Chapter 8 - The Engineer's War

  The sphere of plasma between Sinsgridt's palms pulsed with barely contained fury, crackling arcs of energy dancing across its surface. The Minmors circled closer, their coordinated movements speaking of training that transcended instinct. Reygel's hand moved toward his Arbiter, ready to summon it, ready to charge forward—

  Krewgt's hand clamped on his shoulder with surprising strength. "Don't."

  "She's dying," Reygel hissed, keeping his voice low. "There are too many—"

  "Watch."

  The command carried absolute certainty. Reygel forced himself to stillness, though every instinct screamed at him to act. Sinsgridt was surrounded, bleeding, her translucent armor barely visible except where cracks had formed—jagged lines that glowed with escaping energy, making the damage painfully obvious against her scales. How could Krewgt just stand there?

  The plasma sphere detonated.

  Not outward in a simple explosion—that would have been wasteful, inelegant. Instead, Sinsgridt compressed it into her armor's circuits, the energy flooding through the translucent material in branching rivers of white-hot power. For a heartbeat, she blazed like a star, every line of her armor glowing with such intensity that Reygel had to look away.

  When he looked back, everything had changed.

  Seven shields materialized simultaneously around her position—not the small, reactive barriers she'd been using, but massive constructs that formed a perfect perimeter. Each one stretched ten feet tall and equally wide, positioned with geometric precision to create interlocking fields of protection. The Minmors that had been mid-lunge found themselves suddenly colliding with barriers that hadn't existed an instant before.

  The shields didn't just deflect—they consumed.

  The first Minmor to make contact screamed as plasma erupted from the barrier's surface, not in a single burst but in writhing tendrils that wrapped around its body like serpents. The creature thrashed, trying to break free, but the plasma-tendrils tightened with each movement, burning through leather armor and flesh with equal ease. Within seconds, the Minmor collapsed, its body smoking and still.

  Three more attacked different shields simultaneously, their coordination perfect despite the sudden change in battlefield conditions. They must have planned for this—must have known she could generate multiple barriers. But knowing and countering were different animals.

  The shields responded independently. Where one Minmor struck with claws, the barrier absorbed the impact and converted it into a focused beam that punched through the creature's chest. Where another tried to circle around, a second shield expanded horizontally, catching the Minmor mid-stride and slamming it backward with kinetic force that shattered bones audibly. The third managed to leap over its barrier entirely—only to find a smaller shield materializing above it in midair, generating a gravity-like pull that dragged the creature down into the larger barrier below, where plasma consumed it before it could even scream.

  "She's not using her armor's reserves," Krewgt said quietly, her tone carrying something like professional admiration. "She's converting kinetic energy from their attacks into plasma. Every strike they land feeds her defenses. The more they press, the stronger she becomes."

  Reygel watched in stunned silence as the truth of it became visible. Each time a Minmor struck a shield, the barrier flared brighter—not weaker, but reinforced. The energy of the attack didn't dissipate; it transformed, redirected, weaponized. Sinsgridt had turned the entire battlefield into a conversion matrix, making her enemies power their own destruction.

  Two Minmors tried to coordinate their assault on a single shield, their combined strength enough to crack standard barriers. The shield they struck rippled like water, absorbing both impacts, then split down the middle—not breaking, but dividing into two smaller shields that wrapped around each attacker. The barriers contracted with mechanical precision, crushing the Minmors together before erupting in a confined plasma explosion that left nothing but ash.

  A sword-wielding Minmor—one of the few remaining—demonstrated why it had earned its weapon. Instead of striking the shields directly, it angled its blade to deflect plasma-tendrils, using the flat of the sword as a mirror to redirect the energy back toward the barriers. Clever. The reflected plasma struck the shield and was absorbed, creating a feedback loop that should have destabilized the entire construct.

  Should have.

  Sinsgridt's smile widened as the shield the Minmor had targeted suddenly inverted. Instead of projecting energy outward, it began drawing everything inward—plasma, air, the very light around it. The sword-wielder tried to disengage, to break free of the sudden vacuum forming at the barrier's center, but momentum worked against it. The creature stumbled forward, pulled by forces it couldn't counter, and the moment it touched the shield's surface, the inversion reversed.

  The plasma didn't just explode outward—it detonated with focused precision, channeling all its force through the Minmor's body, using the creature as a conduit to strike the three Minmors behind it. Four corpses hit the ground simultaneously, their bodies smoking from the inside out.

  "This isn't a fight," Reygel whispered, unable to keep the awe from his voice. "It's an execution."

