The ascent into Estus was a spiritual climb. The winding mountain pass, etched into the formidable peaks, felt less like a road and more like a pilgrimage. As the party emerged from the final, shadowed bend, the city unfolded before them, a breathtaking mirage of ambition and faith against the stark blue sky.

  "Heavenward spires of gold and cream stone," Verris muttered, a rare note of awe in his gruff voice. Even Zeek felt a momentary stillness in his chest. The city was exactly as described, a monumental testament to divinity, its architecture impossibly delicate yet undeniably solid, reaching for the heavens. Massive angel statues, far rger and more serene than the aggressive guardians of Kal'Tas, were carved into the very mountainsides, their collective benevolent gaze swept over the valley below. Every surface seemed to gleam, from the polished marble of grand pzas to the intricate, gilded adornments on every building. The air itself hummed with an almost palpable presence, a clean, sharp scent of sage and other aromatic herbs mingling with the cool, crisp mountain air.

  For Zeek and Verris, the inhabitants of Estus were quick to make their disdain known. Their dust-caked clothes, the lingering grime of hard travel, and the raw, untamed glint in their eyes marked them as lesser beings in this pristine sanctuary. Robed figures, their faces often serene but their eyes sharp with judgment, glided past, their expressions a mix of pity and jovial aversion. Zeek felt their gazes like needles, pricking at the hardened shell he wore as a once proud member of Estus’s most divine society. Verris, true to form, simply grunted and gred back, Regalia a dark, heavy counterpoint to the city's luminous aesthetic.

  Amon, his dark skin and the subtle hum of his tent power a stark contrast to the pale, controlled aura of Estus, remained mostly covered. His travel-worn robes, already dark, were drawn tighter, and his hood was pulled low, obscuring his face as much as possible without drawing undue attention. Heka, ever vigint and responsive to her king’s discomfort, remained a faint wisp of shadow, a silent guardian clinging to Amon's form, only her essence subtly fring in response to the oppressive, overbearing presence of the divine. This pervasive, almost suffocating, sense of holiness called on ancient roots within her Shu-Ra nature, making her feel both drawn and repelled by the city’s very nature.

  The streets of Estus were smooth, paved with polished marble and lined with buildings of impossibly perfect artistry. There were no rough edges, no signs of wear or decay. Even the merchants’ stalls, den with glittering trinkets, fine silks, and meticulously arranged vials of fragrant oils and spices, felt somehow… elevated. The scent of sage permeated the entire city, giving it a continuous, cleansing aroma that tried to scrub away the grime of the outside world.

  "This pce… still tries too hard," Zeek murmured to Verris, his eyes constantly scanning, peering beneath the gleaming surface. He felt a familiar itch under his skin, a nostalgic sense of something being off despite the superficial perfection.

  Verris simply snorted. "Tries to clean itself of honest sweat. Give me a piss-soaked alley any day. At least I know what I’m dealing with there."

  Their search for an inn was a calcuted affair. They needed a pce that wouldn’t scrutinize them too closely, a less reputable establishment willing to overlook their rough appearance for a handful of coin. Zeek's keen senses, honed by years of navigating shadows and hidden truths, guided them to a bustling, slightly less pristine quarter, where the marble gave way to cobbled streets and the sage scent was occasionally cut by the smell of brewing ale and roasting meat.

  They settled on an inn called The Celestial Brew, a name ironically grand for its slightly disheveled appearance. The common room was loud and boisterous, a welcome contrast to the quiet judgment of the upper city. As Amon and Heka found a quiet corner, and Verris immediately sought out the strongest brew, Zeek allowed his senses to expand, sifting through the cacophony of voices, the clinking of tankards, and the general hum of human activity. He wasn’t just looking for information; he was listening for discord, for the notes that didn't fit, Heka’s smoke crawling underneath the tables undetected by the guests of the establishment.

  It didn’t take long. Amidst the cheerful din, a faint, almost imperceptible whisper caught their attention. A sound that, to anyone else, might have been dismissed as a drunkard’s sob. But to Zeek, it was a familiar tremor, a low, keening cry that spoke of a mind wracked by torment. With it came a faint, metallic tang. Ichor.

