Several members of the expedition, along with a few of the Altemen, followed Torg across the wide, gray stone floor of the cavern toward the far side—where the ground abruptly vanished into shadow.

The combination of the newly lit ceiling nodes and the flickering torchlight cast strange, competing shadows across the vast crevasse that yawned before them. It was at least sixty feet wide, and the opposite cliff wall appeared slick and black, swallowing light rather than reflecting it.

As they approached, Rishmond caught sight of something moving on the far wall. A wild kathtwip—white, hairless, and sinewy—was climbing the sheer rock face with impossible ease, vanishing silently into the shadows above.

The edge loomed closer, and now a low, thick iron chain came into view. It was strung between equally massive iron posts set into the stone a foot or so from the drop, a crude but unmistakable warning line.

The whispers in Rishmond’s mind didn’t fade—but they grew softer, more distant, like someone calling to him through thick fog. Yet their urgency remained sharp, a pressure behind his thoughts that refused to ease.

Torg walked steadily toward a break in the chain.

The posts at either end of this gap were taller than the others, curved forward and down over the abyss, like frozen tendrils of some ancient creature. The chain itself seemed to flow into the dark, disappearing over the cliff’s edge.

Rishmond’s breath caught.

The gap was no accident. It was a path. An opening in the protective barrier—a narrow threshold leading to a place that should not be stepped.

A place where one could simply walk off into the unknowable deep.

Torg stopped just short of crossing the boundary marked by the heavy chain stretched along the edge. He stood near the two tall support posts that curved outward and down into the void, close enough to reach out one stubby arm and grip the thick iron bar embedded in the stone.

Rishmond looked closer—and saw that the bar was the top rung of a ladder. A ladder that vanished over the side and into the dark crevasse below.

Torg’s head rotated slowly—until it faced entirely backward, staring at the group behind him. That motion, unnatural and silent, never failed to remind Rishmond that the golem was not a living being. Not really.

“I will return in just a few minutes,” Torg said calmly. “I must go alone. The maintenance tunnel is not fit for more than one. It will not take long. Once I have enacted the reset, I will return—and we can proceed to the Shrine.”

“Torg!” Rishmond called after him. “Is this safe?”

“Of course, Wizard Rishmond,” Torg replied, his voice as even as ever. “Do not be concerned. The ladders are sturdy. They have been here a very long time, but they are well-made and of excellent material. They will easily support my weight. We will be on our way in naught but a few minutes.”

Rishmond stepped closer to the line, heart tight in his chest.

“Be careful, Torg. Be safe.”

Torg’s head slowly rotated back to its proper position.

Without another word, he turned in that strange, compact way of his—half-pivot, half-fold—and stepped forward. He reached the edge, shifted his weight, and disappeared over the side with a sound like stone rubbing against stone.

Gone.

The cavern held its breath.

Rishmond stepped carefully between the two iron supports, gripping one tightly as he leaned forward to peer over the edge.

Below, Torg was already partway down the ladder affixed to the cliff face. The little golem moved with surprising speed, his crystalline body glowing softly in the shadows. Rishmond watched as he disappeared into what appeared to be a narrow opening in the rock about ten feet below.

Then Rishmond’s eyes were drawn outward—and downward.

The walls of the crevasse were veined with glowing green. Glittergreen. Some patches were small and isolated, others stretched in long, irregular lines that twisted through the black stone like frozen lightning. The deeper he looked, the more there was—green lights winking and pulsing, layer upon layer, until the darkness far below looked like a starless sky filled with fireflies.

At last, he thought, this is what I imagined.

The mines revealed themselves not through tunnels or carts—but here, in this impossible chasm lit by the Gods’ own breath.

“Rishmond.”

Tybour’s voice pulled him back.

He turned, hand still gripping the iron ladder tightly. Tybour stood a few paces back with a look of calm concern.

“Come away from the edge,” the First Mage said gently. “Let Torg do his work.”

Rishmond hesitated—then stepped away, back toward the group.

A familiar voice spoke off to his left, low and conversational.

“These ladders are how the Gods got around the mines in the days before the elevator, you know.”

VanLief Aericksen spoke in the voice Rishmond had come to recognize as his lecture voice—a tone he adopted whenever he wanted to impart some bit of information he found either important or, at the very least, novel.

“There are few records that remain from the days before the Blessing,” he began, “but writings about the mine do survive—carefully preserved by the Altemen.” He nodded toward Elder Geriswald, the gesture subtle but respectful. “The records are quite clear regarding the elevator—when it was constructed, that is, though not how. There’s no description of its mechanism, only that it came into being after the deeper caverns were reached.”

He turned slightly, addressing the group at large.

“The records state that the seven ladders built along this crevasse were built by the Gods themselves, to allow access to the lower levels of what was once a vast, natural cave system. By all accounts, the Gods mined glittergreen for their own purposes—until they discovered that the Altemen were immune to the ghosts of the mine and mountain.”

From Rishmond’s right, Elder Geriswald's voice answered—low and warm.

“It is true,” he said. “Our ancestors were brought here by the Gods, chosen to assist. They carved the stone, made space for divine design. The old records speak of marvels—of glowing halls, shifting bridges, voices from the stone itself.”

