Chapter 42: Descent into the City

  Consciousness returns gradually. My eyes open to a transformed landscape. The dual moons have shifted significantly since I last checked, with the blue one now touching the horizon while the amber hangs high and bright, painting everything in bronze and shadow. But it's what the receding tide has revealed that captures my attention.

  More of the sunken city rises from the mud like a drowned corpse finally surfacing. Structures that were completely submerged yesterday now stand partially exposed, their weathered surfaces glistening with residual moisture. Walkways connect buildings that seemed isolated before, creating a labyrinth of stone pathways through shallow channels, revealing the full scope of what this place once was.

  A proper city. Not just scattered ruins, but an organized metropolis with streets and squares and civic architecture that speaks of a very advanced civilization.

  My curiosity almost compels me to explore every building and document every discovery.

  I push myself into a sitting position, finally taking inventory of my condition. The torn scales have finished regrowing, leaving only faint silvery scars where the Reinforced Musculature transformation had literally ripped through my skin. The deep bruising has faded to barely visible discoloration. Even the persistent muscle tremors are gone, replaced by a solid sense of strength.

  While I’m not at full capacity yet, I can certainly say that I'm functional again.

  My hand moves unconsciously to my chest, feeling for the core stone's pulse. It's there, stronger than before my evolution. Larger too, I think, though still far from the one on Hynnal's gauntlet or in Magba's pouch.

  Around me, the others are stirring. Gorvash sits nearby, his splinted arms resting carefully in his lap. The warrior's copper scales have regained their luster, and when he catches my eye, that familiar grin appears.

  "Brother," he rumbles. "You look less like a dead lizardling today."

  "High praise," I reply, but I'm smiling too.

  Kor'ik moves among the scattered supplies with his characteristic efficiency. The Bog Goblin stays close to him, those bulging yellow eyes darting nervously at every shadow. The small creature hasn't fully recovered from the trials' trauma, and I can't blame it.

  Thrak'zul maintains his position near the platform's edge, the improvised crutch supporting his weight. Despite the broken leg, his posture radiates alertness. Whatever training he received, it included the discipline to remain stoic even when injured.

  Movement from the Gnolls' section draws my attention. Hynnal has gathered his warriors in a loose circle while barking instructions sharp with authority and command.

  The pack leader is planning something. And whatever it is, we'll surely be dragged along whether we like it or not.

  "Now," Thrak'zul's voice cuts through our quiet preparation, pitched low enough that only our group can hear.

  I glance toward the Gnolls. They're still gathered around Hynnal, focused on their leader's instructions. This might be our last chance for a private conversation.

  We gather in a loose circle near the platform's edge, positioning ourselves to look like we're simply resting while keeping watchful eyes on our captors. Gorvash settles beside me, Kor'ik and the Bog Goblin on my other side, with Thrak'zul completing the circle.

  He shifts his weight on the crutch, those intelligent eyes sweeping our circle. "Must discuss... the marks."

  My hand moves unconsciously to my forehead, where the magical symbol pulses with faint warmth. "What can we do about them?"

  He pauses before answering. "Said before, it's old magic. Blood magic. Master dies... slaves follow."

  Gorvash growls low in his throat, a sound of pure frustration. "So we keep bastard alive? Even if he throws us to our death?"

  "Yes." Thrak'zul's mouth curves into what might be a bitter smile. "Survival... requires brand owner breathing."

  “And isn’t there any way to remove the brands? Any counter-magic or ritual." I ask, still grasping at any potential straw.

  "Not here," Thrak'zul replies. "Need... specialist. Someone who understands... old magic." He pauses, seeming to struggle with the unfamiliar language. "Even then... dangerous. Wrong method... still die."

  "Perfect," I mutter. "So we're trapped."

  "For now," Gorvash agrees. 'But there must be anohter way. Always is."

  I look at the warrior, noting the determination in his copper eyes. "What are you thinking?"

  "What if we just cut his arm off?" Gorvash gestures with his head toward Hynnal's gauntleted limb. "Magic is in the mark, yes?"

  It's a brutal solution, but it has a certain logic. If the connection is purely in the magical brand.

  Thrak'zul considers this, his expression thoughtful. "Possible. But... risky." He flexes his webbed hands, clearly working through the implications. "If wrong... all die. And Hynnal would know. Would fight."

  "Could we knock him out first?" I suggest, already running through scenarios. "Surprise attack, render him unconscious, then sever the connection before he can activate the marks?"

  "Maybe." Thrak'zul doesn't sound convinced. "But his warriors... would defend. And gauntlet..." He gestures toward where Hynnal stands, the artifact's chains writhing around his forearm. "Unknown power. Could protect him. Could alert him. Could... many things."

  Kor'ik's throat sac pulses rapidly. "There's also the issues of distance. Even if severing the arm works, what if the mark has a maximum distance? If we separate from Hynnal too far, does the magic interpret that as betrayal? Does it trigger?"