  "It's engineering," Krewgt corrected. "Perfect implementation of principles most Engineers spend decades failing to master. She's twenty-three years old, Reygel. Twenty-three, and she's doing things that should require forty years of experience."

  Six Minmors remained, and their coordinated tactics were visibly fracturing. Fear entered their movements—not the mindless panic of broken formations, but the calculating fear of soldiers realizing they'd engaged an opponent beyond their capacity to defeat. They began retreating in pairs, trying to disengage while covering each other's withdrawal.

  Sinsgridt didn't pursue. Instead, she collapsed all seven shields into a single construct directly in front of her—a barrier so massive it stretched twenty feet tall and twice as wide, a wall of crackling energy that hummed with accumulated power from every attack it had absorbed. The remaining Minmors froze, caught between the forest behind them and the barrier before them.

  She spoke then, her voice carrying across the clearing with surprising clarity despite her injuries. "You came here to test me. To probe my capabilities." She touched the massive shield, and it pulsed with response, growing brighter. A bitter smile crossed her face as she added, quieter—almost to herself—"Well, the exiled Engineer has an answer for you."

  The barrier didn't explode. It unraveled.

  Plasma-tendrils erupted from its surface—dozens of them, hundreds, each one seeking a target with predatory intelligence. They moved like living things, weaving through the air, splitting around trees, adapting to the Minmors' evasive movements with fluid grace. The creatures tried to dodge, to use their speed and agility to escape. But the tendrils were faster, more numerous, relentless.

  The first two Minmors fell within seconds, plasma wrapping around their legs and dragging them down. The remaining four scattered in different directions, abandoning coordination for pure survival instinct. Three made it perhaps ten feet before tendrils caught them from multiple angles simultaneously—ankles, torsos, necks—pulling them off their feet and holding them suspended while plasma slowly burned through their bodies.

  The last Minmor made it twenty feet, demonstrating impressive speed and reactive instincts. It dodged the first wave of tendrils, leaped over the second, twisted in midair to avoid the third. For a heartbeat, it looked like it might actually escape.

  Then a single tendril—thinner than the others, almost delicate—wrapped around its back leg with gentle precision. The Minmor tried to kick free, but the plasma had already begun its work, burning through muscle and bone with surgical focus. The creature collapsed, unable to flee, unable to fight, and the remaining tendrils descended like a net.

  When the plasma finally dissipated, leaving only scorched grass and smoking corpses, Sinsgridt stood alone in the center of the clearing. Her massive shield dissolved, the energy returning to her armor's circuits in glowing rivers that gradually dimmed. Blood still seeped from her wounds, her armor still showed cracks, but she remained standing. Victorious. Unbroken.

  "Now do you understand?" Krewgt asked Reygel, her tone carrying neither judgment nor satisfaction. Just statement of fact.

  Reygel understood. But understanding didn't stop the fury that suddenly flooded through him. "You knew she could handle it. You knew, and you let me stand here watching someone I thought was dying—"

  "She was never dying." Krewgt's interruption was calm, clinical. "Hurt, yes. Bleeding, certainly. But that performance was calculated from the first moment we spotted her. She knew we were watching. Knew someone was in the trees. Everything you witnessed was as much demonstration as combat."

  "That's impossible. Those were real attacks. Real injuries—"

  "Real but controlled. She could have ended that fight in thirty seconds if she'd wanted. Instead, she let it play out, let them think they were winning, gathered data on their tactics while feeding them false information about her own capabilities." Krewgt gestured toward the clearing. "Now they'll report back—assuming any scouts survived to carry word—that she's dangerous but beatable, that her shields have limits, that sustained assault eventually breaks through. They'll plan their next attack based on false intelligence."

  Reygel stared at the clearing, at the bodies scattered across trampled grass, and felt something cold settle in his chest. The analytical part of his mind recognized the brilliance of it—letting enemies probe your defenses while you gathered their tactical patterns, controlling the flow of information while appearing desperate. Pure strategic thinking.

  But another part—the part that had watched her bleeding and thought she needed saving—felt manipulated. Used. As if the entire scene had been theater, and he'd been cast as an unwitting audience member.

  "I was about to charge in," he said quietly. "About to get myself killed trying to save someone who didn't need saving."

  "Yes." Krewgt's acknowledgment carried no apology. "And I stopped you. Because that's my responsibility as your instructor—to prevent you from dying stupidly."