  His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. He began to subtly move through the crowded room, his gaze darted across faces, table by table. Heka trembled under the visceral memories her smoke had detected from one of the denizens, feebly raising a finger to point Zeek in the right direction. The gesture led him to a corner booth, tucked away from the main thoroughfare. A young woman was hunched over, her face hidden in her arms, a half-empty mug of ale before her. Her movements were jerky, as if still encased within her tormentor’s clutches. And then, he saw it – a dark, almost shimmering smudge on the sleeve of her coarse tunic. A smear of ichor, unmistakable, at the base of her neck. To the untrained eye of the common folk, it would’ve been expined away as a mere stain.

  Zeek's mind raced. He remembered the Trader, the man who’d ferried them through the deserts, with his weary eyes and the subtle worry lines that now seemed so pronounced in his memory. The way the Trader spoke of his daughter, "chasing old magic and ruins," and the "sinkhole." The same auburn hair, the same worry lines, just years younger, and the same calloused hands from holding a hunter’s arrow and bowstring. It all seemed to click into pce. The physical features, the hardened lines of the Trader's face, the subtle shape of his nose, mirrored in the faint glimpse of this woman’s profile. Zeek had no doubt. This was the Trader's daughter, and she was drowning.

  He’d seen all-too-often the signs of Lilliana’s handiwork after his many times visiting the byrinth’s depths. Something grew tight in his chest as he gazed at the broken girl before him; she was a byproduct of his failure to cleanse or save his love from the accursed depths of the Heart of Sorrow. He wouldn’t leave without doing something; Lilliana’s untainted voice echoing in his mind. You can’t just leave her like this. He couldn't expose her to the others just yet, nor could he expose them to her raw, unfiltered trauma. This situation required a delicate hand, best to bring her to her father to see the devastating proof of his worst fears; allow him to comfort his daughter.

  "I need to step out for a moment," Zeek said to Verris, his voice low and unreadable.

  Verris grunted, already deep in conversation with a grizzled patron about the merits of blunt force versus sharpened steel. Amon and Heka exchanged a look with Zeek, their silent communication conveying a question and his equally silent reply: something important, alone for now.

  Zeek moved to the girl’s table, his shadow falling over her. She flinched, a small, choked gasp escaping her lips. "Leave me be," she slurred, her voice hoarse, ravaged.

  "Not yet," Zeek said, his voice quiet but firm. "The byrinth is an unforgiving pce, and being the only survivor can leave wounds very few can survive.” He reached a hand towards her, “I believe I know your father, if I’m not mistaken. He’s the fur trader that brought my friends and I here."

  Her head slowly lifted, revealing eyes that were wide, bloodshot, and haunted by visions no one should ever see. The ichor on her clothes seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light of the inn. She was a ruin, a broken vessel, but she was alive. Zeek, recognizing the terrifying pain in her gaze, knew he had to get her out of there. Not just for her, but for the truth of what the byrinth was truly doing to the world.

  Zeek gently, but firmly, convinced Kerris to leave the inn to see her father. Her initial resistance, a mix of drunken confusion and deep-seated terror, slowly gave way to a desperate, almost childlike compliance. She stumbled beside him, her small frame swaying, the ichor on her tunic a dark stain against the grimy fabric. The quiet judgment of the Estus streets felt even more pronounced with her beside him, a stark, living testament to the chaos that dared to exist outside their pristine walls.

  He led her through the winding alleyways, away from the glittering main thoroughfares and towards the city's underbelly – the network of stables, workshops, and storage depots where the working css toiled. He found the Trader, just as he'd expected, overseeing the unloading of his caravan. The burly man’s back was turned, his deep voice rumbling orders to a team of porters.

  "Trader," Zeek called out, his voice quiet, devoid of its usual edge.

  The Trader turned, his gruff expression softening for a moment as he recognized Zeek, then hardening again as his gaze fell upon the figure half-hidden behind him. His eyes, usually sharp and calcuting, widened fractionally, a flicker of raw, unadulterated shock passing through them before he cmped down on it. The heavy bags under his eyes, the lines etched by worry, suddenly seemed to deepen.

  "Kerris?" The name was a harsh whisper, filled with disbelief and a pain so profound it almost buckled the man's broad shoulders.

  The girl flinched, shrinking further into herself at the sound of her name. She refused to meet his gaze, her head still bowed.

  "She's been… to the Heart of Sorrow," Zeek supplied, his voice low, a shared secret between survivors. "She saw things. Endured things."

  The Trader’s face was a mask of conflicting emotions – relief that she was alive, agony at her state, and a deep, ingrained anger at her recklessness. He walked over, his heavy steps almost silent. He didn’t embrace her, didn't offer the comforting words a father might. Instead, his gaze swept over her, taking in the trembling frame, the stained clothes, the eyes that refused to focus.

