The tunnels answer with noise.

  Steel shrieks against stone. Someone shouts—too close, too sharp—and the sound fractures along the walls until I can’t tell where it began. Torches flare ahead, then gutter out as shadows swallow them whole. The air is thick with damp earth and something acrid beneath it, a sting that burns my nose and settles at the back of my throat.

  I draw my sword.

  The weight settles into my hand like it always does—familiar, steady, real. I breathe in, plant my feet, let the world narrow to distance and timing and motion.

  Ulric hits first.

  His shield crashes into bodies like a battering ram, the impact echoing down the tunnels as men are flung aside. His roar follows, deep and feral. Veil is already there, darting in his wake—precise, merciless. Exposed throats. Open arteries. He leaves no one standing long enough to scream twice.

  Cinna moves behind us, voice low, hands steady. Light blooms from her spell—soft but constant—and Vire settles over my skin like a second layer, warm and reassuring, knitting reflex and resolve together.

  Then I see it.

  A side passage. Narrow. Half-hidden.

  Ulric doesn’t notice.

  A figure spills from it, blade raised—

  Then Cattleya moves.

  Not forward—through.

  She collides with the man head-on, her massive blade driving into his chest with catastrophic force. There is no finesse, no hesitation. The sheer weight of the strike tears him apart, steel and flesh parting in a spray that turns the stone slick beneath her boots. She doesn’t slow. Bodies stumble back as she advances, cutting space open by force alone.

  The hum is louder now.

  It vibrates through my bones, up my arm, into the hilt of my sword—into my chest.

  I lean forward before I realize I’ve moved.

  Cattleya bursts into an open chamber. I follow, instinct carrying me into place. Our backs meet as she turns to face a cluster of foes—our formation snapping together without a word.

  Only the second time.

  It feels older than that.

  My strikes are clean. Decisive. The line has already been crossed—Whatever justice there was ended before we arrived.

  The first man drops without ceremony, my blade driving straight through his heart before he can even register my lunge. The darkness works for us. Cattleya swings on instinct alone, her blade answering screams with bone-crushing finality.

  And me?

  I feel them flinch before they move.

  My emerald eye burns.

  The world doesn’t feel the same.

  I see the flow of life itself—heat and motion and fragile radiance beneath skin. I see the Vire threading through the air, through muscle, through breath. My sword follows it naturally, each strike precise, economical.

  They never see me coming.

  They never see how my blade finds the soft places, the failures in stance and courage alike. Panic spreads. Footsteps scatter. Retreat.

  When it’s over, I step back until my spine meets Cattleya’s again.

  I force my breath steady. Clamp down. Pull everything back into place. When I open my eyes, the glow is gone—replaced by pitch-black stone and torchless shadow.

  I know she’s looking at me.

  She doesn’t move.

  As if she understands I don’t want to be alone in the dark.

  Light blooms at the edge of the chamber. Ulric, Veil, and Cinna emerge from the far tunnel—they took the long way around.

  I step away from Cattleya at once, turning to meet them.

  “Veil got one talking,” Ulric says, tapping gore from his axe against the wall before wiping it clean on his shield. “Mercs. Not local. Hired by someone calling themselves Pale Grasp.”

  Cinna approaches, her hand settling lightly against my arm.

  “Good. The perimeter held,” she says softly, then smiles. “You… were very careful.”

  Her gaze shifts to Cattleya, who is still watching me.

  “Not a single injury,” Cinna adds, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Whatever you changed, please keep doing it.”

  “Mm.” Cattleya hums, finally looking away to offer Cinna a nod.

  “Saria took the main force,” Veil adds. “Steel Wolves are backing her up. Should be close now, coves.”

  His grin is sharp.

  “Let’s finish this bastard.”

  No one argues.

  We press deeper into the illegal tunnels until it abruptly opens into a natural cavern. Jagged rock rises and falls around us, stalactites hanging like teeth from above. Light carries strangely here—reflected, refracted—bouncing off an unseen underground stream. Rippling patterns crawl across the ceiling, turning bare stone into something almost alive.

  “…pretty.”

  The voice comes from behind me. I don’t need to look.

  A small smile tugs at my lips. I agree.

  Cinna steps closer to Ulric and lifts her staff, pointing.

  “There,” she says quietly. Ulric follows her gaze. “They’re hiding. I can feel them.”

  Veil is gone.

  Panic flickers through me before I spot him—already slipping behind a cluster of stalagmites, body low, movements economical. Positioning. Waiting.

  Ulric catches my eye, then nods once.

  I nod back.

  He lowers his stance—shield forward, axe drawn back—and I brace myself for the inevitable charge. He’s going to plow straight through the stone. That’s just how he is.

