Morna paced the brass-lined corridors of Titan’s Wound, calloused fingers brushing the wand at her belt. Her auburn braids swung with each step; grey eyes followed the flickering lanterns of the excavation. Urengal shuffled beside her, his gait uneven from years hunched over relics. His monocle flashed as he adjusted it with a gnarled finger. Beneath a crooked nose, his short beard twitched. A slim dagger hilt peeked from his boot — carried by habit, not need.

  The air reeked of damp stone and rusted metal, the weight of buried secrets thick around them.

  "Getting warmer," Morna said. "We must be nearing a geothermal vent."

  Urengal nodded.

  Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor, where the tunnel split into two paths.

  They stopped. Morna caught Urengal's eye.

  "Did another team already scout that path?" he asked.

  A figure stepped from the tunnel. Light armor, plate and chain molded to a lean frame. A greatsword hung across his back, the pommel catching lamplight. A pale scar traced a ragged line from his jaw to just below his ear, splitting dark stubble.

  Morna's fingers tightened on her wand. She kept it sheathed.

  The man smiled. "Chief Arrester of Golden Streets. President of the Archaeology Guild." His voice carried an unsettling warmth. "Looks like the Lord of Light has finally granted my wish."

  Morna moved. She stepped between Urengal and the stranger, wand sliding free. Arcane light crackled along the polished wood, casting sharp shadows across the tunnel walls.

  "Stop." She leveled the wand at his chest. "State your business or back away."

  The man pulled his greatsword from his back, charging forward in a rush of steel and murderous intent.

  Morna threw herself sideways as the greatsword cleaved the air where she had stood. The blade's edge kissed her shoulder, parting leather and skin. She rolled across the stone floor, wand arm jerking up, and screamed the activation phrase for her barrier spell.

  Arcane Aegis.

  A translucent blue shield snapped into existence between her and the attacker. The swordsman raised his weapon for another strike. Runic etchings glinted along the blade's fuller. The greatsword swept down.

  Her barrier cracked.

  Barrier fragments shattered like glass and dissolved into ambient mana. Morna scrambled backward. Her boots hissed against the smooth stone, seeking purchase. The swordsman closed the gap in two lunging strides. A hideous grin twisted his face, yet his movements remained precise and brutal. Each step betrayed years of lethal training.

  Urengal had been fast once. Age had stolen that speed, but desperation lent him purpose. He lunged from the flank, driving the dagger from his boot into the gap between chainmail links. Steel parted. The blade sank deep into shoulder meat. His triumph lasted only a heartbeat.

  The swordsman staggered, blood streaming from the gash; however, the wound fueled his rage. He pivoted and swept the blade horizontally toward Urengal.

  Urengal’s side split open from hip to ribs.

  Urengal’s body slammed into the jagged rock face, driven by the sword’s force. He crumpled, fingers clawing at the torn flesh. Blood pulsed hot and thick between his fingers. His monocle lay shattered on the stone, his face bare—pale, taut with pain.

  Morna drove her wand forward. She channeled mana into a single point.

  Arcane Bolt.

  The shot punched through his sternum. Or so she thought, as the mana in the spell scattered just like her barrier from before.

  Spellbreaker! Morna’s stomach dropped. Of course. That explains everything, Morna thought, the scattered mana, the way my spells crumbled like dry parchment. She’d been fighting a man built to unravel magic.

  The swordsman spun toward her, his snarl twisting into a grin as he savored her realization.

  The swordsman barked a laugh, "You got it right. I’m your nemesis."

  His grin widened as he wiped his blade on his thigh. "The old man? He surprised me, I’ll give him that. But he’s already got one foot in the grave." His gaze flicked to Morna, sharp with amusement. "You, though? I’ve heard things. Morna of the Golden Streets—special talent, special pedigree. Always figured we’d meet one day. But this? Even better."

  Urengal heard the words and understood immediately. Morna was trapped. Without help, she would die, his student cut down protecting him. He crouched, pressing his palm against the wound in his side; the blade had nearly cleaved him through, and he had little time left regardless. The realization settled over him with cold clarity.

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  His free hand went into his tunic and closed around a device. He gripped it tight.

  "Morna, erect a barrier around you," he shouted.

  The swordsman's expression shifted toward amusement, and he turned to face Urengal. "Old man, have you gone senile? Did you not see how I shattered it last time?"

  But Morna had seen Urengal's eyes. She trusted her teacher and channeled mana into another Arcane Aegis.

  "Alright, struggle however you want." The man lifted his greatsword high. "Let me show you how I shatter this one."

  Urengal drove from the crouch, pouring everything into his legs. He launched himself onto the tall man's back and wrapped both arms around his neck, clinging like a child piggybacking an adult, and clamped the device against the plate armor. He triggered it.

  The swordsman hadn't anticipated the maneuver. He wrenched sideways to throw Urengal off, but the moment had already passed. The explosion rocked the walls.