  Movement in the clearing drew their attention. Sinsgridt had spotted them—or more likely, had known their location the entire time—and was making her way toward the tree line with careful steps that suggested pain despite her victory. Her armor's glow had dimmed to barely visible levels, the circuits dark except for occasional flickers that marked power reserves running critically low.

  Reygel's anger hadn't quite dissipated, but seeing her up close made it harder to maintain. Blood stained her scales where claws had found gaps in her armor's coverage. One eye was swelling shut, and she favored her left leg in a way that spoke of damage beneath the skin. The demonstration might have been calculated, but the injuries were undeniably real. Her armor's cracks still glowed faintly with leaking energy, the translucent material fractured in dozens of places that traced glowing spiderwebs across her body.

  "Krewgt," Sinsgridt said, her voice carrying weariness beneath its surface. "And the Deathless." Her gaze settled on Reygel. "Reygel Sireg, if I remember correctly. The one who defended my choice on the bridge."

  "Before I knew what that choice cost," Reygel said, the words sharper than intended.

  "Before you understood tactical versus strategic value," Sinsgridt corrected without heat. "An understandable mistake for someone barely a few days old." She looked between them. "I assume you didn't just happen to be passing through. Krewgt doesn't do casual walks through hostile territory."

  "We came to find you," Krewgt said. "Reygel insisted."

  Sinsgridt's remaining good eye widened slightly. "The Council allowed this? They sent the only Deathless they've ever bound to chase after their greatest mistake?" Her laugh carried bitter amusement. "I'm flattered. Or they're more desperate than I thought."

  "Neither," Reygel said. "I chose to come. The Council tried to start my training immediately. I told them I needed to find you first."

  Something in Sinsgridt's expression shifted—surprise, perhaps, or something softer that she quickly suppressed. "Why?"

  The question hung in the air between them. Why had he insisted? The easy answer was guilt over Grelchn's death, over defending Sinsgridt's choice without understanding its full cost. But standing here now, watching her favor her injured leg while blood seeped from a dozen wounds, he realized the truth was more complicated.

  "Because nothing about any of this makes sense," he said finally. "And I thought maybe you could help explain it."

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Before Sinsgridt could respond, Reygel caught movement in his peripheral vision—a glint of metal from the tree line, the subtlest shift that his tactical mind registered as threat. Something about the angle, the trajectory—

  A needle, arcing through the air toward Sinsgridt's exposed neck.

  His analytical mind calculated instantly. The projectile was following a parabolic arc, gravity pulling it down in a perfect curve that would intersect with her throat. The path was obvious once he saw it—simple geometry, the kind of problem that seemed to solve itself in his head.

  No time to shout a warning. No time to intercept physically.

  But if he removed gravity from that space...

  Reygel thrust his hand forward, reaching for that internal weight he'd been practicing all day. But instead of amplifying it, he tried something new—tried to push it away, to create an absence where the constant pull should be. The Gravity Well formed, clumsy and flickering, but this time it felt hollow. Empty. Wrong in a completely different way than the crushing Wells he'd practiced.

  Space warped behind Sinsgridt, invisible to her but clear to Reygel's focused awareness. The needle entered the distortion.

  The projectile's arc straightened immediately. Without gravity to pull it downward, it continued in a perfectly straight line—the trajectory it would have followed before physics bent it toward the ground. The needle shot forward, passing a full foot above Sinsgridt's head.

  Reygel's Gravity Well collapsed immediately, his control shattering. Exhaustion flooded through him—he'd pushed far beyond his current limits, and creating a null field felt fundamentally harder than simply increasing weight. His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees, gasping.

  "Reygel!" Krewgt was at his side immediately, her hand steadying him. "That was reckless. Creating a null field when you've barely learned to create Wells—" She paused, her expression shifting to something between shock and calculation. "Wait. How far away was that? The needle was coming from the tree line. That's at least thirty feet."

  "Had to be farther," Reygel managed between breaths. "Maybe thirty-five. Saw the arc. Calculated trajectory. Remove gravity, needle goes straight. Simple geometry." He looked up at Sinsgridt, who stood frozen, staring at the space above her head where the needle had passed. "Mostly simple. Harder than... expected."

  Krewgt's grip on his shoulder tightened. "Reygel. Lesser elements can't project that far. That's one of the primary reasons they're classified as lesser—their range is severely limited. Most Gravity users can barely affect objects more than ten feet away, and that's after years of training."

