The city of Ereny, like a decadent crown atop a skull, was built upon the bones of an older civilization, one long forgotten by most and whispered about by the few who still walked in shadow. Fifty years ago, during the collapse of the Tremharin Empire, the old city sank beneath rising waters and earthquakes, its stonework cracked and buried beneath its own weight. Temples, villas, colonnades were all smothered in the earth's damp embrace. The newer city of Ereny squatted above, its people largely content to pretend that the dead below stayed dead.
But tonight, the underworld beneath the city stirred.
The last muffled thunder of shouts and steel above faded as the four descended the narrow passage. Darkness thickened around them like a velvet curtain, and their breath steamed in the damp cold. They emerged in a stone passageway so old that its cracks leaked moss crawling with blind insects. The walls sweated with age, and the faintly sour scent of mildew and still water filled their nostrils.
Nixor was the first to drop to the flagstones. His boots splashed into a thin puddle that shimmered with slime. Like a rogue accustomed to unlit secret passages he scanned the dark, instinct prickling along his spine. The thieves' guild operated in these forgotten bowels. He had heard that much. And the wrong name whispered in the wrong chamber could buy a knife between the ribs. He kept his breathing low, his gaze sharp.
Behind him, Cairvish landed lightly, his fine coat already collecting filth. Grey followed, and just as they reached total darkness, a sudden flare of orange blossomed in Grey's hand. Squinting against the sudden brightness, the others could see a torch in his hand.
"Convenient," Nixor muttered, eyes narrowing at the Grey. Really convenient, he thought. Nixor had seen these parlor trucks from many "illusionists" and scam artists with the thieves guild before. One more reason to not trust this guy, he said to himself.
Cairvish raised an eyebrow. "Is that a nobleman's trick, or some country hearth witch's spark?"
Grey shrugged. "Old housewife's secret. Bit of oil, bit of pressure. Nothing more." His grin in the Torchlight made his face look both shadowed and grimly amused at the same time. With a mocking bow he stated, "his Lordship should pay more attention to the house servants and less to tavern carousing priestesses. You could learn a few things."
Cairvish tightened his jaw. Now was not the time for this. Soon though, him and this charlatan we're going to have a long conversation. Possibly the kind where only one of them walks away.
Krashina descended last, her expression shadowed and unreadable. The torchlight danced in her eyes, but her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
The torch revealed more of their path with wide vaulted tunnels with crumbling brickwork, blocked aqueducts, and forgotten doorways sealed in old mortar. Time had not been kind to the underbelly. Roots clawed through the ceilings like skeletal hands, and the walls bore faded murals depicting the old Tremharin city, its spires and domes now reduced to buried dreams. The silence here was oppressive, as if the earth itself held its breath.
Hours passed, or what felt like hours. In the gloom, time became meaningless. The tunnel sloped, then forked. Twice they doubled back. Each step echoed hollowly, swallowed by the vast and endless dark. A sense of being watched settled on their shoulders, too persistent to dismiss.
Eventually, they found a partially collapsed archway. Behind it, a structure lay buried up to its windows in silt and roots. Perhaps it was an old governor's office, perhaps, or a merchant's villa. Time had been to abusive to tell at a glance. With bits of broken roots they pried the door open and slipped inside.
Dust, rot, and he sharp stink of parchment and mildew filled the air. Broken furniture lay scattered like bones. Old bookshelves that once housed fine works of literature, or perhaps merely mundane legers now supported decayed leatherbound moldly piles of mush. On a toppled desk, half-buried in debris, rested a newer satchel. It was dark red leather, not yet stiff with age, and well tended to not long ago.
Nixor picked it up, brushing away the web of some small spider that scurried away into the dark recesses beneath the desk. "This isn't older than a few months."
He dumped out the pack's contents of rotting dried rations, small tools, an old knife, a journal, a quill and ink vial. Cairvish held up a piece of parchment displaying a crude but unmistakable hand-drawn map of the tunnels, its ink smudged by its maker's damp fingers. Grey leafed through the journal while Nixor pocketed the knife before checking the room for anything else of use.
"A treasure hunter," Grey muttered, turning through several pages. "Searching for the old Tremharin hoard. And… trying to free his sister from debt at the brothel. She was pregnant. Said the child might be your uncle's."
Cairvish's lips tightened. He noticed Nixor clearing out an area littered with broken chairs, and went to help.
"There's a fireplace here," the young noble said. "A fire may not be the best idea, but at least we can warm up while we consider our next move."
Firewood was gathered from splintered chairs. Amidst the decay, a long iron fire stoking rod was found to be in good condition, if a bit rusty. The torch's glow became a small fire in the hearth, and for the first time, warmth touched their skin. The pushed aside the piles of broken furniture and cleaned off a place to sit by the fire. Still, no one fully relaxed.
"So," Cairvish said, rubbing his hands by the fire. "why did the Inquisitor call you a knight, M'lady?"
Krashina hesitated. Her eyes flicked toward the flame and a shadow that was dancing just out of view when she looked.
Tambor. She hadn't spoken his name, not even whispered it. The heat of grief, still fresh, kept her words locked behind clenched teeth.
Grey watched her carefully. She'd said little since their descent. He understood that silence; his own was a fortress. The fewer truths he offered, the fewer could be used against him. Magic was dangerous—hunted, hated, bound in law and flame. The God of Civilization had no love for sorcerers. Neither did the church that served Him.
Krashina's voice came low. "Because I am. Or… was."
Cairvish blinked. "Trained or knighted?"
"Both. I served the Knight-Arbiters of the western marches."
"Then what are you doing here, silent in chains?"
Krashina didn't answer.
"Belserel knew her," Grey said, surprising himself.
All eyes turned to him.
"She was planning to meet her, even before we were imprisoned. The Inquisitor didn't reveal that to the Baron."
"Smart woman," Nixor said. "Only a fool shows all their cards."
Cairvish shook his head. "Then we're deeper in this than I thought. If Belserel meant to expose the Baron, and he's already tried to eliminate her, he must know something. Something the Grand Duke wouldn't forgive."
Their voices faded. The fire crackled. Above them, the weight of earth and stone pressed down like an old grudge.
Grey kept his vigil first, seated beside the fire, leafing through the journal. Occasionally, he looked up, studying his companions in silence. Cairvish's princely posture despite the grime, Nixor's twitchy alertness, Krashina's stoic grief. He didn't trust them, especially the noble whose interest in the priestess of Erathmus was more than passing. The knight too could be a problem. While the Grand Duchy had not completely outlawed interests in what they call sorcery, the Church was given free reign. It was that way in most Kingdoms as well. Erathmus held a strong hold over most of the world, even dictating the only allowed lexicon. When the first prophet of Erathmus had appeared, the humanity was given the Bathel Stone with the world's accepted language carved upon it's surface. Any language spoken other than the tounge carved on the artifact was heresy. Sorcery fit that description, but so did the secret chants of Erathmus's own elite priests.
He turned another page in the journal. Trust wasn't likely with this group; but trust wasn't necessary for survival. Just cooperation.
Somewhere in the endless dark, water dripped like a ticking clock.
Tomorrow, they would move again.
Into the veins of a dead city. Toward secrets best left buried.