  Blood sprayed across the brass. The attacker dropped to his knees, a wet rattling rising from his half-destroyed body. He swayed once, twice, then collapsed face-forward onto the stone, his blood pooling and steaming in the cold air.

  Urengal, shielded by the man's body but not spared by the force, was hurled into the walls again, this time with bone spurs from his opponent riddling his body.

  The Arcane Aegis thrummed, its translucent surface holding firm against the shockwave. Morna dismissed the barrier. She scanned the settling grit, searching for a trace of her teacher.

  Urengal lay crumpled against the brass palisade. Blood soaked his blonde hair and seeped through his tunic from a dozen shrapnel tears. Morna sprinted to his side.

  The old dwarf's breath came in shallow gasps, his face ashen against the dark stone. His hand remained pressed to the wound at his side, but blood seeped through regardless, staining his shirt a deep crimson.

  "Teacher." Morna dropped to her knees beside him. "Don't move. I can—"

  "Stop." His voice was thin, stripped of its usual academic weight. "You can't fix this, girl."

  "I can get help. The others—"

  "Listen to me." He coughed, and flecks of red dotted his beard. His free hand found hers, gripping with surprising strength. "You've spent your whole life trying to prove you earned your rank. Fighting Jurgen's shadow. Fighting everyone who thought you got where you are because of your uncle."

  Morna's throat tightened. "Teacher, please."

  "Leave it." His eyes, usually so sharp with calculation, had softened. "Leave the service. Leave the Golden streets and the politics and the endless games. Go back to him."

  She blinked. "What?"

  "Varrick." The name came out as barely a whisper. "That stubborn fool still loves you. Anyone with eyes can see it. And you..." He paused, struggling for breath. "You've been running from your own happiness for fifteen years."

  Tears cut tracks through the grime on Morna's face. Her wand lay forgotten on the ground somewhere behind her.

  Urengal let out a raspy chuckle, his fingers tightening around hers for just a second. "Should’ve listened to my own advice, huh?" His voice cracked, thin as old parchment. "Had my shot at something real—back when I was still young enough to be reckless. But no. Let that old fool Haldrix sweep in and take her while I buried myself in dusty ruins."

  He coughed, wincing as the movement sent fresh pain lancing through him. "Should’ve fought for her. Should’ve told her how I felt instead of hiding behind guild politics and... and duty." The word tasted bitter. "Now look at me. Dying in a hole in the ground, surrounded by relics of things that lasted longer than my own courage." His breath hitched. "Don’t make my mistake, girl. Don’t let pride or fear keep you from what matters."

  Urengal's grip on her hand weakened.

  His chest rose once more, held for a long moment, then fell still. The light faded from his eyes, leaving them glassy and vacant in the lantern glow.

  Morna knelt beside his body, her hand still wrapped in his cooling fingers, and said nothing at all.

  Vertigo slammed through Alph's skull like a hammer strike. His boots found solid brass flooring, but his stomach lurched sideways, vision swimming as white light from the trap runes seared his retinas before fading into afterimages. He staggered, one hand shooting out to steady himself against empty air.

  The world snapped into focus in shards. Vaulted ceilings vanished into shadow, though the walls glowed faintly. Brass covered everything—floor, walls, pillars lining the central aisle—each surface carved with dormant rune circuits, their geometric paths etched like veins beneath metal skin.

  At the far end, a throne consumed the wall. Mechanical. Immense. Levers and conduits clustered across its surface, articulation points jointed between them, the whole structure less a seat than a machine waiting to be operated.

  Alph's gaze swept the chamber and snagged on the hulking frame.

  A figure stood beside the throne. Brass plating gleamed, dark bronze despite centuries of dust. Joints articulated where pauldrons met gorget. A Centurion—taller than any man, its frame locked in the stillness of dormant machinery. One eye-slit faced them, empty and black.

  Haldrix’s fingers twitched against his thigh. A sound tore from his throat, rough and unchecked.

  "Forty years." His voice splintered. "Digging through archives, ruins, every damned half-remembered merchant’s tale. And now—"

  "You see this?" Haldrix's prosthetic arm shot toward the throne, brass fingers shaking. "The Founders' command seat. Every schematic, every blueprint—if it exists anywhere, you can access it from this control node."

  Haldrix’s voice cracked. "Forty years—finally."

  A grinding shriek split the air.

  Metal groaned as the Centurion shuddered. Dust poured from joints frozen for centuries, falling in pale sheets. Its head turned with cold precision, the black eye-slit fixing on them. A low hum thrummed from its chest, vibrating through the brass like the heartbeat of something older than memory.

  Alph watched Rook move. The short-sword cleared its sheath in a single fluid motion as Rook stepped into position beside Haldrix, his broad frame settling between the Centurion and Nylessa. Blood still seeped from her shoulder wound, dark against skin, but Rook's positioning left no question of his priority.