A sharp, rhythmic beeping echoed inside Del’s skull, a grating reminder that the Overmind had messages waiting for him. He clenched his jaw, irritation prickling at his frayed nerves. Now was hardly the time for system notifications.

  ‘I don’t have time right now, BB. Now fuck off and let me deal with more important shit than your nagging.’

  The beeping cut off instantly, almost as if startled by his outburst. A faint smirk twitched at the corner of his lips. ‘Now I really am imagining things.’

  Shaking off the distraction, Del scanned the cavern. Elara crouched near the ritual circle, her keen eyes fixed on the sigil carved into one of the captives’ chests. Her expression was unreadable, but the furrow in her brow suggested she was deep in thought, attempting to decipher whatever dark magic had been worked upon these people.

  The victims, mercifully, remained unconscious, their slack faces spared the horror of their own predicament. The sight did little to ease the weight pressing against Del’s ribs.

  Misty prowled along the cavern’s perimeter, her ginger fur a flickering blur against the dim light. Whatever she was searching for, Del had no doubt it made perfect sense to her.

  Paolo spoke quietly with the rest of the party, the low murmur of his voice blending with the faint crackle of dying embers. The scent of feldspar ointment lingered in the air, sharp and mineral-rich, a telltale sign of tending to wounds—burns, most likely.

  To his left, Jake knelt beside the man who had taken the brunt of the lightning bolt. Del watched as he placed a steady hand against the fallen warrior’s cheek, his face unreadable. A moment later, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the man’s lifeless form, a silent act of respect.

  A fresh wave of sombreness settled over Del’s lingering relief.

  ‘I don’t even know your name, but you were brave. You didn’t deserve to die.’

  The others had noticed. The weight of Jake’s gesture settled over them all, visible in the solemn set of their shoulders, the way their eyes lingered on the shrouded form. Del met Jake’s gaze and gave a single nod—a silent acknowledgement of their loss—before turning towards the tent.

  The mage’s corpse lay still where it had fallen, his cloak stripped away, leaving his body exposed to the flickering torchlight. Even in death, there was something… wrong about him. The sharp, narrow angles of his face, the beak-like nose, the precisely groomed goatee—it all added to a carefully curated image of menace.

  His black hair, still immaculate despite the battle, fell to his collar in sleek waves. His robes, fine cotton rather than the rough-spun linen of the villagers, reeked of wealth and arrogance.

  ‘What was this guy doing? Auditioning for the role of ‘classic villain’ or what?’

  Del’s gaze dropped to the mage’s hands. Rings adorned his fingers, each one humming with an undeniable aura of ether. He could feel it—subtle yet potent, the faintest tingle along his skin. Either he was getting better at sensing magic, or these were powerful artefacts.

  Best not to risk it. He left them untouched for now—Elara would know how to handle them when she was done freeing the captives.

  His attention shifted to the man’s belt. A fine leather pouch rested there, weighted with something substantial. Del unclipped it and slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘At the very least, this can pay for a proper burial for—' A frown creased his brow. ‘Damn it, why didn’t I ask everyone’s names?’

  Around the mage’s neck, a pendant gleamed, its ornate surface covered in intricate arcane symbols. The pulse of power emanating from it was stronger than the rings. Whatever it was, Del wasn’t about to test its properties here.

  Enough. There were still more pressing matters to attend to.

  Straightening, he turned towards the tent. As he moved, his gaze met Merl’s. The warrior stood near Paolo, arms crossed, watching him with silent scrutiny.

  “Lots of weird magical shit on him,” Del said, jerking his chin toward the corpse. “Keep everyone away until Elara can be sure it’s safe.”

  Merl gave a short nod.

  Del exhaled, flexing his fingers before adding, “Then I figure it’s a choice between throwing him on the fire or leaving him outside for the scavengers.”

  Merl’s expression darkened, but he didn’t argue.

  The others had heard, too. Their anger at the mage’s atrocities had not faded, but now it mixed with a deeper exhaustion—a heavy sadness for those still bound in chains.

  There was still work to do.

  And no time to waste.

