the earth had swallowed everything.

  I stepped closer and rested the blade against the fallen rubble, expecting the same help the sword had given me before.

  Nothing happened.

  I pressed the sword harder against a large rock, urging it to help.

  “C’mon,” I muttered in frustration. “Crumble it all down.”

  A tight sensation brushed the back of my mind. Stone shifting under strain. Supports bending. The weight of the tunnel pressing down, ready to crush me. The feeling passed quickly, leaving my breath short and my chest tight.

  I lowered the sword.

  “Alright,” I murmured. I got the message. “So, we can’t go this way.”

  Which meant only one way to go. I turned away from the collapse and continued alone. The tunnel answering each footstep with a soft, hollow echo. The blade’s flame guttered just enough to keep the dark at bay, painting the stone ahead in weak, trembling light.

  I tried to press the blade for answers. A thought. A question. Nothing. No response beyond the low hum in my bones. Whatever it had done back there, breaking apart the stones, burning the Spriggans, it had taken effort. Now it felt distant, withdrawn, as if conserving what little it had left.

  Left to myself, my thoughts spiralled.

  Every time the sword showed me something, or acted on its own, the pressure of the curse eased, just a fraction. It never vanished, but it felt lighter, as if something was being drawn out of me. The moment I let go of the sword, the pain surged back, sharper and harder than before.

  The curse was feeding the blade. There was no denying that now.

  The flame told a different story. It no longer reached as far down the tunnel. With each step, the light thinned ever so slightly.

  I slowed and lifted the sword, watching the rune pulse.

  That settled something in my mind. The flame was fading, but the rune held fast. That meant the rune was permanent, the borrowed power was not.

  A quiet sensation followed the thought. Not words. Not instruction. Just a steadying warmth of reassurance along my forearm, brief and restrained, like a hand resting there before pulling away.

  I kept moving. I was learning at least.

  “Maybe someday I will be an aspirant…” I chuckled to myself. Yet I did feel that this particular style of learning was a little bit more brutal that the others, but I hadn’t come this far to fold. Fifteen years of waking up in pain, of learning how to move through the world while my own body tried to tear itself apart, hadn’t been practice for quitting. Not now. Not when answers were finally within reach, even if I was buried a hundred feet underground.

  As I walked, I took stock. The habit was automatic, drilled in from years of being alone.

  No pack. No bandages. No food. No shield. No tools. I swallowed hard.

  Doyle was going to lose his mind.

  Assuming I lived long enough for him to do it.

  Other than that?

  Just the blade.

  My hand brushed the pocket at my side. The vial was still there. Intact. I rolled it between my fingers, frowning. The glass felt thicker than it should have been, cool, unmarked, uncracked.

  I sighed under my breath and kept moving, every step measured now. Careful.

  Id’ followed the other blindly. I’d been stupid. Reckless.

  But stopping wasn’t an option.

  A sound ahead tore me out of my thoughts.

  Not stone.

  Not wood.

  Metal.

  The scrape was slow and deliberate; a thin rasp dragged along the tunnel floor. I felt it in my teeth before I realised, I was holding my breath. My grip tightened around the sword, and I brought it up with both hands, angling the flame toward the noise.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Light spilled forward.

  Two dark, beady eyes caught the light.

  A spriggan larger than the rest waited just beyond the edge of the glow. Its frame was bent and uneven, shoulders hunched as if the stone itself had shaped it that way. Firelight slid across jagged teeth as its mouth pulled back. In one clawed hand it dragged a kitchen knife. The metal was dull with age, but the edge still caught the light. There was a rune on its blade.

  “Shit…”

  I moved before the thought finished forming.

  I lunged, thrusting the blade’s glow straight at its face. The light flared suddenly in the tight space. The spriggan hissed and threw an arm up, turning its head away

  I swung.

  The creature shifted with a sharp scrape of stone and my blade cut nothing but air. It struck the tunnel floor instead. Sparks burst up as metal bit rock, the impact rattling my arms all the way to the shoulder. My grip faltered. I tightened it fast, fingers burning as I held on.

  The spriggan was already beside me.

  Stone clicked under its feet as it darted past and slashed in the same motion. I pulled my leg back on instinct. The knife grazed my sock, sliced fabric, and split skin. Pain flared hot and sudden, sharp enough to steal my balance.

  I staggered and swung again.

  There was no plan this time. No aim. Just movement. The blade came around hard and wrong, catching the spriggan with the flat instead of the edge.

  The impact lifted it off the ground.

  It struck the wall hard enough to knock loose grit and dust, then stuck there.

  Clawed hands bit into the jagged stone and it scuttled upward, body folding tight against the tunnel roof. The knife stayed locked in its grip.

  For a moment, it did not move.

