The cart’s wheels groaned as the tunnel walls fell away, the rhythmic click-clack of iron on stone dissolving into a hollow, echoing rumble. The air thickened, pressing against Alph’s skin like a damp, grease-slicked blanket. The scent of ozone and scorched brass clawed into his lungs, sharp enough to make his eyes water.

  Then the basin opened before them.

  The cart lurched as the ground sloped downward, the weight of the mountain’s shadow crushing the breath from Alph’s chest. Brass ribs—each one wider than a longship’s mast—jutted from the rock like the petrified bones of some long-dead leviathan. They curved upward, vanishing into the darkness where the ceiling should have been, their surfaces blackened by centuries of soot and the slow drip of mineral-rich water. The air hummed, a low, resonant thrum that vibrated through Alph’s teeth, the sound of dormant machinery still clinging to life.

  Thorfin exhaled, the sound half-laugh, half-growl. “By the Forge, it never gets old.” His voice boomed, bouncing off the ribs like a hammer striking an anvil.

  Thorfin’s gauntleted fingers slammed against the cart’s edge, the wood groaning under the impact. “Still standing,” he barked, voice rough with pride. “After all these damn years. That’s our ancestral craftsmanship, boy. Real craftsmanship.”

  Rugnir said nothing. His fingers drummed against his thigh, his sharp eyes scanning the darkness beyond the ribs. The cart’s lanterns cast long, wavering shadows, turning the basin into a shifting maze of light and gloom. Alph followed his gaze, but the deeper he looked, the more the ribs seemed to multiply, stretching into the void like the bars of some impossible cage.

  Haldrix shifted beside him. His articulated brass arm whirred as he tightened the leather straps of his satchel. “Ah, the Wound,” he murmured, his voice thick with excitement. “Still breathing. Still alive.” He turned to Alph, his amber eyes gleaming. “Feel that, boy? The weight of it? That’s not just rock above us. That’s history.”

  Alph remained silent. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the wooden seat; the grain dug into his palms. The ribs loomed ahead, pitted and scarred, where ancient battle marks scored the metal surfaces. He braced for the mountain to shift, for the ribs to groan under the strain and the entire basin to collapse inward like a lung exhaling its last breath.

  A speck. That’s all he was. A speck in a graveyard of giants.

  The cart rolled into a staging area. Dwarves scurried across the uneven ground, clutching steam-powered drills and iron picks. Demihuman and human scouts traced lung-sized maps, their eyes darting between the parchment and a dozen cavern maws that pierced the stone wall for several hundred meters.

  The cart’s wheels locked with a metallic shriek. Dust settled like a shroud over the staging area as Haldrix swung down, his brass arm whirring with the motion. Alph followed, boots crunching on loose gravel. Rugnir moved to the front, his lean frame falling into place beside Thorfin’s broad bulk. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, silent, their presence alone a statement.

  Two figures emerged from the crowd.

  The first—a lanky dwarf with a monocle perched over one sharp eye—walked with the measured stride of a man who had spent a lifetime balancing ledgers and lives. His balding pate gleamed under the lantern light, the remaining strands of blonde hair combed back with precision. A crooked nose and a short, pointed beard gave him the air of a scholar who had seen too much and forgotten nothing.

  Beside him, Morna’s boots struck the ground with deliberate force. Her auburn braids swung like pendulums, her grey eyes locked onto the cart. Expectation tightened her jaw, her calloused hands flexing at her sides.

  The lanky dwarf’s monocle flashed as he turned, his sharp eyes locking onto Haldrix. “Ah, the madman himself,” he said, his voice dry as parchment. “Still breathing, I see.”

  Haldrix’s beard rings pulsed faintly, the gold threading glowing like embers. “And you, Urengal—still counting other people’s gold instead of digging up your own.”

  Alph's watched as he settled behind Haldrix. He recognized this type of greeting. The old men clasped each others hands as thin smile coated their lips.

  A laugh, sharp, cut through beside them.

  Thorfin’s laugh boomed, shaking the air. "Morna. Didn’t think we’d see you here."

  Her boots ground into the gravel as she moved forward, eyes darting between them before landing on the space beside Haldrix. "Where’s Varrick?"

  Rugnir leaned against the cart and crossed his arms. "Still holding the smithy together; or trying to."

  His fingers tapped against his forearm, quick and restless. "You look disappointed."

  Morna’s jaw tightened. “I’m not.”

  Thorfin's laugh rumbled. "Good to see you. Heard you got promoted—Chief Arrester of the Golden Streets. Cushy job, eh?"

  Morna scoffed. "Why? You want to try it? Bet you'd bolt by afternoon."

  Rugnir leaned in. "Nah. He'd get himself arrested for vandalism. Forced entry into some nobleman's parlor."

  They all laughed.

  Alph watched, silent. He recognized it as a meeting of Varrick’s former teammates. He suspected it when Varrick mentioned his old adventuring team members, and this confirmed it.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Urengal's gaze slid towards Alph, assessing him. "Who's this?"

  Alph met Urengal's gaze.

  Haldrix's brass arm whirred as he gestured. "Alph. My new assistant."

  Urengal’s monocle caught the light. "Assistant? Or just another stray you’re dragging into that sinking ship of a smithy?"

  Haldrix’s brass fingers twitched. "My boy handles it fine."

  "Does he?" Urengal’s voice sharpened. "Guild’s been breathing down my neck again. Third complaint this month. You keep turning them away, and Varrick’s the one drowning in the fallout."

  Haldrix’s gaze turned distant, his amber eyes reflecting the lantern light. He waved a dismissive hand. “We’re not here to discuss the smithy. When can we enter the ruins?”