He paused, then added with quiet reverence, “I had not dared to believe such wonders would return—not in my lifetime. But now… now the hope has ignited within me. If a servant of the Gods can return and restore even part of what was lost, then anything is possible.”

He swept his hand toward the ceiling.

“These lights have not worked since the Blessing. And now, by grace alone, they shine again. If Torg speaks truly—and I have no reason to doubt him now—then the elevator will once more descend under its own power.”

A beat of silence passed, then Gregor Tranto spoke up, his voice skeptical but not unkind.

“I thought magic didn’t work here in the mines?” he asked. “Something to do with the glittergreen’s concentration?”

Rishmond noted the marked difference in the group’s mood.

Just minutes ago, everyone had been tense, tightly wound by the resurgence of whispers, the flickering ghostly forms, and Torg’s unsettling behavior. But now, many had gathered around VanLief Aericksen, drawn in by the rhythm of his lecture. Their attention had shifted—no longer consumed by fear, but pulled toward history, toward story.

Even Cantor and Illiar, still close beside him, seemed calmer. Not relaxed, not entirely—but no longer on edge. He reached out, took each of their hands in his own, and felt their grip tighten in reply. The contact grounded him, warmed him.

Across from them, VanLief continued, his tone now half-lecture, half-recitation.

“You would be correct, sir,” he said, responding to Gregor’s question. “Magic is—at best—unreliable here in the mines.”

He moved to stand beside Elder Geriswald, gesturing with quiet energy as he spoke.

“The concentration of glittergreen in this place acts as a catalytic force. It amplifies even the smallest use of lotret—our ambient magic—and does so in unpredictable ways. A minor charm may yield explosive results… or nothing at all.”

He turned, pacing slowly before the group now, clearly enjoying himself.

“It is for this reason, according to the ancient records, that the Gods created something they called a-leck-tra-city—a power not born of magic, but something else entirely.”

Rishmond saw several heads tilt curiously. The word itself felt strange, foreign. Heavy with lost meaning.

“We do not know what it truly is,” VanLief continued, voice growing more lyrical. “The Gods never revealed that secret. Our records speak of it only in fragments—most of them preserved right here, in this very mine.”

He looked toward the glowing tablet on the platform.

“We know that a-leck-tra-city can be generated from glittergreen, though how remains a mystery. We know the God tablets operate on it. We also know…” he paused for effect, “...that all mortal attempts to replicate it using magic have failed. Worse—such attempts have led to the destruction of nearly every remaining tablet in the civilized lands of Rit.”

He raised a single hand, fingers pointed like a storyteller concluding his tale.

“In fact, the tablet here at the elevator is the only known working tablet still in existence.”

He smiled, pleased with his conclusion, then added—just slightly too grandly—“A fragile bridge between us and the divine.”

Rishmond smiled faintly. VanLief’s lectures always walked the line between endearing and infuriating. But this time… the poetry felt appropriate. A bridge to the divine. That’s exactly what the mine felt like.

A loud clang echoed through the crevasse, followed by a sharp, metallic click.

The gathered group turned as one toward the sound, eyes fixed on the ladder descending into the dark.

Silence stretched for several long moments. Even the whispers seemed to pause.

Then, the scratching scramble of a wild kathtwip scaling the far wall broke the stillness, and breath seemed to return to the chamber all at once. No one spoke, but the quiet sound of collective exhalation filled the space like a subtle wave.

Rishmond turned his head, scanning the gathered faces. Everyone stood frozen, eyes locked on the ladder.

And then—Torg’s arm appeared, gripping the top rung.

He climbed with purpose, pulling his small body over the edge. His movements were smooth, energized. Without hesitation, he walked directly toward the group—and straight to Rishmond.

“The repairs are complete,” he said simply. “We can go now. The elevator will take us to the lowest level much faster. Are you prepared to proceed?”

Rishmond smiled, relief and affection softening his voice.

“Yes, Torg. If you’re ready, then I am too. What did you do down there?”

“I re-engaged the braking chains and reset the magnetic guidance rails,” Torg replied. “They had been partially misaligned. Now, all systems are restored.”

Rishmond grinned down at him. “I’m just glad you’re back safe.”

Torg tilted his head, the soft whir of his internal gears the only sound.

“That is kind of you, Wizard Rishmond. But there is no need for concern.”

Rishmond chuckled and placed a hand gently on Torg’s shoulder, bending slightly to do so.

“Just Rishmond. You don’t have to call me ‘Wizard’ all the time. We’re friends now—and friends don’t need to be so formal.”

Torg paused, his lights flickering briefly—then bursting into a vibrant cascade of rainbow sparks and streaks across his crystal core.

“I like that,” he said. “That we are friends.”

Rishmond’s chest tightened in a way he didn’t quite understand.

“I will call you Rishmond then. And we shall be friends.”

Torg turned and walked briskly back toward the elevator, his step lighter than it had ever been.

