The campfire's dying glow carved hollows beneath Elion's eyes as he juggled his crossbow's components, the spanning lever slipping twice from his ink-stained grip. Across the flames, Mirabel's whetstone screamed against steel—three strokes, pause, three more. Royal Guard cadence. Vanric tracked her scarred fingers lingering where the crest had been filed raw, the groove catching light like a half-buried crown.

  "Final equipment check." Vanric ordered, his sword hissed free. The Feyrian stag on its pommel worn smooth from a decade of hiding it in his palm. His voice carrying quiet authority earned through years of service to a kingdom that valued his skill yet despised his blood. Lord Rendal's bastard, they called him in hushed tones—acknowledged but never truly accepted. Every promotion, every commendation had come through relentless effort while Lady Laryssa worked tirelessly to undermine him.

  "Blood will tell," Lady Laryssa's voice slithered through his headache. "Mongrel strain can't bear proper thought."

  His step-mother's words at his last formal appearance were loud enough for the room to hear. But Lord Feyrian only coughed into his goblet and averted his gaze, a silent acceptance of his wife's cruelty.

  Donnel, a veteran sergeant with a drinking problem and battle scars in equal measure, upended his pack, freeing Vanric from the grasp of his unbidden memory. A flask clattered against sunstones, their sickly yellow glow pooling over rations stamped with the quartermaster's boar sigil—last year's mold still clinging to the wax seal.

  "Aye, Captain. Three rocks, five days of rat-king's biscuit, two potions weaker than a tavern whore's promise." His tremor—a relic of the Siege at Marrow's Deep—sent the vials skittering like scared mice across the stone. Twenty-five years of service to Felkan's armies had left him with a collection of scars and a cynicism that bordered on insubordination. He brandished a map, its edges frayed from a dozen graveside returns. "This'll come back cleaner than a priest's conscience. Let's see if Quartermaster Garron's eyes stay dry when he plants it on our graves."

  "Then we'll mark it with something worth his tears," Vanric replied, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

  Tashir snorted, polishing his ancestral blade with cloth far too fine for fieldwork. His aristocratic accent not a whisker dulled by his fall from grace. The youngest son of a once-prominent house, he wore his family signet ring openly despite official disownment. "Such heroic sentiment from our Captain. Shall five expendables succeed where the King's finest perished? Or is the bastard under orders to lead us to a convenient end?"

  "Bold words from a man whose house couldn't guard its own daughter, Valdore," Donnel growled, hand dropping to his belt knife. Tashir's face hardened to marble. "You forget yourself, Sergeant Thalgar."

  "Forgot myself? Nah, milord. I remember just fine. We're your last wager. Die here, maybe your house lights a candle. Run? You'll end up choking on your own gilt in some alley, and the crows'll pawn that pretty ring ‘fore your corpse cools—"

  "Enough," Vanric commanded. The pain behind his eyes pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. "The previous parties died gaining important intelligence so that we might succeed. I see us as a band of experts rather than expendables. That's why we were handpicked for this mission."

  "I-I believe the Captain's approach aligns with established theory," Elion ventured, seemingly oblivious to the tension. His eyes lit with academic fervor, momentarily forgetting his awkwardness as the youngest of the group. "The Eversham Theory demonstrates how underground structures follow consistent principles—tunnels alongside water sources, secondary entrances corresponding to natural fissures—"

  "Are you suggesting we risk our mission—and lives—on a theory that suggests a hidden entrance, scholar?" Mirabel cut in, her whetstone falling silent. "If we find a blank wall, do we double back and assault the main gate exhausted and starved?"

  Elion's academic confidence deflated visibly. "I-I only meant to explain the Captain's r-reasoning, not to—"

  "The entrance exists," Vanric stated, his voice carrying quiet certainty.

  The discomfort behind his eyes had transformed into something else—a pressure, yes, but almost like recognition. Like the path ahead pulled at something buried deep within his blood.

  "I have studied every expedition report in the royal archives, including the Western Reaches and the Crimson Valley campaigns," he continued, aware of Mirabel's unflinching stare. "The pattern is clear to those who know how to look."

  Tashir's laugh held no warmth. "And our bastard Captain has learned to see what the King's master cartographers cannot. How very... convenient."

  "Captain Feyrian has the gift," Donnel interjected. The grizzled sergeant's voice carried unexpected conviction. "The last time we followed the Captain's instructions, we spent three days knee-deep in mud and regret, but we ended up at an entrance not marked on the maps. Where the other teams had to battle against fierce defences, we only had to survive the demons collapsing the tunnel on us.”

  He tapped his own temple. "Saved twenty men at Crimson Valley with that gift."

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  "Including me", Donnel left these words unspoken. Vanric had dragged him from the collapsing tunnel despite orders to retreat.

  "Better than knee-deep in demon spears," Mirabel observed. As she spoke, her fingers unconsciously traced the damaged insignia on her armour. The Royal Guard discharged members for only three reasons: gross incompetence, criminal behaviour, or knowing too much. Mirabel's competence was evident in every precise movement, and her rigid adherence to protocol suggested no criminal inclination. Which left only secrets.

  "Enough." Vanric's command cut through the tension. "We move in two hours, during the changing of the guard. Their attention shall be divided then."

  "We approach from the eastern ridge, descend through the narrow gully, and find the entrance I marked." His finger tapped the map with unconscious certainty. "Quickly and quietly. No unnecessary combat."