  "Don't know," Thrak'zul admits, and the honesty in those words is somehow more frightening than a definitive answer.

  We fall into thoughtful silence, each of us weighing the impossible variables. The mathematical certainty of death if Hynnal dies versus the unknown probability of death if we try to break free.

  "We need more information," I say finally. "About the marks, about the magic, about what triggers them, before we risk any..."

  "Hynnal is moving," Thrak'zul's warning suddenly interrupts me, his gaze snapping toward the Gnolls.

  Unfortunately, it appears we have neither the time nor the source of knowledge to deal with it here.

  We immediately break our circle, just slaves catching their breath before the next march.

  But we all know better. We've taken the first steps toward actual coordination, real cooperation beyond just surviving the immediate threat.

  But it's not freedom. Not even close.

  "Move out!" Hynnal's bark cuts through the morning air, sharp and commanding.

  The universal signal that rest time is over.

  Around me, everyone scrambles to gather what little we have. The Gnolls shoulder their weapons with practiced efficiency, falling into a loose formation around their leader. We slaves cluster at the rear.

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  The march begins immediately, no warm-up or stretching period. Just the expectation that we'll keep pace or be “left behind” for good.

  We descend from our platform into the transformed landscape. What was underwater yesterday now requires walking, climbing, navigating through a maze of partially submerged structures and shallow channels. The bioluminescent coral that gave everything an ethereal glow at night is dying now, exposed to air and morning light. Its colors fade from vibrant blues and purples to a dull, sickly phosphorescence.

  These organisms evolved for darkness and submersion, their entire biology dependent on environmental conditions that no longer exist. By tonight, they'll be dead. By tomorrow, they'll be rotting. Another casualty of the changing tides.

  But then, that's how evolution works, isn't it? The environment shifts, and those who can't adapt die. The ones flexible enough to survive pass their genes forward. Probably by the next cycle, the city will be teeming with them again.

  The architecture continues to fascinate and disturb in equal measure. We pass through what must have been a grand plaza, its floor paved with that same impossibly smooth stone that seems to resist erosion.

  Doorways tower overhead, easily three times my height and whatever species built this place must have been enormous. Or maybe, like everything else in these ruins, the proportions follow rules that shouldn't apply to normal reality.

  Windows spiral rather than sitting at right angles. Support columns twist in ways that should collapse under their own weight but somehow remain standing. The marbled surfaces catch the light at angles that create shadows in multiple directions.

  "This place makes head hurt," Gorvash mutters beside me, carefully navigating a fallen column with his arms held protectively against his chest.

  "Mine too," I admit.

  "Did they use Magic?"

  "Maybe.” Or mathematics so advanced it might as well be magic." I run my claws along a wall as we pass, feeling the perfect smoothness despite obvious age. "This civilization knew things we've forgotten. Or things we never knew to begin with."

  Kor'ik moves closer, drawn by our conversation despite his usual wariness. "The before-times," he says quietly. "My people have legends. Stories about when the gods walked among mortals, when magic flowed like water, when cities rose from thought alone." His throat sac pulses. "Most elders dismiss them as primitive mythology. But standing here... I wonder."

  "Wonder what?"

  "If we're the primitives," he says simply. "If everything we've built is just children playing in the ruins of something greater."

  He doesn't even know how correct he is. I come from a much more technologically advanced civilization and humanity seems near archaic next to this.

  What if all our wars and civilizations and evolutionary struggles are just echoes of something that came before? Something that created these impossible structures and then vanished, leaving only their monuments behind?

  We continue through the transformed cityscape, following Hynnal's determined pace. The pack leader moves with clear purpose, some instinct that guides him toward a specific location.

  The water level continues to drop as we progress. Channels that were impassable days ago now allow wading. Structures completely submerged before now emerge like drowned corpses finally surfacing. With each step, we're descending deeper into the city's heart.

  The air changes gradually. The familiar rot and decay of the marsh gives way to something else. Colder, drier, carrying hints of stone dust and ancient spaces long sealed from the outside world.

  Then we see it.

  The temple rises from the shallow water ahead, partially submerged but unmistakably intact. Unlike the weathered ruins around it, this structure maintains clear definition. Columns still support the roof. Walls stand without significant collapse.

  The decorative elements are still visible, including an enormous statue that guards the entrance. This strange figure is balancing in only one leg, and has eight arms spread out, each holding a different sphere with various glowing patterns.

  It's been protected somehow. Preserved by magic or simple fortune, standing as it did before the city sank.

  Hynnal stops at the water's edge, studying the temple with obvious calculation. His gauntleted hand flexes, the chains writhing as if sensing proximity to something significant.

  The Gnolls begin organizing themselves into an entry formation. Weapons drawn, senses alert, moving with the practiced efficiency of experienced raiders. Still, there is also an awe in their expressions.