The crowd parted instinctively to let him pass, then fell in behind him. Rishmond followed, with Cantor and Illiar at his sides, their hands still in his. Tybour brought up the rear, trailing the group by several feet, deep in conversation with Elder Geriswald, Haningway, Ueet, and VanLief Aericksen.

Their voices were low, private. Something weighty was being discussed.

But Rishmond, for the first time in what felt like hours, felt steady.

The elevator—and the Shrine—awaited.

The group boarded the elevator one by one, their footsteps ringing softly on the ancient metal floor. Torg once again extended his legs, rising up to the control pedestal. His smooth ascent felt almost ceremonial now, and the glowing God tablet before him shone brighter than ever—even against the illumination from the newly restored lights.

Across the cavern, Rishmond noticed several Altemen moving quickly but calmly, snuffing out torches. The firelight was no longer needed. The Gods' light had returned.

Torg turned his head toward the guard who had first challenged him when they approached the elevator.

“I will show you how to operate the elevator,” Torg said.

The Alteman moved respectfully to his side, watching intently as Torg pointed out various symbols on the tablet’s surface, his crystalline fingers tapping gently at specific runes and glowing paths.

“Master Torg,” Elder Geriswald called out. “We have need to stop at the mid-level. Supervisor Haltoo has a task to perform there, and it would be good to take him along with us.”

“Of course, Elder Geriswald,” Torg replied. Then, turning slightly, he tilted his head toward Rishmond.

“Rishmond?”

The way he said it—like a question, like he needed permission—caught Rishmond off guard.

“Y-Yes. Of course,” he said quickly, a little embarrassed to be consulted as if he had authority over the journey. But then again… maybe he did.

Torg turned back to the gathered group and spoke, his voice louder now, steady and clear.

“Clear the doors, please.”

The sound of conversation hushed as people shifted, moving back toward the center of the platform. Altemen guards stepped aside, checking the edges. The final few stepped on board, and the elevator’s frame gave a faint groan of readiness, as if it had been waiting centuries for this moment.

Some shuffling followed as those nearest the doors stepped further into the elevator. It wasn’t crowded—the platform could have held twenty more people easily—but it seemed that everyone silently agreed: best to err on the side of caution.

Torg gestured to the Altemen operator, guiding his hand to a specific glowing point on the surface of the tablet.

The gates swung shut with a soft whirring hum, followed by a muted click as the latch fell into place.

Another tap. Another symbol.

The elevator shuddered—just slightly—and then began its steady, controlled descent into the depths of the Glittergreen Mines.

A faint hum vibrated beneath their feet, too smooth to be mechanical, too consistent to be magical. Something other.

Torg leaned in, speaking to the operator in calm, clipped instructions for a few brief moments. Then he turned back to the group and compressed his legs, lowering himself back to his original, compact height.

“It will take approximately eleven minutes to reach the mid-level,” he said, his voice clear above the quiet murmurs of those aboard. “Elder Geriswald has requested that we stop to deliver Supervisor Haltoo and his team.”

He paused, glancing around the group before adding:

“Once they disembark, we will continue to the bottom. That trip will take an additional ten minutes.”

The platform continued its descent, quiet and smooth as breath. Around them, the glowing crystals embedded in the elevator’s inner framework pulsed faintly—guiding light for a descent through the deep bones of the earth.

“Just how deep does this mine go?” Illiar asked, glancing around as the cavern walls slowly passed them by. “We seem to be falling fairly quickly.”

Torg turned his head toward her. His gaze swept across Illiar, then Rishmond, then Cantor—before finally settling on Rishmond.

“From the top of the shaft where we boarded the elevator to its lowest point is two thousand two hundred feet,” he said evenly. “The cavern floor where we boarded is three hundred feet below the surface level at the mine’s entrance. The Shrine is located ten feet beneath the lowest point of the shaft, measured from the surface. However, that is not technically the bottom of the current mine.”

He continued, his voice as smooth as ever.

“According to the most recent records, the Altemen have excavated a new floor beneath the Shrine, placing the functional bottom of the mine at two thousand five hundred twenty-two feet below surface level. However, since the mine extends under certain peaks of the Glittergreen Mountains, if one measures from the highest surface point directly above the—”

“Torg,” Tybour interrupted gently, holding up a hand. “I think the question was more general.”

The golem paused, then bowed his head slightly.

“Understood, Wizard Tybour.”

Illiar chuckled softly and leaned closer to Rishmond. “He’s like a talking map with feelings.”

“Useful feelings,” Cantor added, smiling faintly.

The elevator continued its measured descent, the soft hum of the mechanism filling the silence left in Torg’s wake. The deeper they went, the greener the glow of the crystal veins in the shaft walls became—twisting, branching, pulsing.

Like they were passing through the veins of a sleeping god.

“The elevator has never moved this fast in my lifetime,” Elder Geriswald said quietly, more to the air than to anyone in particular. He leaned heavily on the thick, carved staff he carried, his voice low with awe. “Before Master Torg’s repairs, it used to take well over an hour to reach the bottom. Coming back up could take two hours or more, depending on the load.”

He turned to face Torg directly, his expression solemn.

“We are greatly indebted to you, Master Torg.”