  Urengal sighed, his shoulders slumping. “The excavation will take another two days. We need to uncover all the entrances before anyone goes in. After that, you’ll be allocated an escort—”

  “No escort,” Haldrix cut in, his voice firm.

  Urengal’s eyes widened. “Haldrix, be reasonable. The ruins are unstable, the mana flow inside is already erratic, and we don’t know what’s down there.”

  Haldrix’s jaw set. “I didn’t come here for a mercenary escort. I have my own.” He pointed to Thorfin and Rugnir. “My assistant helps with everything else,” he said, indicating Alph. “I don’t need your men.”

  Alph watched the exchange. Thorfin and Rugnir stood silent, their expressions unreadable. Morna's fingers twitched, ready to intervene.

  Urengal pinched the bridge of his nose, the monocle flashing as he tilted his head. "By the Stonemother, you're a stubborn fool." His voice dropped, the words grinding out between his teeth. "Fine. For your mentor's sake, I’ll allow it. You get in on opening day—no sooner." His finger stabbed the air between them. "Clear?" Urengal asked. "I catch a whisper of you sneaking in early, and I'll revoke your project's material allocation."

  Haldrix nodded, satisfied.

  Urengal’s voice cut through the damp air, his monocle glinting. "Morna, Take them to the resting area." His fingers drummed his belt buckle like a hammer.

  Morna exhaled sharply, her breath cutting through the cavern’s damp chill.

  “Let’s move,” Morna said. She stopped before Haldrix. “Uncle Haldrix, follow me. I will take you to the others.” She jerked her chin toward the side where several supply tents were pitched.

  Haldrix's eyes softened at seeing Morna, he nodded and signaled Alph and others to unload the cart.

  Alph hesitated, then adjusted his pack and hauled a crate of runic chisels toward the designated supply tent. He bent to secure the canvas strap. A sharp prickle skittered down his spine, cold as a mountain spring. His ears rang with sudden, hyper-focused clarity. He straightened, his gaze cutting through the bank of venting steam from a nearby pressure-drill.

  Alph scanned the laborers and mud-caked mercenaries. He searched for a specific rhythm in the chaos, a familiar presence amid the industrial noise. The unease remained. A persistent, watching eye lingered, hidden within the cavern’s shifting layers of soot and brass. He could not pinpoint the silhouette, yet the intuitive itch remained.

  “Alph, quit daydreaming and move that crate,” Thorfin barked.

  Alph adjusted his grip, the weight of the crate grounding him as he disappeared back into the tent.

  The brass pipe groaned under Rook’s weight, its ancient metal protesting the shift of his boots. He crouched low, fingers brushing the pitted surface as his gaze swept the resting area below. Haldrix’s barked orders cut through the air as Alph, sweat-damp curls clinging to his brow, fumbled with crates. Nearby, a grizzled fighter and crossbowman stood—watchful, loose.

  Rook’s breath came slow, measured. No judgments. Just facts.

  His attention flicked to the shadows between the supply tents several paces to the left of them. Nylessa’s grey bob caught the dim lantern light as she leaned forward, her eyes locked onto the boy.

  Rook exhaled through his nose. At least she’s still hiding.

  He melted backward, the darkness swallowing him whole. The tunnel’s scaffolding creaked as he shifted, his boots silent on the rusted grates. A side passage yawned ahead, its mouth half-collapsed, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and old blood. He stepped into the void and let the shadows reclaim him.

  When he emerged, it was from a fissure in the rock above, his body pressed flat against the cave’s jagged ceiling. Below, a fire crackled, its orange glow painting four figures in stark relief.

  Rowan sat with his back to the wall, his scarred jaw tense as he tore into a strip of dried meat. Nixy lounged beside him, her long fingers toying with a dagger, her half-goblin ears twitching at some unseen sound. Tarian’s lizardfolk scales gleamed in the firelight, his vertical pupils narrowing as he sharpened a curved blade. Geralt, the dwarf, hunched over a sketch in the dirt, his broken nose casting a jagged shadow.

  Rowan*.* The Tyrant, he cursed under his breath. A butcher with a squire’s manners.

  Nixy. Quick hands, quicker tongue. She'd slit a throat for coin without hesitation, the strongest threat of all. Rook’s muscles locked. He willed the darkness to thicken around him, his breath shallow, his pulse a slow drumbeat in his ears.

  Tarian*.* The docks whispered about what he did to debtors in Gloomwater. Not just deaths—messages. Cruel to the fault, a silent fanatic.

  Geralt. The quietest of them. Get close enough and his hands moved with precision that made corpses of better men.

  Rook’s fingers curled into the stone. Of all the damn assassins…

  Rowan’s voice cut through the silence. He jabbed a thick finger at the dirt map. "Archeology Guild’s gathering their explorers here. That’s where our targets will be."

  Nixy flipped a gold coin across her knuckles. "My contacts in the slave pits say Crimson Fangs are running security. Tier 5 adventurers. Not worth the bloodbath."

  Tarian’s blade clattered against stone as he set it aside. "That bloodsucker leader of theirs will scent us before we get close. We go in through the side entrances. Once inside, the Titan’s interference will blind him."

  Rowan grunted. "Good. That’s the plan." His gaze locked onto Geralt. "And you—don’t go chasing after the Runewrights. They’re not with our targets. My guess? They’re already scouting other ways in."

  Geralt nodded in silence.

  The shadows clung to Rook like a second skin as he watched the assassins plot. Another complication. If Nylessa stepped into those ruins alone, the odds of their paths crossing would be slim—too slim. He needed to slip in unseen, keep her in his sight without her knowing he was there.

  His fingers twitched against the stone. Time to move.

  The tunnels swallowed him whole as he retreated, the damp air thick with the scent of old earth and rust. At least the assassins wouldn’t stir for two days. That gave him time. Time to rest. Time to plan.