  Its head tilted. Firelight slid across its teeth as it sneered at me.

  Then it let go.

  I stepped back as it dropped. I swung fast, too early. The blade cut empty air and the spriggan fell, its eyes fixed on me ready to strike.

  The knife shifted in its hands.

  I grinned.

  I twisted my wrists and brought the blade back around, letting the feint stop short. The motion felt awkward, but it worked.

  The spriggan saw it too late.

  Its eyes widened and its body twisted mid-fall, claws scrabbling for space that was no longer there.

  The impact jarred my arms. Heavier than expected. Brief resistance. A sharp ring echoed through the tunnel as metal struck metal, followed by the dry crack of splitting wood.

  The knife shattered.

  The spriggan too.

  Sparks and splinters burst across the stone and skittered into the dark. I hauled the blade, breath scraping out of me.

  Behind me, the spriggan’s upper half still twitched weakly, claws scraping stone. I ended it with a quick, brutal stomp and turned my attention back to the blade.

  Three runes now glowed faintly along one side of the metal.

  On the other, alone and watchful, sat the holding rune.

  I swallowed.

  The sword felt different in my hands.

  Sharper.

  Hungrier.

  This is what it had meant. It wanted more. And I was eager to feed it.

  So, I pressed on.

  My confidence increased, while the urgency never left. The flame along the blade had already begun to shrink. It would not last. Whatever time I had was burning with it.

  As I walked, the sting in my leg dulled. Not gone, but softer, less insistent. I quickly brushed my fingers along my ankle. The skin didn’t scream at the touch. The cut had darkened, a thin crust already forming where fresh blood had been only moments ago.

  It wasn’t healed. Not properly. The skin still pulled when I moved and the scab was shallow, incomplete. But it should not have changed that fast either. Guessing it was one of the runes that had nudged it along.

  I let my hand fall away.

  That would help. Even a little.

  I kept moving.

  The next spriggan appeared after a few more steps, smaller shapes hunched low and clustered together.

  “How many of you little bastards.” I muttered under my breath. These ones had no weapons, no metal dragged behind them, only claws and clicking teeth. I did not give them time to think. The flare of the blade startled them, and I cut them down before they could react.

  It felt excessive. But time mattered more than mercy.

  Another shape shifted ahead.

  This one was larger, built heavier like the knife wielder before it. A bronze ring was wedged tight around its neck, skin grown around the metal. It swung a small medallion on a length of chain, the disk clattering against stone as it moved, turning the trinket into a crude flail.

  I tightened my grip and stepped forward.

  This one was ready for me.

  I tried to rush it the same way.

  The light flared. I stepped in hard.

  The spriggan slipped aside without effort, movement too smooth, too practiced. But I had done this dance before. So, I turned and blocked.

  The creature lunged with a shrill cry and whipped the medallion straight at my head. The chain cut through the air with a high whistle. I got the blade up just in time.

  The chain slid around the sword.

  Once.

  Then again.

  I turned my wrists, expecting the edge to chew through the links. Instead, the metal shrieked against metal and held fast. The blade skidded, trapped, the pressure vibrating up into my palms.

  The medallion spun again, dragged by its own momentum.

  Then it struck the blade.

  The sound was sharp and final. The disk burst apart in a flash of sparks and fragments. Heat rushed inward along the sword, brief and hungry. The chain dropped away and clattered at my feet.

  I kept my eyes on the spriggan.

  Another mark surfaced along the blade, dark and faint at first. I felt it before I fully saw it. The sword answered my hands more readily, the weight shifting as my wrists turned, the motion cleaner and quicker than before.

  The spriggan snarled and sprang back.

  It moved fast.

  Just not quite fast enough.

  The difference was slight, the kind you only notice once it is already too late. I stepped in and brought the blade down in a straight cut. The edge passed through skull, spine, and the bronze ring at its throat in one clean motion.

  Sparks leapt as the body split and fell. The pieces hit the stone and the tunnel went still.

  I lowered the sword and watched the flames steady along the metal.

  Six runes now. Four etched together on one side, uneven and faint, their presence familiar in a way I could not quite explain. On the other side, two sat closer together. One I recognised. The holding rune. The second was squared and quiet, offering nothing on its own.

  I turned the blade slightly, letting the glow slide across the markings.

  The cluster of four felt different. Each time one of those appeared, something subtle shifted in me. Not dramatic. Just enough to notice. The others stayed dormant, waiting, as if they belonged to a different set of rules altogether.

  I swallowed.

  If I ever made it out of here, I was going to need books. A lot of them.

  The thought barely finished forming before another memory surfaced. Amelia’s voice, steady and certain. These things swarm when there is treasure.

  I let out a dry breath and murmured to the blade, “Then maybe that’s our way out.”

  The sword hummed softly in my hands.