With effort, Geriswald bowed—not simply a dip of the head, but a deeper, deliberate tilt downward and to the left. Rishmond recognized the gesture: one of high respect among the Altemen.

Torg straightened a little, as if absorbing the significance of the moment. Then, without speaking at first, he returned the bow with a gesture Rishmond had never seen him use before—crossing his right arm across his chest, and sliding his hand from his left shoulder to the center of his torso, palm flat.

It was a precise, graceful motion—the same motion Rishmond had seen Altemen use when addressing someone of greater rank or spiritual standing.

A quiet murmur passed through a few of the nearby Altemen who noticed. Even Rosa raised an eyebrow slightly, clearly surprised.

Torg finally spoke.

“The speed should now be consistent, Elder Geriswald. Approximately one hundred feet per minute—give or take a foot, depending on the total load.”

There was no pride in his tone. Just calm clarity. As though restoring divine machinery was simply what he was meant to do.

But the look in his flickering lights—the subtle rise in glow, the rhythm of his core—suggested something else.

Pride. Quiet joy. Purpose.

Rishmond’s headache had subsided slightly, thanks to the fresh piece of gum he was chewing. But the whispers… they hadn’t stopped. If anything, they had grown more insistent—pressing at the edges of his thoughts, urging him onward with wordless urgency.

Through the wide horizontal gaps in the elevator’s walls, the rock blurred past in shades of dark grey and green. Each level they passed flashed by like a falling dream, their speed making it feel as though they were flying downward through open air. Veins of glittergreen streaked across the shaft walls, bright and alive, and the steady yellow-white glow of the Gods’ lights bathed everything in sharp, unwavering illumination.

It was too much. The play of light and shadow against the glittergreen caused the visions in Rishmond’s mind to surge. After only a minute or two, he found himself staring downward, focusing on the metal floor to escape the sensory barrage.

Illiar and Cantor huddled close beside him, doing the same. Both had quietly mentioned that the descent was making them nauseated and unfocused—not just physically, but magically, mentally. They leaned against him slightly, grounding themselves through contact.

“Sitting,” came Tybour’s voice suddenly, just outside Rishmond’s field of view, “helps. Keeps your balance, and your eyes below the motion outside the walls.”

Rishmond looked up to see Tybour lowering himself cross-legged beside Illiar. Cantor followed the example quickly—her face pale, eyes wide in the flickering light. Rishmond and Illiar joined them, forming a small, close circle on the floor.

“We need a distraction,” Tybour said, voice soft but deliberate. “Something gentle. Something we can listen to without effort.”

He looked up and raised a hand toward a tall figure a few paces away.

“Aericksen!” he called, beckoning.

Rishmond saw VanLief look over, brows lifting in interest. He moved with his usual precise elegance—long legs stepping carefully between travelers on the platform.

“Perhaps the esteemed Premier Researcher of the Malminar Council of Wizards,” Tybour continued, wryly, “might lend us the strength of his constitution. You seem… surprisingly unaffected, VanLief. Let’s put that to use.”

Rishmond caught the twitch of Tybour’s jaw—just a flicker of irritation at being bested, even in this small way.

VanLief smiled broadly and offered a slight bow. “Why, of course, Tybour. I would be honored.”

At that exact moment, the sound of the elevator shifted—a low, cavernous change in tone as they passed from the confines of the rock shaft into a more open space. The air felt different. Colder. Wider.

VanLief stepped between Rishmond and Tybour, who scooted apart to make room. He placed a firm hand on each of their shoulders as he lowered himself—stiffly but without complaint—into a cross-legged seat.

“What shall it be?” he asked, eyes bright. “History? Mechanics? My specialty is what is known, but I’ve a good deal of what is guessed at too. Would you like me to begin with what we know of the elevator, and we’ll see where the conversation leads?”

Rishmond smiled, already feeling the tension lessen.

He knew what was coming now: a confident, wandering story, full of speculation and overly poetic language. But it would be human—a tether to something ordinary, something known.

It might just be the thing that carried them safely through the rest of the descent.

Aericksen could be pompous, yes—but Rishmond had come to think of him more as earnest than arrogant. The man was so thoroughly occupied with the knowledge he carried, and the desire to share it—or better yet, expand it—that he seemed almost blind to how he came off to others. It wasn’t condescension. It was just… momentum.

In the lessons Rishmond had taken with him, the Researcher had more than once forgotten time entirely, holding the entire class well past the end of the period as he dove headlong into some tangent—especially if it involved the days before the Blessing.

So when VanLief settled in and opened his mouth, Rishmond braced for a long, winding tale about elevator rails and glittergreen dynamics.

But then Cantor spoke.

“Tell us about kathtwips,” she said, her voice cutting softly through the hum of the descent.

Everyone in the little circle turned to look at her—slightly surprised. Even VanLief paused.

“They look like thwippits,” she continued, “but without hair. And they seem to climb the same way. At least the few wild ones we saw on the cliff face earlier. They looked like they were stuck to the rock. Like… like they were held there by magic.”