  Instead, the stone moves.

  The cavern shudders as rocks tear themselves free from floor and wall, grinding together as they fuse into a towering, faceless shape. Limbs form where none should exist. A chest of packed stone heaves once, then steadies.

  Ulric steps back instantly, shield snapping up to guard us.

  “A golem,” Cinna says, already signaling for Veil to withdraw. “Its conjurer must be nearby.”

  The creature lunges before she finishes speaking.

  Ulric meets it head-on, roaring as he slams his shield into its mass. The impact forces it back a step—but its stone limbs lock around the shield, unyielding, anchoring him in place.

  “Hells, cove,” Veil mutters, circling. “Where do you even hit this thing?”

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  “Naturally,” Cinna replies, calm as ever, “it has no weak points.”

  She angles her staff, Vire flaring along its length.

  “But it is bound together by Vire. Sever the flow, and it destabilizes.”

  The stone where she points begins to glow.

  Veil doesn’t hesitate. He strikes.

  The golem stumbles. Ulric surges forward, crashing into it again, shield slamming into its core with brute force.

  “It’s rock,” he growls. “Rock breaks if you hit it enough.”

  I watch, waiting for my opening—

  —and my gaze slides to Cattleya without meaning to.

  She’s already looking at me.

  I startle, stepping away instinctively.

  There’s a fight raging in front of us, and she’s… uninterested. Calm. Observing me instead of the threat.

  I don’t understand her. At all.

  “While Ulric holds it,” I say quickly, “Cat and I will find the conjurer.”

  Ulric doesn’t answer—too busy being slammed into the wall as the golem regains its footing. Veil darts in, drawing its attention away from him with rapid strikes.

  “Go,” Cinna says, her magic shifting to support Ulric.

  I don’t look back.

  I know Cattleya is following.

  We circle the cavern’s edge, climbing a natural ramp that spirals upward into a narrow passage. At the top, a man stands watching the fight below—

  —and then he sees us.

  He bolts.

  “That’s him,” Cattleya whispers.

  “Our final bounty.”

  She launches forward without another word—wild, feral, certain. Like a hound loosed from a leash.

  I chase after her, unease prickling along my spine.

  Something’s wrong.

  My vision sharpens as I sense the flow of Vire—and none of it leads from the fleeing man to the golem below.

  It’s coming from somewhere else.

  Someone else.

  “This isn’t just him,” I warn firmly.

  “Mm.” Cattleya hums, unbothered.

  The man stumbles into a wider chamber and skids to a halt, spinning around wildly.

  “Fuck—this wasn’t in the contract!” he shouts, looking upward. “Do something!”

  Silence stretches.

  Then a voice answers from above—cool, disappointed.

  “Very well. Your usefulness has expired.”

  Something drops from the darkness overhead.

  It hits the stone with a hollow thud.

  Then another.

  Wood.

  A figure—man-shaped, jointed, featureless—lies still for half a breath before pushing itself upright with unnatural smoothness. It takes a fighting stance, empty face turned toward us.

  A puppet.

  “Run,” the voice says flatly from the puppet. “Your survival no longer contributes to my work.”

  Cattleya moves first.

  She surges forward with a snarl, blade screaming through the air—not to cut, but to crush. The flat of her sword slams toward the puppet’s torso with enough force to shatter bone.

  The puppet blocks.

  Its wooden arm flashes with light, Vire flaring as it catches the blow. The impact cracks like splitting timber—but the arm holds. I follow the flow instinctively, tracing the Vire upward, through the ceiling—

  There.

  A cry of pain snaps my attention back down.

  Cattleya is hurled aside, her body slamming into the stone wall hard enough to rattle the cavern. She slides down, breath forced from her lungs.

  “Observe,” the voice says softly. “This is correction applied.”

  The puppet turns.

  It doesn’t look at me. It adjusts.

  I raise my sword just in time.

  The first strike comes fast—too fast. A straight punch aimed at my chest. I barely parry, steel skidding against wood as the force rattles my arm to the shoulder. Another follows immediately, then another, each one different. No rhythm. It shifts from compact, precise blows to wide, sweeping arcs without warning.

  It adapts.

  I retreat, controlled, keeping my stance tight. No wasted movement. Learn first. Survive first.

  The green flare returns—and recoils. The puppet is drowned in Vire, so saturated it’s almost blinding. Threads layered and reinforced.

  So I shut it out.

  Normal sight. Normal rules.

  The next blow clips my guard, numbing my fingers. Pain blooms sharp and bright. My grip falters.

  Too slow.

  The puppet presses, forcing me back step by step, stone biting into my heels. My sword is nearly wrenched from my hand as it slams down with brutal force.