  Sinsgridt was scanning the tree line with sharp focus, her remaining good eye tracking for the source of the needle. Her armor flared to life, circuits glowing as translucent shields materialized around all three of them—overlapping barriers that shimmered in the red sunlight. "Long range. Poisoned tip, almost certainly. They had a sniper positioned to capitalize on my weakened state."

  "Stay in the shields," Krewgt commanded, already moving. "I'll find them." She vanished into the trees with predatory speed, her spear ready.

  Sinsgridt kept the barriers active, her good eye never leaving the tree line. The shields pulsed with each heartbeat, ready to intercept any follow-up attacks. "That null field saved my life," she said quietly, her gaze returning to Reygel. "I never even saw the needle coming—I was too drained to maintain proper awareness."

  She looked at him with open curiosity and something like disbelief. "I've studied the literature on Gravity users extensively—documented abilities, theoretical limitations. Prepared in case I ever had to face one in battle." She shook her head. "What you just did shouldn't be in those records. And the tactical thinking—nullifying gravity instead of trying to stop it directly. Most documented approaches involve pulling projectiles down or creating resistance. You saw the geometry and exploited it."

  "So I actually helped," Reygel said, trying for levity and failing. "Instead of you saving me again."

  "Again?" Sinsgridt's eyebrow raised.

  "I was about to charge into your battle. Krewgt stopped me, but I was preparing to be heroically stupid." He forced himself back to his feet, Krewgt's hand still steadying him. "You didn't need my help then. But apparently you did just now."

  Krewgt emerged from the trees, her expression grim. "Gone. Tracks leading northwest, moving fast. Professional—covered their retreat well." She looked at Sinsgridt. "They'll alert others to our position. We have minutes at most before this area is swarming."

  The shields dissolved as Sinsgridt's armor dimmed to conserve power. "Then we move. Now."

  "Apparently." Sinsgridt's tone carried something almost like respect. "A Deathless with Gravity affinity. That's... exceptionally rare." She paused, her gaze sharpening. "And if you can project that range consistently, potentially far more useful than anyone has ever realized a Gravity user could be."

  The moment stretched. Then Krewgt broke it with characteristic bluntness. "Why are you heading south? Toward Minmor territory? You're exiled, Sinsgridt. You could have gone north, found a cave near the lava flows, lived out your exile in relative safety. Instead, you're walking straight toward the people trying to kill you."

  Sinsgridt's expression hardened. "Because exile doesn't mean surrender. The Laderos cast me out—fine. That's their choice. But I won't stop fighting to end this bloodshed." She gestured at the corpses scattered across the clearing. "This war has continued for generations. Generations, Krewgt. Laderos dying, Minmors dying, and for what? Because the Relcreas hate us? Because of some ancient alliance that should have faded centuries ago?"

  "The only way this ends is extinction," Krewgt said, her voice flat. "One race survives. The other doesn't. That's the reality of war."

  "Is it?" Sinsgridt's challenge carried heat. "The Relcreas and Minmors had their alliance centuries ago. The Laderos retreated to Ephevret—the most remote Riftshore we could find, bothering no one, threatening no one. We've been hiding here for generations, and still they hunt us. Why? What strategic value does our extinction provide?" She shook her head. "It doesn't make sense. The Minmors are intelligent beings. Capable of coordination, tactics, even diplomacy when it suits them. For them to sustain this level of commitment through multiple generations, just because their ancient allies told them to hate us? No. Something else is driving this."

  Reygel found himself nodding before he realized he was doing it. "Nothing about this makes sense," he agreed. "From the moment I woke here, everything has felt... wrong. Not just unfamiliar—fundamentally wrong, like pieces of a puzzle that don't fit together no matter how you arrange them."

  Krewgt's expression remained neutral, but Reygel sensed disapproval beneath the surface. "You're suggesting what? That the Minmors are victims? That they're being manipulated?"

  "I'm suggesting the situation is more complex than 'kill them before they kill us.'" Sinsgridt's tone turned sharp. "And I intend to find out why. First step—verify that the gate at the heart of the Minmor town is still operational."

  "Gate?" Reygel asked.

  "A portal connecting Riftshores," Krewgt supplied. "Most major settlements have them. They're how trade and travel between Riftshores occurs."

  "This one connects to Phidea," Sinsgridt said. "Our birthright Riftshore. The one we were driven from centuries ago when the war began." She met Reygel's eyes. "If I can access that gate, I can reach Phidea. And if I can reach Phidea, I can search our old archives—the records we couldn't bring when we fled. Maybe there's something there that explains why the Minmors are so bent on eradicating us. Because right now? It doesn't make strategic sense. And things that don't make sense usually mean you're missing critical information."