Rishmond smiled. Of course she’d ask about the animals. Cantor had always had a soft spot for creatures—scrappy, unusual, misunderstood. She’d once fed half her rations to a blind warren-fox back in Retinor and spent a week coaxing an injured firebat out of a rafters’ nest.

Aericksen blinked once, then brightened with genuine delight.

“Ah! An excellent question,” he said, lifting a single finger as if invoking a formal introduction. “The kathtwip!”

“Well…” VanLief paused, the gears in his mind visibly shifting. Whatever lecture he’d been about to deliver was replaced by a new track entirely. His expression settled into one of thoughtful focus, eyes drifting toward some unseen chalkboard in the middle distance.

“You’re quite right—they are related to thwippits,” he began, his voice steady and even. “Thwippits also populate the Glittergreen Mountains, mostly on the surface below the tree line—just like the ones in the mountains of Malminar. The variety here in the Reaches are short-haired, adapted to higher elevations and colder weather.”

He adjusted his posture slightly as he warmed to the subject.

“Kathtwips are their underground cousins. But interestingly… they’re found only here, in the Glittergreen Mountains. No records—no evidence—of kathtwips in any cave systems elsewhere on Halconiket. Not in Malminar, not in the Sunken Coast. Only here.”

As he spoke, the glittergreen tattoo on his forehead caught the shifting elevator light, the powder within it sparkling subtly, the lines pulsing brighter whenever he moved. It made him look faintly radiant, like his words themselves triggered a glow.

“They were domesticated before the Blessing,” he continued. “Used in the mines to haul ore and crystal to the surface. Their anatomy is ideal—short front limbs, long and powerful back legs—perfect for tight tunnels and heavy loads. And their eyesight… exceptional in darkness. The perfect companions for those who once carved this place from the bones of the world.”

He gestured toward the shaft walls, where glittergreen still pulsed in ribbons of light. “As you saw earlier, they’re still used to transport supplies, even now.”

Cantor leaned forward, her expression captivated.

“And the wild ones?” she asked. “Are they just escaped from captivity? Too agile to catch?”

VanLief smiled at her, pleased by the question.

“Oh no,” he said. “The wild kathtwips are left intentionally untamed. Even in their natural state, they serve the mine.”

He raised a finger, lecturing gently now.

“They’re extraordinarily sensitive to vibration and tremors. They know precisely where the rock is unstable. They sense collapses before they happen. More than that—somehow, they know the shape of tunnels ahead. Whether a path opens up wide enough to pass through, or if it tapers off into impassable crawlspace.”

Cantor blinked. “So they’re… guides?”

“In a way, yes,” VanLief replied. “By observing their behavior, experienced Altemen can make remarkably accurate decisions about where to dig, where to avoid, and when to evacuate. The kathtwips are part of the mine's safety system. Always have been.”

Rishmond couldn’t help but glance toward Torg, who stood silently nearby, the faint light from his crystal core flickering slowly in rhythm with the glow of the shaft.

Even in silence, this place was alive.

The sounds of the elevator shifted, subtly at first, then more noticeably. A soft mechanical hum deepened into a groan of slowing chains. Rishmond felt it too—not just the sound, but the change in pressure, the slight lift in his stomach that told him their descent was easing.

They were slowing down.

Mid-level, he thought.

He remembered asking about it earlier. It had been described as a kind of logistical hub—a supply center for restocking lower levels, an emergency staging ground, and an administrative point deep inside the mine. VanLief had once told him this was also where most of the surviving records from before the Blessing were stored—sealed away from the surface world in a vault built by the Gods themselves.

As if reading his thoughts, VanLief spoke.

“Ah,” he said brightly, “we are arriving at the mid-level.”

He spoke as if to a small classroom, smiling as he rose smoothly to his feet—remarkably graceful for someone of his age and angular build. He didn’t need help from Tybour or Rishmond, though both instinctively half-reached toward him.

“We’ll be here just a minute or two,” he continued, brushing imaginary dust from his robe, “before continuing on to the Shrine level at the bottom of the mine—well, what used to be the bottom.”

He gave a small wink, clearly referencing the deeper floor Torg had mentioned earlier.

All around them, people stood or shifted quietly, preparing for the stop. The ambient light remained steady, but the whispering in Rishmond’s mind pulsed—quieter now, but steady, waiting.

The elevator creaked slightly as it slowed further, the sensation of descent ebbing until it became a gentle sway.

Somewhere above them, the vast chains adjusted with deep, echoing groans.

They were arriving.

Rishmond stood and offered a hand to Illiar and Cantor. They each took one of his, and he helped pull them to their feet. Both flashed him brilliant smiles before slipping away toward Rosa, their heads quickly bending together in quiet conversation. Rishmond smiled after them, admiring the way they moved.

The whispers seemed to notice—sensing the rise in his mood, they surged forward in his mind, no longer comforting but urgent again, swirling like wind through a broken window.

The elevator shifted.

The shift in motion was subtle, but unmistakable. The hum beneath their feet changed pitch, and a slight upward pressure signaled their descent was easing to a stop. Somewhere above, massive chains groaned. Then, with a soft click and whir, the gates began to open.

The mid-level.

