The mines of Concordia had once belonged to a troll king.

  It wasn't a particularly famous one. Historical records didn't even preserve his name; if trolls bothered with names in any way humans would recognize. But the territory had been his: fifteen square miles of mountain and valley, rich with iron and copper and, occasionally, gold.

  Trolls and precious metals went together like fire and dry timber. Where you found one, you usually found the other, along with violence, territorial disputes, and the broken remains of anyone foolish enough to try claiming what a troll considered theirs.

  The old king had ruled this region for perhaps a century before someone—probably an adventuring party, possibly a rival troll—ended his reign permanently. The details were lost to time. What mattered was that he'd left behind a domain honeycomb with caves and tunnels, some natural, some carved by massive clawed hands.

  Concordia had been mining these mountains under House Eryndor's name for sixty years.

  So it did not come as a surprise to Sergeant Beric Dormer that there would be troll corpses found when you dug deep enough.

  Dead trolls were practically a geological feature in former troll territory. You'd break through into a new chamber and find bones the size of support beams. Sometimes whole skeletons, curled in corners where the creatures had crawled to die. Sometimes just scattered remains, evidence of fights that had happened decades or centuries ago.

  The miners had found seventeen troll corpses over the years. Dormer had been present for the discovery of three of them himself.

  What he—and Captain Dernwell, Major Wren, Lieutenant Commander Ford, Lieutenant Sever, and Corporal Thane—did not expect was for a dead troll to be standing in front of them after they'd broken through the collapsed section of tunnel.

  The smell hit first.

  Rot. But not fresh rot. This was the smell of decay interrupted, preserved, and then animated anyway. Sweet and sour at once, with an underlying reek of corruption that made Dormer's eyes water. Like meat left in the sun for a week, then dragged through a sewer, then set on fire and extinguished with vinegar.

  Corporal Thane made a sound in his throat that might have been a gag.

  The creature was enormous. Twelve feet tall, hunched in the tunnel but still scraping the ceiling with what remained of its scalp. The skeleton was mostly intact—thick bones that looked like they could support a building, yellowed with age. Ribs like the bars of a prison. Arms that hung nearly to the ground, ending in hands the size of shields.

  And there was still flesh. Not much. Patches of it clinging to bone in strips, leathery and black. One arm was almost completely skeletal. The other had enough desiccated muscle remaining that you could see the tendons like dried rope. Its torso was a patchwork of exposed ribs and sagging, mummified tissue that shifted wetly when it moved.

  The face was the worst.

  Most of the flesh had sloughed away, leaving a skull with a prominent brow ridge and tusks that jutted from the lower jaw like yellowed daggers. But there were still bits clinging to it: a strip of skin across the cheekbone, a patch of what might have been scalp, an ear that hung by threads of dried tissue.

  And the eyes.

  The sockets were hollow. Empty. Just darkness where eyes should have been.

  Except for the light.

  Purple light burned in those empty sockets. It was steady and pulsing. The same sickly violet that had glowed in the mages' veins, but concentrated here into two points of wrongness that seemed to stare directly into Dormer's soul.

  The troll's jaw hung open, revealing a mouth full of broken teeth and a tongue that had rotted to a black stub.

  It took a step forward.

  The movement was wrong. Jerky. Bones grinding against each other with sounds that made Dormer's skin crawl. Its left leg was missing most of the foot, so it dragged with each step, scraping bone against stone.

  Behind Dormer, Lieutenant Sever whispered something that sounded like a prayer.

  Out of all the magical schools, Beric Dormer hated Necromancy the most.

  Hated it with a passion that bordered on religious fervor. Hated it the way some men hated spiders or heights or the dark. He hated it so thoroughly that he'd once punched a man at a tavern just for suggesting that raising the dead could be useful in wartime.

  He was a fervent believer that making it a legal and regulated practice instead of a forbidden one, fifty years ago, was the single most idiotic decision the Council of Mages had ever made.

  And the Council had made a lot of idiotic decisions.