  Del stepped inside the tent, pushing aside the heavy canvas flap. The air within was warmer than outside, thick with the mingled scents of old parchment, candle wax, and something faintly metallic—blood, perhaps, or the harsh taint of alchemical residue. The tent was sturdier than it had looked from the outside, its interior well-kept, the chaos of the battle not reflected within these walls.

  The floor was layered with worn but clean rugs, the faint scent of dried herbs clinging to the fabric. The flickering light of an oil lamp cast shifting shadows along the canvas walls, making the space feel smaller than it was as if secrets themselves were lingering in the corners.

  To one side, a low camp bed lay neatly arranged, the sheets only slightly rumpled. It was simple but well-made—too refined for a roadside traveller, too precise for a common bandit. Whoever the mage had been, he had not expected to sleep rough.

  Opposite the bed, a modest collection of furniture was arranged with meticulous care. A small wooden table sat at the centre; its surface cluttered yet deliberate in its disarray. A meal had been abandoned there—crusted bread, cold slices of meat and cheese, all half-eaten, left in a way that suggested urgency rather than laziness. A glass, still partially filled with dark liquid, rested beside the plate.

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  Del lifted it, sniffing experimentally—then grimaced, his stomach twisting. ‘Not wine. Definitely not wine.’ He set the glass down, resisting the urge to wipe his fingers on his trousers.

  Beside the table stood a wooden chest, its lid firmly shut but lacking a lock. That was convenient. He hadn’t found a key on the mage’s corpse, and after the chaos of the fight, he wasn’t in the mood for puzzle-box theatrics.

  Even so, he approached it with caution. The paranoia of a life hard lived made him hesitate, fingers hovering above the lid before he finally exhaled and lifted it—ready to leap back at the first sign of danger.

  Nothing happened.

  No explosion. No spray of corrosive gas. No cursed spirits shrieking their way out of the woodwork.

  ‘Alright, maybe I am paranoid. No; I definitely am.’

  The contents were, at first glance, a collection of bottles and vials, carefully arranged in neat rows. The glass glistened in the lamplight, filled with liquids of varying colours and consistencies. Some shimmered with an unnatural luminescence, others looked thick, viscous, or had disturbing residues clinging to the insides of the glass.

  Del frowned. He had no idea what any of them did. They could be healing draughts, poisons, or anything in between.

  Beneath the vial racks, a set of drawers revealed a far more unsettling collection. Cut herbs and dried flowers were arranged in small bundles, their scents blending into a heady, almost medicinal aroma. Among them, far stranger items lay wrapped in oilcloth—small bones, dried organs, and what appeared to be preserved animal eyes, their glassy surfaces catching the lamplight like tiny, unblinking sentinels.

  Nestled at the centre of the chest was an onyx mortar and pestle, its surface polished smooth from use. The stone looked heavy and expensive. This wasn’t the tool of an amateur hedge-witch. Whoever the mage had been, he had invested in his craft.

  Del closed the chest. It was too large to carry out, but the contents were valuable—dangerous, maybe, but worth something.

  His attention turned to the last piece of furniture—a small writing desk, its surface arranged with precision. A quill and inkpot sat beside an open journal, its pages filled with tight, intricate script. He ran a finger along the edges, skimming through, but much of the writing was unreadable to him, the symbols unfamiliar.

  A folded letter had been tucked into the front cover.

  Del unfolded it carefully, his eyes scanning the words. His stomach tightened.

  ‘The mage wasn’t working alone.’

  The letter was not a mere set of personal notes or idle musings—it was a commission. Someone had hired him for this.

  The thought left an unpleasant weight in his chest.

  Slipping the letter into his pocket, he closed the journal and glanced back at the cot. He yanked the sheets free, bundling them together. If there was one thing he had learned, it was that people left traces of themselves in the things they touched. Maybe Elara could make sense of all this, and if not—well, they would burn the damn thing just to be sure.

  Without another glance, he turned and stepped back into the night, letting the tent flap fall closed behind him.

  As Del stepped out of the tent, the cool air rushed against his skin, a stark contrast to the strange, heavy warmth inside. The battlefield had settled into an eerie quiet, the scent of burnt ozone from the Night Man’s magic still lingering in the cavern. The crackling of the fire was the only sound beyond the occasional murmured conversation among the survivors.