  Then something crashes into it.

  Cattleya.

  She’s back on her feet, blood at her lip, eyes bright with something feral. She doesn’t try to outfight the puppet—she overwhelms it as if resistance itself offends her. Her blade turns sideways, her stance widening as she drives forward, using her sword like a moving wall.

  The puppet staggers.

  “Don’t let him escape, Imo!” she shouts.

  I don’t hesitate.

  I turn and run.

  The fleeing man is already scrambling through the passage ahead, breath ragged, boots slipping on wet stone. Darkness slows him.

  It doesn’t slow me.

  My emerald eye flashes—footsteps light up ahead of me, each safe step marked clear as a path laid bare. I follow without thinking, body moving before thought can intrude.

  He hears me.

  Not panic—focus sharpens his movements. He pivots as he runs, blade already in hand, stance lowering as he gauges distance and terrain in a single glance. His breathing is ragged, but his grip is steady.

  “Stay back,” he growls—not pleading, a warning. “Another step and you lose your head.”

  I don’t answer.

  He doesn’t wait.

  He turns on me mid-stride, steel flashing as he lunges with intent, not desperation. The strike is clean, angled to force me off-balance. I meet it, blades ringing as we lock for a heartbeat before breaking apart.

  Good form. Trained.

  He presses immediately, fighting uphill—wounded, cornered, hunted—but he refuses to make it easy.

  I give ground deliberately, reading him. His footwork is tight but slowing. His left shoulder lags just enough to betray fatigue. He’s been running too long. Fighting too much.

  He feints left, then snaps his blade toward my ribs.

  I catch it on my guard and twist, steel screaming as I force his arm wide. He recovers instantly, spinning away before I can capitalize, boots skidding on wet stone as he repositions.

  “Damn it—” he exhales, more breath than words.

  He goes for his dagger with his free hand, movement smooth, practiced.

  Too slow.

  I step inside his reach as he draws, shoulder to shoulder, denying him space. My pommel comes up hard and precise, not brutal—final. It connects beneath his jaw with a sharp crack, and something in his neck gives.

  His body goes slack.

  He collapses, sword slipping from his fingers as he hits the stone in a tangle of limbs and breath.

  I stay ready for a second longer than necessary, blade poised, chest rising and falling as I listen for movement.

  I can still hear the fighting—steel crushing against wood, stone splintering under force.

  Too close.

  They’re still at it.

  I glance down at the man at my feet and, unbidden, think of the burlap sacks.

  No. Not that.

  I try to lift him.

  Too heavy.

  So I seize his wrist and drag him instead. His body scrapes across the stone, slow and ugly, but it’s movement. Enough.

  I tilt my ears toward the cavern, straining for signs through the chaos. Axe against stone—Ulric is still standing.

  But there’s no sound of wood breaking.

  Cat?

  Panic hits hard.

  I suck in a breath and force my legs to move faster. I run, half-dragging the man behind me, his weight jarring against every jut of rock. I don’t slow. I don’t apologize.

  I focus on my green eye as the chamber draws closer. Vire floods my vision—blinding, violent—and beside it, another mass of light.

  Cattleya.

  She’s still there.

  Relief surges—then dies.

  I break back into the cavern, my normal sight catching up a heartbeat too late.

  The puppet’s hands are locked around her throat.

  My blood goes cold.

  Fear doesn’t vanish. It compresses.

  My body moves before my thoughts can claim it. I don’t question why it already knows what to do. It feels familiar. Not remembered—Acknowledged. As if something has been waiting patiently for permission. There’s no time. My focus collapses to a single truth: she needs help.

  I move faster than I should be able to.

  My steps are cleaner. Lighter. The world sharpens as my blade cuts the air, my body aligning without hesitation. I throw myself forward, aiming for the joint in its arm—precise, deliberate—everything riding on that single strike.

  The puppet reacts instantly, as if it had been waiting for that exact angle.

  It hurls Cattleya aside and turns, blocking my blade as if it anticipated the attack. A fist snaps up, brushing my strike wide, and then its palm slams into my chest.

  Vire detonates.

  The force crushes the air from my lungs and sends me flying. I hit the stone hard, pain flashing white as I skid and roll, breath tearing back into me in ragged gasps.

  I force myself up, limbs screaming, dropping into a low stance—

  And then I see it.

  The puppet’s arm is raised again. Its palm glows, Vire condensing into a dense, lethal point.

  Aimed at Cattleya.

  Ready.

  Something I’ve been holding breaks loose.

  I can’t—

  I won’t—

  Whatever comes of this—whatever it costs—

  I stop pretending I can hold it back.