  "Stand down!" Captain Dernwell's voice cut through the chaos, but he wasn't shouting at the undead monstrosity. He was addressing the three figures standing in the side passage, silhouetted by purple light that pulsed from their hands.

  Chief Mage Orthis Moss stood in the center, flanked by two other mages Beric recognized: Helena Vark, a specialist in earth manipulation who'd been working the deeper shafts, and Tam Renlow, younger, barely thirty, who'd been brought in six months ago to help with magical surveying.

  All three had their hands raised with that same sickly purple light dancing around their fingers. And all three were armed with swords and lances. The very weapons that had been at the belts and in the hands of Beric's companions mere minutes ago.

  Beric's own sword—a good blade, enchanted against magical interference, worth more than six months' salary—hung at Moss's hip.

  "You don't have to do this," Dernwell continued. "Whatever you're involved in, whatever research you think justifies this; it ends here. Surrender. We can discuss this with Duke Eryndor, with the Council—"

  "Discuss?" Moss's voice was calm and almost... amused. "Captain, you broke into our workspace, made accusations based on a paranoid letter from a duke who's never set foot in these mines, and came armed with anti-magic weapons specifically designed to kill mages."

  He touched the hilt of Beric's sword, almost affectionately.

  "And you're surprised we defended ourselves?"

  The Captain had asked Beric to accompany them specifically for this task. The apprehension of Chief Mage Orthis Moss and several other individuals whose names had appeared in Duke Eryndor's letter. All of them mages sent by House Eryndor to work the Concordia mines.

  Beric was a former adventurer. He was used to violence. Against monsters, men and things that blurred the line between the two. And from the faces his superiors had been making when they'd briefed him, they had expected violence.

  That's why they'd equipped themselves with anti-magic swords. Artifacts designed to disrupt spellcasting, to cut through magical barriers, to give mundane fighters a chance against mages who could reshape reality with a word. Those weapons were supposed to be insurance. Instead, they'd been liabilities.

  "Research," Helena Vark said, her voice sharp with irritation. "Decades of research. Breakthroughs that could revolutionize how we understand magical theory, how we interact with the world's natural mana. And you burst in here like thugs, waving your special swords around, demanding we submit to interrogation."

  "You could have cooperated," Lieutenant Commander Ford said. His hand kept moving to his empty belt, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.

  "We could have," Moss agreed. "But then you would have confiscated our work. Destroyed it, probably, based on superstition and fear."

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  Behind Beric, the undead troll swung its massive arm into the tunnel wall. Rock exploded. Dust filled the air.

  How were they this powerful?

  Beric had been an adventurer for fifteen years before taking this position. He'd fought bandits and monsters, had delved into dungeons, had killed a drake once in the Shadowpeak Mountains. He knew combat, and he knew mages.

  These three should not have been able to do what they'd done.

  Not this easily.

  They'd have to be over level 500. All of them. Maybe more. Chief Mage Moss must have been over 1000 to subdue them so completely, to tear enchanted weapons from trained fighters with such casual ease.

  Which was hard to believe when Beric knew the highest level in the mines was Captain Dernwell at 600. Then himself, the former adventurer trying a new career from scratch, at 508.

  He'd worked with these people. Known them. Known Moss, specifically, since he had shared meals with the man, had listened to his lectures about proper mining techniques and magical safety protocols.

  Moss was supposed to be around 400. Maybe 450. Beric had been certain that even if he couldn't take Moss in a fight and win, he could at least give him a good enough fight and die with honor if it came to that.

  But what he'd just witnessed made no sense.

  The speed. The power. The way Moss had simply taken their weapons like a parent confiscating toys from children.

  And that mana.

  Purple.

  When had mana turned purple?

  Mana was supposed to be colorless. Invisible to the naked eye unless you had the Sight, and even then it appeared as a faint shimmer, like heat haze. Different schools of magic might produce different visual effects—fire was orange and red, ice was blue, earth was brown—but the mana itself was always the same.

  This wasn't. This was wrong. Purple light that pulsed like a heartbeat. Purple veins that spread through stone like infection through flesh. Purple glow in dead eyes.