  Elara stood near the ritual circle, brushing dust from her hands, her movements slow and deliberate. She looked drained, the flickering light catching the shadows beneath her eyes. When she saw him, she straightened and waved him over.

  “Have you figured it out?” Del asked as he approached, his voice low.

  Elara let out a breath, rubbing the back of her neck. “It was a summoning ritual. But I managed to dissipate the build-up of potential before it could reach completion.” A tired smile ghosted across her lips. “Fortunately, it hadn’t advanced too far yet.”

  Del exhaled, tension uncoiling slightly from his shoulders. “So, can we get them down now?”

  She nodded. “Yes. It’s safe.”

  That was all he needed to hear. He turned, raising a hand to Merl, Jake, and Paolo, signalling them over. The three men moved without hesitation, their expressions grim but determined.

  As they approached, Del stood beside the closest of the captives—Vita. The woman’s breath was shallow, her body marked with cruel ritual carvings, but she was alive. Beside her, Breeda hung similarly restrained, their clothes torn off, their dignity stripped away alongside their freedom.

  Del tore one of the sheets in half and draped the fabric around them covering their bared breasts, shielding them from the open air, if nothing else. It wasn’t enough—it would never be enough—but it was something.

  Moving to the centre of the ritual space, he came to Emily. She had been positioned at the altar, her bindings stretching her tightly to the four corners of the stone slab, her skin deathly pale beneath the flickering torchlight. He made quick work of the ropes, the coarse fibres scraping against his fingers as he loosened the last of the knots. With care, he wrapped the remaining sheet around her still form and lifted her from the altar.

  She was light, too light. He could feel the faint rise and fall of her chest against his own, the shallow rhythm of someone too far gone to fight their own way back just yet.

  Paolo was already waiting nearby, concern etched deep into his features as Del carried Emily away from the circle. The fire cast flickering shadows across his face as he knelt beside them, his hands hovering uncertainly as if afraid to touch her.

  “I think, from the smell, they’ve all been heavily dosed with listwort,” Del murmured, lowering Emily onto the soft earth. “Once it wears off, they should wake.”

  Paolo reached out, carefully taking her hand in his. His fingers were steady, warm despite the cavern’s chill. He said nothing for a moment, then nodded slowly.

  “They’ll need more than just healing when they wake.” His voice was quiet but certain. “They’ll need time… patience.” He glanced at the others still chained to the pillars, his gaze dark with understanding. “Comfort. Care.”

  Del rested a hand on his shoulder, a brief, firm squeeze. “Yeah,” he said. “They will.”

  Behind them, Merl and Jake worked swiftly to free the last of the captives. The manacles were simple, secured with a basic lock nut, making the process faster than expected. Soon, the last of the prisoners slumped free from their restraints, their unconscious forms carefully eased to the ground. No one spoke as they worked—there was nothing to say.

  And then, it was over.

  The rescuers and the rescued gathered near the firepit, the warmth of the flames offering little solace against the weight of what had just passed. Six victims lay wrapped in what little fabric could be found, their breathing slow but steady. Thirteen survivors stood around them, faces illuminated by the fire’s glow, exhaustion pulling at their expressions.

  And Jason.

  The body of their fallen companion had been placed with care, his face now covered by Jake’s jacket.

  Del swallowed hard. ‘At least now I know his name.’

  For a long moment, silence stretched between them. The only sound was the shifting of embers, the occasional shuffle of boots against stone. The adrenaline was gone, leaving only weariness in its wake.

  Then, as if to punctuate the weight of the moment, Misty reappeared.

  She strolled into the firelight with an unmistakable air of satisfaction, something limp and wriggling clamped between her jaws. With an audible crunch, she bit down, the soft, wet sound of bones snapping breaking the silence. The firelight caught the scales of whatever unfortunate lizard she had decided to turn into a midnight snack.

  Del sighed. “Thanks for that, girl.”

  Misty licked her chops, tail flicking. ‘More if you want?’

  Deadpan, Del turned back to the others. “Apparently, if anyone’s peckish, Misty is happy to fetch lizard for lunch.”

  A few tired chuckles broke the heavy air. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  And right now, something was enough.