Smaller than the upper cavern, this chamber was fully enclosed—no open chasm here. The walls, floor, and ceiling were the same dark gray stone, broken in places by the jagged glow of exposed glittergreen. The crystal shimmered in every direction, embedded like ancient veins in a giant's bones.

Four thick metal posts stood at the corners of the elevator, each wrapped in massive chain. Smaller chains stretched between them, creating a complex web of divine engineering. Rishmond's eyes followed them instinctively, fascinated. He would have to ask Torg how it all worked—he needed something to occupy his thoughts, to block the whispers and flickering shadows that haunted his vision.

And then one of those shadows coalesced.

Suddenly—clearly—a vision crystallized before his eyes: impossibly tall humans, ten… twelve feet high, their hands gripping the very posts that supported the elevator shaft. Beside them worked more normal-sized figures, laborers placing supports, adjusting the great chains. A shining man with hair like sunlight stood to one side, issuing commands, and next to him—goddesslike—a woman with golden feathered wings cradled a massive tablet against her hip, her eyes glowing as she watched.

The whispers swirled faster, louder, as if Rishmond stood in the eye of their storm.

And then—gone.

Rishmond blinked and looked around. No one else reacted. Tybour stood calmly across the platform. Illiar beside him, untroubled.

“Did you see that?” Rishmond asked her quietly.

“See what?” Illiar turned to him, eyes narrowing slightly. Her gaze locked onto his, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. She studied him—really studied him—and something shifted in her expression. Concern.

“Are you okay, Rishmond? What did you see?”

Her voice was soft, low, and her hands rose to rest on his shoulders.

“I saw… I thought I saw… It’s nothing,” he said quickly, trying to force confidence into his voice. “Just shadows. Just visions. I let myself get caught up.”

He tried to smile.

But Illiar didn’t look away. Her green eyes bored into his, steady and unreadable. The whole world seemed to go quiet, her scent strong in his nose—flowers and earth, warmth and something wilder. His hands moved instinctively, resting lightly at her waist.

He didn’t know how long they stood like that. Time bent strangely in the half-light. The rest of the world faded.

Then—CLANG! The jarring crash of chain against steel broke the spell.

Rishmond stepped back, blinking rapidly. His hands dropped. He looked away, face burning.

Illiar looked away too, brushing her hair behind one ear with a hand that trembled just slightly.

Across the platform, Tybour watched him. His smile was amused, knowing. He nodded once, the gesture half-approval, half-tease.

Rishmond looked away again, only to find Cantor standing beside him. Her expression was unreadable—too neutral to interpret. Embarrassment surged again.

“Yes… well. I’m fine,” he said, too fast. “Thank you. It was nothing. Are you—do you need anything?”

The moment felt heavy and clumsy. He knew he sounded ridiculous.

“I’ll go see if Torg needs me,” he muttered, and turned away.

He crossed the few steps to where Torg stood by the tablet, deep in discussion with the Altemen operator. Rishmond stopped beside him and stared at the glowing surface of the device, pretending to follow the explanation, though nothing registered.

The whispers still moved at the edge of his hearing—excited, insistent—but distant now, like wind behind a closed door.

His heart was still pounding far too fast.

The elevator resumed its descent, slipping once more into its smooth, steady rhythm.

Rishmond barely noticed.

The motion, the flickering light from the glittergreen, the soft mechanical hum—it all faded into the background. Time seemed to blur, lost to the tangle of thoughts in his head.

Illiar. Cantor.

His mind spun with images of them both. The way they moved. The way they smiled. The way their hands felt in his.

He cared for them, of course—both of them. But his feelings toward Illiar had shifted in a way he hadn’t expected.

Before the expedition, she’d mostly been an irritant—assigned to him more like a minder than a companion. Someone responsible for keeping him in line, not someone he’d have chosen to be close to. He’d noticed her beauty, of course—her poise, the grace of how she carried herself—but that had always existed alongside a litany of frustrations: bossy, sharp-tongued, a know-it-all who rarely let him forget when he was wrong.

And, to be fair, she was usually right—especially when it came to things he didn’t want to hear.

But during this expedition—without distractions to get lost in, without mischief to pull or rules to test—he’d seen something different in her. Or maybe he’d finally taken the time to look.

Smart, strong, steady. Unshakable when things were at their worst. The kind of person who didn’t panic when others did. The kind of person who kept walking forward even when ghosts whispered in the dark.

He’d always known those things about her, in theory.

But now… now he felt them.

And he wasn’t sure what to do with that.

And then there was Cantor.

She’d always been his friend. His true friend—the one who laughed with him, snuck out with him, dared the forbidden with him. She’d instigated as much mischief as he ever had—maybe more. When their little band of friends wanted to do something no adult would approve of, it was Cantor they turned to. She had the spark, the guts, the grin that said just try to stop me.

He’d never really noticed she was a girl. Not like that. She was just Cantor. Reliable, loud, reckless, warm. She was the leader of their chaos, the anchor of their laughter.

But somewhere along the way… something had shifted.

Now, when he looked at her, he saw the curve of her jaw. The light behind her eyes. The way she moved—confident, fluid, magnetic. Not just a friend anymore. Not just the clever ringleader. A woman.