  It... it was exactly like in the history books.

  The thought came unbidden, and with it, a creeping horror that made Beric's hands go cold. He'd read about this. Everyone had, at some point. Required reading in any institution, cautionary tales told to children.

  The Corruption Wars. Four hundred years ago, when it had nearly destroyed the world. But that was ancient history. Forbidden knowledge that had been purged, burned, lost to time.

  Except... except it was here. It was here, in front of him, burning in a dead troll's eyes. Pulsing around Moss's fingers. Spreading through the stone like a disease.

  This was Corruption.

  Beric understood just then, that these weren't just powerful mages; these were corrupted mages. And he was standing in front of them, weaponless, helpless, with nothing but the empty air where his sword should be.

  Beric felt the humiliation wash over him, the kind of powerlessness he hadn't experienced since he was a child fumbling with his first wooden practice sword.

  His hands were trembling, and he had to clench them into fists to make it stop. He stood behind Captain Dernwell, trying to stay out of the troll's reach, to stay alive, and the reality of their situation pressed down on him with suffocating weight. These people could kill them all, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  The Captain was still talking and trying to negotiate, but Beric barely heard the words over the roar of his own thoughts. His mind kept circling back to the same impossible question: how could he make sure he was never in this situation again? Never standing weaponless before enemies who could swat him aside like an insect, never forced to watch his superiors beg for mercy from people who should have been weaker than him?

  Level 508 had seemed respectable. Impressive, even. The second-highest in the entire mining operation.

  It wasn't enough. It would never be enough, not against Corruption itself made manifest in human form.

  Would you like to have power?

  A whisper slipped into his mind like oil spreading across water. It was soft and gentle. Almost... kind.

  Beric's breath caught in his throat. "What—"

  He looked up sharply, his eyes darting around the cavern. The Captain was still speaking. Major Wren had his hand raised in a placating gesture. Lieutenant Sever was edging toward the wall.

  None of them had heard it.

  His gaze found the troll.

  It had stopped moving. Stopped its mindless destruction of the tunnel walls. Those empty eye sockets—burning with that terrible purple light—were fixed directly on him.

  Staring. Seeing.

  A chill ran down Beric's spine that had nothing to do with the cold air of the deep mines.

  Would you like to live... deliciously?

  The voice came again. It didn't echo in the cavern. It resonated inside his skull, intimate and knowing, as if it had always been there, waiting for him to notice. Beric's mouth went dry. He tried to look away from those burning sockets, but he couldn't. The purple light held him like a hook through flesh.

  You need never feel weak again.

  The words caressed something deep inside him, something he'd been trying to ignore. The humiliation. The helplessness. The sick feeling of having his weapon torn from his hands like a child's toy.

  Small. Pathetic. Powerless.

  "Stop," Beric whispered, but even he wasn't sure if he meant it.

  I can give you strength beyond measure. Power that would make these mages seem like insects. You would never stand behind another man again, never watch your betters beg, never feel your hands shake with impotent rage.

  The troll's massive skull tilted slightly, almost quizzically. The movement should have been grotesque—bones grinding, dead flesh shifting—but instead it seemed almost... concerned. Like a friend offering comfort.

  All the power you never had. All the strength you always deserved.

  Beric's breathing had become shallow. His heart was hammering against his ribs. Fifteen years as an adventurer. Fifteen years fighting, killing, surviving. And for what? To end up here, weaponless, terrified, while men weaker than him wielded strength that should have been impossible?

  The voice was right.

  The realization hit him with the force of revelation. The voice was right. He deserved more. He'd earned more. He'd bled for every level, fought for every scrap of experience, and it still wasn't enough.

  It could be enough.

  "How?" The word escaped before he could stop it.

  So simple. So easy. You need only let me in.

  The purple light in the troll's eyes pulsed, brighter now, and Beric felt something shift in his chest. A warmth spreading through him. A promise of something vast and terrible and glorious.

  Open yourself to me. Accept what I offer. And you will never be weak again.