  "And you think you'll just walk into the Minmor town?" Krewgt's skepticism was palpable. "Access their gate while surrounded by enemies?"

  "I think I'll make my new home in a cave on the mountainside overlooking their town," Sinsgridt corrected. "One with good visibility, lava flows for power, and a strong enough illusion to make the entrance look like natural rock. From there, I'll observe their patterns, learn their schedules, find opportunities." She smiled, and it carried nothing of humor. "I'm an Engineer, Krewgt. Patience and precision are what I do best."

  The plan was simultaneously brilliant and suicidal. Reygel cataloged the variables in his analytical mind—the strategic position, the resource availability, the information-gathering potential. Also the isolation, the constant danger, the high probability of eventually being discovered and killed. The tactical advantages barely outweighed the strategic liabilities.

  "You'll die there," Krewgt said flatly.

  "Probably. But I'll learn something first." Sinsgridt turned her attention to Reygel. "What about you? Why risk coming after me? The Council must want you back for training."

  Reygel hesitated. The sphere's call had been growing stronger all day, a persistent pull northward—back toward the settlement they'd traveled from. "There's something beneath the Laderos settlement. Deep underground. A purple sphere that's been calling to me since yesterday." He gestured vaguely north. "The pull is getting stronger. I don't know what it is, but it feels important. Necessary."

  Sinsgridt's remaining good eye narrowed with interest. "A sphere? Purple? Describe it more precisely. What does it look like? How do you perceive it?"

  "I..." Reygel struggled to find the right words. "I don't see it with my eyes. It's more like... I know it's there. When I close my eyes and reach for my gravity manipulation, I can sense it. Purple, pulsing, deep underground. Calling to me."

  "Calling how? Like a sound? A feeling?"

  "A pull. Directional. Like it wants me to move toward it." He gestured north. "Gets stronger when I practice with my gravity abilities."

  Sinsgridt exchanged a look with Krewgt, then back to Reygel. "It might not actually be a sphere. That could just be how your mind interprets the sensation—brains often translate abstract perceptions into familiar shapes." She started pacing despite her injured leg, her analytical mind clearly working. "And purple... that's interesting. Each element has an associated color in most documented manifestations. Purple isn't commonly recorded, but in the few instances it appears, it's been linked to gravity."

  "An undocumented gravity ability," Krewgt said, her tone thoughtful rather than skeptical. "I suggested as much when it first manifested. The question is what kind of ability it is, and what it's pointing toward."

  "Possibly. An undocumented one." Sinsgridt's intensity was different now—not desperate recognition, but scientific curiosity. "Gravity is so rare that our understanding is fragmentary at best. We have maybe a dozen documented abilities across all recorded history. But the way Reygel describes it—a directional sense, a pull, connected to his own gravity manipulation—it sounds more like a... compass. Or a form of gravity-based perception we've never seen before."

  "A compass to what?" Reygel asked.

  "That's the question, isn't it?" Sinsgridt's good eye gleamed. "It's pulling you specifically, gets stronger when you use your abilities, and it's coming from deep beneath the settlement. The Laderos have been there for generations and never reported anything unusual underground." She paused. "Which means either it's always been there and no one could sense it, or..."

  "Or what?"

  "Or it only activates for certain people. Gravity users, specifically. Maybe even only for particularly strong ones." She looked at him with renewed interest. "You projected a null field thirty feet when you've barely been alive a handful of days. You're sensing something no one else can. These aren't coincidences."

  Krewgt frowned. "An undocumented gravity ability. Interesting, but hardly urgent. We came to find Sinsgridt. We found her. Now she can continue with her plans while we return for Reygel's training."

  "Perhaps." Sinsgridt's gaze remained fixed on Reygel, her analytical mind clearly working through possibilities. "Gravity users are extraordinarily rare. Documented abilities can be counted on two hands across all of recorded history. If this is something new, something that only manifests in particularly strong users..." She trailed off, then shook her head as if clearing it. "But you're right. I have a mission. Observing Skotom, accessing the gate to Phidea, finding answers about why this war continues. That's more important than satisfying scientific curiosity."

  "Then we part ways here," Krewgt said, though something in her tone suggested she didn't believe it.

  "Yes." Sinsgridt tested her injured leg again, grimacing. "I'll head south once the immediate danger passes. Find that cave. Begin my observations." But her expression betrayed doubt, her good eye distant.

  Reygel watched the internal struggle play across her face. "You don't sound convinced."