When had that changed?

And how had he changed—so much, so fast—that he could feel this way about both of them?

Was this what it meant to grow up? To have your heart split in half by two truths you couldn’t deny?

He thought of Halmond and Beritrude. They didn’t seem to have this kind of trouble. They had each other, and that was that. Steady, certain. Like gravity.

What would they say about this tangle inside him?

Would Halmond laugh? Would Beritrude take his face in her hands and just know, the way she always seemed to?

He didn’t know.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Tybour’s arm landed across Rishmond’s shoulders with a soft thud, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“Hey,” Tybour said, leaning in a little. “How’re you doing? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Rishmond turned, expecting a crooked grin or the usual teasing glint in Tybour’s eye. But what he saw instead stopped him short.

Concern. Real, honest concern.

Tybour’s sharp blue eyes held no mockery—just quiet understanding.

“Kind of,” Rishmond said, his voice low. “When we stopped at the mid-level… I saw something.”

He hesitated. No one else had seemed to notice the vision. Would Tybour think he was losing his grip? Or just too deep in the mine?

But if anyone might have seen it—if anyone would believe him—it was Tybour.

“The visions sharpened,” Rishmond continued. “They weren’t just shapes or shadows. I could see faces. People. Huge people, like Apharallies. Others building something. A man and woman watching them… the woman had golden wings and held a tablet.”

He searched Tybour’s eyes for reaction.

Tybour didn’t flinch. He turned, facing Rishmond fully, both hands on his shoulders.

“Go on,” he said simply.

So Rishmond did.

He described it all—the construction, the scale, the shining man and the winged woman, the swirl of whispers surrounding them.

When he finished, Tybour was silent.

The seconds stretched.

Then he nodded slowly. “Interesting,” he said at last. “I didn’t see anything like that. Actually… the visions and whispers got quieter for me just before we stopped. That lines up with something VanLief and I were talking about earlier.”

Tybour’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“It’s like whatever’s causing this—whatever’s down here—has decided you are the one to focus on. Maybe it started with your vision of Denisisie. Maybe it started before that. But since then? It’s been circling you.”

Rishmond blinked, feeling the weight of that settle on him.

“I told you before you were important,” Tybour said, his voice softer now. “I just didn’t know how or why. But it looks like this is it. This is the reason everything lined up to bring you on this expedition.”

He clapped Rishmond on the back, his usual grin returning—but this time, there was something prouder behind it.

“Right then!” he said. “Let’s go ask VanLief and Elder Geriswald what your vision of the Apharallies and the Gods building the elevator could mean.”

The pair walked the short distance to where Elder Geriswald and VanLief Aericksen stood in conversation with Ueet and Haningway. Tybour did most of the talking, recounting the vision Rishmond had experienced at the mid-level.

Rishmond was quietly grateful for the distraction. Elder Geriswald and VanLief began asking questions—sharp, scholarly ones—and he focused on answering as clearly as he could.

Still, he couldn’t help but notice Rosa approaching—and with her, both Cantor and Illiar.

They walked arm in arm.

Rishmond’s heart stumbled.

What does that mean? Were they united against him now? Were they upset? Had he done something wrong? He couldn't even look at them. He kept his gaze on the Elder, trying to will the heat out of his cheeks.

Elder Geriswald’s voice was calm and thoughtful.

“The ancient records do mention that the building of the elevator required the labor of many,” he said. “Most notably, the Apharallies—a race of giants. Their size and strength were invaluable for the supports and mechanisms.”

Cantor’s voice broke in, full of wonder. “So giants are real? The Apharallies really existed? Where are they now? What happened to them?”

“Yes, they existed,” VanLief answered before Geriswald could. “Whether they still do… that’s unclear. As far as I know, the last credible sighting was well over a hundred turns ago.”

He paused, then his voice shifted, more storyteller than scholar.

“But as the legends tell it, we owe them everything. After the Blessing—when the Demon Lands were sealed off from the Blessed Lands—the worst of the destruction wasn’t the storms or quakes. It was the invasion. Demons sent devils and spawn-creatures by the hundreds, pouring into our lands to exterminate mortals while we were still reeling.”

He glanced around, his eyes serious now.

“And it was the Apharallies who stood against them. Towering warriors—ten, twelve feet tall. Stronger than any mortal. They held the lines until the rest of us could recover. Without them, there may not have been a world left to protect.”

“The stories say they didn’t survive it unscathed,” Elder Geriswald added quietly. “Their numbers were broken. Perhaps to the point of extinction.”

“No one’s seen them in two centuries,” VanLief said. “But remember this: no mortal has ever slain a true Demon—none but the Apharallies. They are the only known mortals who could kill one.”

At that moment, the whispers in Rishmond’s mind shifted again.

Not louder—clearer. Sharper. Focused.

The elevator began to slow.

The soft grind of descending chain shifted in tone, and the floor beneath them subtly eased its motion.

Around him, others turned their heads, sensing it too—the nearing of something sacred.

Something old.

Elder Geriswald's voice rose gently over the hush.

“Gather your things,” he said. “We are arriving at the Shrine level.”