  His hand began to rise slowly. Almost without conscious thought. Reaching out toward the creature, toward the light and the promise of power that sang through his veins like the sweetest poison.

  He could feel it now. The thing they called Corruption. Not as something evil or wrong, but as potential. Raw, unlimited potential. The same power that had let Moss disarm them all in seconds. The very same that had raised a dead king from ancient stone.

  It could be his. All he had to do was accept it.

  Yes, the voice purred, warm and approving. Yes, reach out. Take what is yours. Become what you were always meant to be.

  His fingers trembled in the air between them. The purple light seemed to reach back, tendrils of it extending from the troll's eyes like welcoming arms. Beric could almost feel it touching his skin, and taste the power on his tongue.

  Never weak again. Never helpless. Never—

  "Do not listen to it."

  A new voice cut through the haze like a blade through smoke. It came from behind him, clear, and carrying an authority that made the Corruption's whisper seem thin and hollow by comparison.

  A hand landed on Beric's shoulder. It was unusually warm and firm. Real in a way that anchored him back to the stone beneath his feet and the stale air in his lungs.

  "All it does is lie."

  Before Beric could turn and see who had spoken, the hand pushed with enough force to send him stumbling to the side, breaking his line of sight with the troll.

  The connection snapped.

  The warmth in his chest turned immediately cold. The promise of power dissolved like morning mist. Beric gasped, suddenly aware that he'd been holding his breath, that his hand was still outstretched toward nothing.

  He caught himself against the tunnel wall and turned.

  A figure walked past him, moving with casual confidence toward the troll and the three corrupted mages beyond. Beric couldn't see the face—the person's back was to him—but he caught details in the purple-tinted gloom.

  Silver-white hair that seemed to catch what little light there was and reflect it back brighter. Blue robes that shifted with each step, unmarked by the dust and debris that coated everything else in the chamber. Young, from the sound of the voice and the easy way they moved.

  The cavern seemed to hold its breath.

  Even the troll had gone still, its massive head turning to track this new arrival with an intensity that suggested recognition. Or perhaps calculation.

  Captain Dernwell had stopped mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open.

  Moss's confident smirk had frozen on his face.

  And Beric, still leaning against the wall with his heart hammering and the ghost of Corruption's whisper fading from his mind, could only watch as the stranger in blue robes stepped between them and certain death with all the concern of someone interrupting a mild disagreement.

  "Captain Dernwell," the figure said, still walking forward.

  "Yes?" The Captain's voice came out strangled.

  "My apologies for letting you come here alone." The young voice carried genuine regret. "I hadn't thought it would be this bad."

  Dernwell opened his mouth but no words came out.

  "Now then..."

  "Stop!" Moss's voice cracked through the cavern, his hand raised, purple light already gathering around his fingers. "Don't come any closer—"

  The figure flicked his wrist and the troll was gone.

  Wait... 'gone'?

  Beric blinked. He stared at the empty space where tons of corrupted flesh and bone had been standing just a moment before. His mind stuttered, trying to process what he'd just seen—or hadn't seen. Had it collapsed? Had the ground swallowed it? Had he missed something in the blink between one breath and the next?

  There had been a troll there. A massive, dead thing with purple fire in its eyes. He was certain of it. He could still feel the vibrations in the stone from where it had been pounding the tunnel walls. Could still smell the rot and ancient dust that had clung to it.

  But now there was nothing. Just empty air and settling dust motes.

  Beric's gaze snapped to Lieutenant Commander Ford. The man was staring at the same spot, his face slack with confusion. Major Wren had taken a step forward, squinting as if trying to find something his eyes had lost track of.

  They'd all seen it too. The troll had been real.

  And... now it wasn't.

  The three mages froze, staring at the spot where their guardian had been.

  Beric felt his legs go weak.

  The figure in blue robes stopped a few paces from the corrupted mages, head tilted slightly as if examining something mildly interesting.

  "You people," he said, his young voice carrying an edge now, "have caused quite a lot of trouble today."