  But then Hynnal does something unexpected. He turns toward us, his amber eyes sweeping across the gathered slaves. When he speaks, his voice make my scales crawl.

  Kor'ik's translation confirms my suspicions. "He says... the slaves will scout the temple first. Test for traps. Clear the entrance."

  Of course. As always, why risk valuable warriors when you have disposable slaves?

  One of the Gnoll hunters approaches the Bog Goblin with predatory focus. His words are harsh, punctuated by gestures toward the temple's submerged entrance.

  The small creature backs away, chittering in distress. It knows what's being asked and the danger.

  The hunter's patience evaporates. He reaches for the Goblin with clear intent to force compliance.

  I take a step forward before consciously deciding to move. My hand rises, not threatening but intercepting. "Wait."

  The hunter's yellow eyes snap to me. His lips pull back from his teeth in a silent snarl. Behind him, the other Gnolls tense, sensing potential confrontation.

  Then Hynnal's voice cuts through the tension. A single bark of command that needs no translation.

  The hunter steps back, though his expression promises future retribution. He gestures toward the temple with one clawed hand, the meaning clear: Go scout. Both of you.

  I meet Gorvash's eyes across the distance. The warrior looks like he wants to protest but he stays silent, trusting my judgment even when it leads into obvious peril.

  "Be careful, brother," he says quietly.

  "Always try to be."

  It's a lie, and we both know it.

  The Bog Goblin and I approach the temple's edge together. The water here is clearer than the marsh proper, allowing visibility down to perhaps ten feet. I can see the entrance, a large archway descending into darkness, its threshold maybe six feet below the surface.

  "Ready?" I ask the Goblin, though I know it can't understand my words nor I can understand his. The tone seems to communicate enough, because it nods, those bulging eyes reflecting both fear and determination.

  We wade into the water together. The cold hits first, then the depth. By the time we reach the temple's entrance, the water is chest-high on me, completely submerging the smaller Goblin.

  The creature dives with practiced ease, its webbed hands and feet propel him downward with surprising speed. I take a final breath and follow, my enhanced Lizardman physiology adapting quickly to the aquatic environment.

  The entrance tunnel descends at a steep angle, the walls covered in more of those geometric carvings that hurt to perceive directly.

  The Goblin leads the way with confidence born of natural adaptation. Its species evolved for this, their entire biology optimized for aquatic exploration. I struggle more, my Lizardman body stronger but less graceful in the water.

  The tunnel levels out after maybe twenty feet, opening into what appears to be an antechamber. Faint light filters through from somewhere above. Another opening, perhaps, or bioluminescent organisms that survived in this sealed environment.

  I surface, gasping for air, and immediately assess our surroundings.

  The circular chamber features two rings. A central ring and an outer one. The inner one is dominated by seven enormous stone thrones arranged around the circle while the outer one is lined with numerous smaller benches along the walls. Both the thrones and the benches appear to be carved directly from the same stone that forms the chamber floor.

  In the far back stands the arc with its shimmering dark portal, much similar to the ones from the other trials.

  The Bog Goblin surfaces beside me, its chittering taking on an exploratory quality as it scans the space. Nothing appears immediately threatening, but that means nothing in these ruins.

  I'm about to go forward and explore ahead when the water behind us explodes.

  Something massive breaks the surface with devastating force. I catch a glimpse of green-grey skin, thick as tree bark, and curved tusks before survival instinct overrides analysis.

  "GO!" I shout at the Goblin, shoving it toward the far wall.

  A blade larger than my torso cleaves the water where we'd been floating. The weapon continues its arc, smashing into the stone wall with enough force to crater the ancient surface.

  The Bog Goblin's scream is cut short as the backswing catches it across the chest. Blood sprays across the water, the small creature's body ragdolling from the impact before splashing down.

  I don't even have the time to see if it's alive or dead, immediately diving and swimming desperately for the tunnel entrance and an escape route.

  But behind the thrones more figures emerge dashing toward us. The ambush was perfect, timed for when we'd be most vulnerable.

  A massive hand closes around my leg. The grip is unbreakable, crushing, and I feel scales tear as I'm yanked backward through the water.

  I break the surface gasping, face to face with the same Marsh Orc who challenged Hynnal before, with shoulders like boulders and tusks that curve wickedly from his lower jaw.

  But it's what he carries that makes my blood run cold.

  A halberd. Massive, cruel, designed for war rather than hunting. A dark, diamond-shaped gemstone pulses with an inner light, embedded in the shaft of the weapon.

  Another artifact. Another piece of before-times magical power.

  The Orc's small eyes bore into mine with calculating intelligence. When he speaks, his voice is like grinding stones, but the contempt is universal.

  He raises the halberd, the gem flaring bright, and brings it down toward my head.