  "Because I'm not," she admitted. "If that compass of yours is pointing to something beneath Temp—something that's been there for generations but only now has someone who can sense it—that could be significant. Potentially more significant than spying on Skotom from a mountainside." She paused, conflict evident. "But I can't just abandon my plan on a hypothesis. I need to—"

  A howl cut through the forest—distant but clear. Then another. Then a dozen more, creating a chorus that spoke of coordination and numbers.

  Krewgt's expression hardened. "The sniper alerted them. We have minutes at most."

  Sinsgridt looked south toward Skotom, then north toward Temp, then at her injured leg. "With this leg, I can't outrun a hunting party. Can't reach my intended location safely, can't establish a defensible position." Her jaw tightened with frustration. "Tactical reality trumps strategic planning."

  "So you're coming with us," Reygel said carefully.

  "I'm making a pragmatic choice," Sinsgridt corrected. "I can't proceed south safely. North takes us to Temp, where your Altar provides guaranteed protection for you and the settlement offers defensible ground for all of us. Once there, we investigate your compass—which genuinely interests me scientifically, regardless of strategic value." She met his eyes. "After that, once I've healed and resupplied, I'll reassess. Maybe the sphere investigation leads somewhere crucial. Maybe it's a dead end and I return to my original plan. But right now, survival dictates north."

  The reasoning was sound, pragmatic, and left her options open. Not an impulsive pivot but a tactical adaptation to circumstances. Reygel found himself nodding. "Alright. North it is."

  Sinsgridt tested her injured leg, grimacing but staying upright. "We need to move. Now."

  "Can you run on that?" Krewgt asked, eyeing the injury with professional assessment.

  "I'll manage." Sinsgridt's tone left no room for argument. "Pain is temporary. Getting caught by a Minmor hunting party is permanent."

  They started north at a pace that was more controlled sprint than full run, Sinsgridt keeping up despite her limp. Krewgt led, her warrior's instincts guiding them through the most defensible paths. Reygel stayed close to Sinsgridt, ready to support her if she faltered.

  After several minutes of running, Reygel asked between breaths, "Does the settlement have a name? Why does everyone just call it 'the settlement'?"

  Sinsgridt glanced at him, something like old pain crossing her features. "It has a name. Temp."

  "Temp?" Reygel repeated. "That's... short."

  "Short for temporary," Krewgt said from ahead, not slowing. "Our ancestors named it that because they believed we'd reclaim Phidea soon enough. They thought they were building a temporary refuge, not a permanent home."

  "Three hundred years later," Sinsgridt added with bitter irony, "we're still here. Still calling it temporary. Most Laderos won't even say the name anymore—it's too painful a reminder of what we've lost. What we failed to take back."

  "The Minmors call their town Skotom," Krewgt supplied. "They have no such qualms about permanence."

  Reygel processed this, the weight of generations settling into those simple facts. A town named for hope that had curdled into bitter reminder. "Temp," he said quietly, testing the word. It felt honest, at least. More real than the euphemism everyone used.

  "If you die, at least you'll resurrect right where we're heading," Sinsgridt said, changing the subject. "Back to the settlement."

  Reygel hadn't considered that. She was right—if he fell, he'd wake at the Altar in Temp. Their destination. "That's... actually convenient. Morbid, but convenient."

  "Stay alive anyway," Krewgt called back without slowing. "Dying wastes time explaining to the Council why their Deathless got himself killed again."

  Minutes later, as they vaulted over a fallen log, Reygel found himself saying, "How much farther to Temp?" The name slipped out naturally, without thought.

  He glanced at Krewgt and Sinsgridt, half-expecting a scowl or at least a flinch at hearing the name spoken so casually. But neither reacted. Krewgt's expression remained focused on their path. Sinsgridt's breathing stayed steady despite her limp. They didn't mind him using the name—only felt pain when they used it themselves.

  The realization settled into Reygel's mind with quiet significance. He would keep calling it Temp. Not out of defiance or insensitivity, but because avoiding the name felt like letting the pain win. A town deserved to be called what it was, even if that name carried the weight of failed hopes.

  They ran north, back toward Temp—toward mysteries that Sinsgridt hoped to unravel, toward a purple sphere that had been waiting beneath the earth for generations. Behind them, the howls grew closer, more numerous, the Minmors of Skotom giving chase with determination that transcended simple territorial defense.

  And in Reygel's mind, the sphere pulsed once—rhythmic, patient, inevitable—as if welcoming him home to a place he'd never been, for a purpose he couldn't yet fathom.