  "You didn't listen," he said, his voice rough, devoid of warmth. It wasn’t a question, but a statement of bitter fact. "I told you, girl. Chasing shadows, chasing glory. It leaves you broken." He reached out, not to touch her, but to pull a fsk from his belt. He poured a generous amount of strong liquor onto a rag and, without a word, began to scrub the ichor from her tunic, his movements surprisingly gentle despite the harshness of his words.

  Kerris gasped as the raw alcohol bit into her skin, but she didn't resist. As the ichor slowly faded, the Bck Stitch on her forearm, a cruel, intricate mark of Mersk's power, became starkly visible. The Trader's eyes lingered on it, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He didn't ask what it was. He didn't need to. He'd seen enough horror in his life to recognize a brand of malevolence.

  Zeek watched; nothing more than a silent observer. He understood the Trader's "tough love." He saw the man's own guilt, his fear, manifested not in tears or embraces, but in gruff practicality and a desperate attempt to restore some sembnce of order to his daughter's shattered reality. He recognized it because, in many ways, it was his own way of coping too.

  After he had cleaned the worst of the ichor, the Trader gestured towards his overflowing cargo. "What do you need? For you, and… your companions." His gaze flickered to Zeek, a silent acknowledgment of their shared plight. "Armor. From my hunting days. Not pretty, but it holds."

  Zeek described their needs – sturdy, flexible armor for himself, something robust for Verris, and discreet but effective protection for Amon and Heka. The Trader, without a word, began to rummage through his crates. He produced sets of hardened leather, reinforced with thick furs, and even pieces of bone armor, skillfully carved and fitted – the kind only a master hunter would possess. It was practical, camoufged, and clearly designed for survival above all else.

  For Kerris, the Trader pulled out a separate, carefully wrapped bundle. It was a new set, meticulously crafted, and ying unused since the day she had left. Dark, supple leather, custom-fitted, with subtle reinforcements and hidden pockets. "Thought you'd come back one day," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze as he pced it in her trembling hands. "Always chasing danger, just like your mother. It may be fool's errand, but…” He paused, his voice hiding the slightest tremble, “A father worries."

  Kerris clutched the armor to her chest, her shoulders shaking, but still no tears. Just the hollow, haunted silence of a mind deeply scarred. She was cd in the promise of protection, a grim hope offered by a father who understood that in this world, love couldn’t offer the same protection as prepared defenses.

  The Trader turned around, his shivering shoulders betraying his gruff persona. “Finish what you started, girl.” He looked at Zeek with eyes shaking with an emotion that wasn’t immediately apparent before he spoke. “Watch her when you return,” he said, “She may not look it now, but she’s worth her salt, you’ll see. Let me know when you make it back out this way.”

  Kerris looked up, seeing her father and his words for what they truly were: a loving push the only way he knew how.

  Zeek gathered the rest of the equipment, feeling the weight of the Trader’s quiet generosity. It wasn’t just gear; it was a desperate plea for survival, a father’s st, best hope for his only child, now intertwined with Zeek’s own desperate quest. “Thank you,” he said quietly. The Trader didn’t reply, just stood as still as the angel statues while the two slowly left him.

  Kerris looked over her should one st time, seeing the stoic figure of her father as she departed. As his image began to shrink as she walked, for just a second, she saw him shuddering, before he disappeared out of sight.

  Zeek made it back to The Celestial Brew with Kerris in tow. Though still shuffling off the ale, she seemed slightly more alive than he’d seen her before. “You don’t have to come with us.”

  “I do,” she replied quietly. “I’ve seen who wields that byrinth as her own. I’ve seen the rotten tendrils dripping from the walls, the wandering dead, the monstrous flowers, her lieutenants…” she paused, shaking the visage of Mersk from behind her eyelids. “I spent days navigating that wretched pce, and I left my friends,” tears welled up in her eyes, “And I need to put them to rest before I put an end to her. I need to finish this, or join them, I’ve no other purpose left to me.”

  Zeek gave her an appraising gnce, “I owe your father for his patronage and generosity, so whatever you wish to do is your choice, but if you do join, I will make sure your life is not forfeit as long as you listen when the time comes.” Amon and Heka stood when they saw Zeek return. “We’re headed to the Grand Library at dawn,” he stopped at the table, “First, you’ll need to get acquainted.”