  Beneath his fingertip, the parchment felt strangely warm. Before further questions could come, he rose. "I'll take first watch. Rest while you can. Dismissed."

  The others exchanged glances, but none challenged him further. They had been assigned to his command precisely because no one would miss them if they failed to return. A captain's unusual decisions was the least of their concerns, especially if it meant avoiding sneaking in through the heavily guarded main entrance.

  As they settled into their bedrolls, Vanric took the first watch and paced the perimeter, the map clutched in his fist. Alone with his thoughts, he unfolded it again, staring at the blank spaces beyond the entrance.

  His weariness mounted as the night deepened, his body heavy with the weight of sleepless nights spent preparing for this mission. The tension headache pulsed behind his eyes as his chin dropped to his chest despite his efforts to remain alert.

  A vast chamber materialized in his mind, dominated by a massive crystalline formation that protruded from the ground. The glittering crystal pulsed in perfect synchronization with his heartbeat. Figures moved around it—their forms more recognizably humanoid than the tales described, yet distinctly not human. They spoke in tones that resonated strangely, vibrating through his bones rather than his ears.

  Then all three turned toward him, their movements unnaturally fluid. One tilted its head, nostrils flaring as if catching an unexpected scent. Another narrowed eyes that gleamed like polished amber. The third stepped forward, a hand outstretched—and Vanric's blood turned to ice as the crystal pulsed faster, matching the sudden racing of his heart.

  A hand clapped him on the shoulder. Vanric jerked awake, nearly falling from his position against a tree. Sweat beaded his brow despite the night's chill. Donnel's hand on his shoulder was rough but steady. "You look like you've seen a banshee, Captain."

  "You're not that hideous. Close but don't be so hard on yourself," Vanric smiled. His loyal officer grinned, but his expression grew serious.

  "Get yourself a good rest, Captain. Would do us all good for you to be in your best shape in the morrow."

  Vanric nodded. He headed back to his bedroll, leaving the sergeant to take the next watch. Despite his heavy eyelids, he found himself tossing as he laid trying to banish the image of the three pairs of eyes and outstretched hand.

  Two hours ere dawn, they assembled without idle chatter, checking weapons with grim efficiency. The night air carried a damp chill that settled into their bones, promising naught but discomfort in the hours ahead.

  "Remember," Vanric said as they prepared to move out, "Our objective is reconnaissance. We map the outer chambers, identify weaknesses, and return. No unnecessary heroics."

  "Said every commander before a slaughter," muttered Donnel, checking his blade with exaggerated care. "Been on seven expeditions like this one, my lord. Only difference is them others had proper burial detail assigned afore we left."

  "The Crown's generosity knows no bounds," Tashir intoned with the precise diction of nobility. "Why waste good soil on graves when perfectly serviceable demon digestive tracts are available?"

  Mirabel's eyes narrowed at their gallows humour. "If you intend to die, do it quietly. Some of us intend to return."

  As she moved past Vanric to take position at the edge of their small camp, her shoulder nearly brushed his. "Your knowledge of what lies below is... impressive, Captain," she murmured, voice pitched for his ears alone. Her tone carried respect with an undercurrent of professional assessment.

  Vanric noticed a flash of bronze beneath her cloak—not her standard-issue blade, but a smaller weapon with the distinctive pommel used by the Queen's personal messengers. She caught his glance and adjusted her cloak to cover it, her expression revealing nothing as she resumed scanning the perimeter.

  They moved through the forest silently, the soft leather of their boots making little sound on the carpet of fallen leaves. The forest itself seemed to resist their passage, branches reaching like gnarled fingers, roots erupting from soil to trip unwary feet. The air grew colder, damper, as they approached. The night birds stopped singing. The underbrush thinned, giving way to stone and lichen that seemed to glow faintly in the moonlight.

  A low vibration hummed through the soles of their boots as they neared the fissure, a sensation more felt than heard. The forest gave way to stone slick with a moisture that smelled of rust and decay. The air took on a metallic tang that coated Vanric's tongue, and tiny sparks of static electricity danced across their armor where metal touched metal.

  As they crested the ridge, the massive archway of the main entrance loomed in the distance—ancient symbols etched into stone, guard posts visible even in the dim light. But Vanric's attention was drawn elsewhere—to a narrow fissure in the rock face, unremarkable except for the certainty it carved into his mind.

  Pain lanced behind his eyes as they approached, not the dull throb of fatigue but a targeted agony, as though something inside his skull recognized what lay below and strained toward it. His heart pounded with inexplicable anticipation.

  "By the Bright Crown," Elion whispered, his breath fogging in the chill air. "You were right. Another entrance, just as you said. I'll need to note this down in my report to the Academy."

  His spectacles fogged with nervous breath as he stared at the fissure, trembling hands fumbling through his notebook.

  "Seven Hells," Donnel muttered. "Lucky guess or witchcraft, I care not if it keeps us from those guard posts."

  Mirabel said nothing, but her hand never strayed far from her weapon as she studied Vanric's face.

  The fissure beckoned, shadows spilling outward like ink in water. What awaited them below could not possibly match the horrors described in temple teachings—the mindless beasts, the blood sacrifices, the halls of tortured captives. Yet something whispered that a different kind of danger lurked in the depths, one he was uniquely equipped to face, though he knew not why.

  "Forward," Vanric commanded as he stepped into the darkness.