The elevator gate hissed and clanked open, and Elder Geriswald stepped forward to lead the group out.

They emerged into a small cavern—just large enough to fit the elevator platform and allow the gates to swing wide. Everyone had to crowd to one side of the elevator before the far gate could be closed, then shift again, funneling single-file into a narrow tunnel carved directly into the rock.

The space felt different than the levels above—denser. Tighter.

Gone was the vast chasm they’d seen earlier. Here, there was no sense of depth, no dramatic descent—just dark, enclosing stone, broken only by flickering veins of glittergreen crystal glowing faintly from the walls, ceiling, even the uneven floor. Their soft green shimmer reminded Rishmond of stars at dusk.

A few of the bulbous lights Torg had rekindled earlier glowed dimly here, casting only the faintest yellow-white radiance. It wasn’t enough to banish the darkness—only to shape it. Long shadows stretched between the glints of crystal light, and the green glow felt somehow deeper, more alive.

Around him, the others moved cautiously, whispering quietly, their faces tinged with awe or apprehension. But Rishmond noticed something else—something troubling.

Tybour, walking just ahead of him, turned slightly and said, “The whispers are almost gone now. Strange. It’s like they’ve just… stopped.”

Illiar, further ahead, nodded in agreement. “The shadows too. I barely see anything now. It’s quiet. Still.”

Rishmond said nothing.

Because for him, it was the opposite.

The whispers had not faded. They had sharpened. Urged. They pressed in closer, more insistent than ever, winding through his thoughts like invisible vines tightening with purpose. The flickering shapes that had haunted them on the way down? For the others, they were dissolving into nothing.

But for Rishmond, they were crystalizing. Edging toward coherence.

They wanted him to move forward—not in fear, but in anticipation. Like something was waiting. Calling.

He swallowed and stepped forward with the others.

But he couldn’t shake the sense that while they were all entering the Shrine…

…it was him the Shrine had truly been waiting for.

Elder Geriswald raised a hand, halting the group just before a dark, arched entrance carved into the rock ahead.

“We are about to enter the antechamber to the Shrine,” he said, his voice calm but carrying with purpose. “It is a sacred place within the mines—a place of stillness and preparation.”

The group stood quietly, the green glow of the glittergreen behind them casting faint shadows along the stone corridor.

“In the antechamber,” Geriswald continued, “we will wash. We will rest. And we will ready ourselves for the Shrine itself.”

He paused, letting his words settle.

“This place… is different. It is cut off from the magic of Rit. One of the only places on this world where magic is almost entirely absent. The walls and doors were blessed by the Gods and covered with a sacred substance that resists the flow of magic.”

He let that sink in, then took a step forward.

“Inside, there is almost no lotret. No lotrar. No flow. No echo. You will feel the difference the moment the doors close behind us.”

His eyes moved across the group, catching each gaze in turn, even in the dim light. Rishmond felt the weight of his attention settle on him a moment longer than the others.

“It may be… disquieting,” Geriswald admitted. “Some of you may find it difficult. That sudden loss of connection—to Rit, to the deep hum of magic in your blood—can feel like losing part of yourself.”

“But,” he continued, voice gentler now, “this separation will also shield you. For those of you who hear the glittergreen's whispers, who see the echoes of deep magic—it will bring silence. It will bring peace. It is how we prepare for the Shrine. How we earn the clarity we seek there.”

He looked back at the arched entrance. The darkness beyond seemed heavier than shadow—like a place where things waited without breath or sound.

“We will sleep there tonight,” he said. “And in the morning… we will enter the Shrine.”

“I have never been to the Resting Room,” Torg said suddenly, his voice crisp and clear beside Rishmond’s ear.

Rishmond startled—he hadn’t even noticed the golem approach. Torg had moved up silently, his glowing eyes fixed on the dark arch ahead.

“I have wanted to see it ever since my mistress told me about it,” the golem continued, his tone calm but almost... eager. “I am told the entire room is covered in kreleit. That should be most interesting to observe.”

The silence that had followed Elder Geriswald’s solemn speech shattered.

A chorus of shocked gasps rippled through the group.

“Kreleit?” Gregor Tranto blurted, his voice cracking. “That can’t be! “Touching kreleit means instant death! It doesn’t just kill—it steels your jzirittiah. Your life-force. It rips you away from Rit itself!”

Other voices joined in—fear rising fast.

“No one survives that!”

“Even Demons can’t endure it!”

“They banned it centuries ago!”

Rishmond’s heartbeat surged. Even he had heard the stories—how kreleit didn’t just kill, it stripped you of everything that made you part of Rit. It devoured the connection to magic inside you—your jzirittriah, body and soul.

It was said to erase people. Not kill them. Erase them.

A weapon so feared it was banned in every land, even in the Demon Realms. Possession meant execution. Usually without trial.

“Everyone!” Tybour’s voice rang out, just loud enough to break the rising tide of panic. “Calm yourselves.”

The group stilled—uneasily.

“I won’t pretend I wasn’t afraid the first time I came here,” Tybour said. “I’d heard the same stories. But I have personally stood inside the antechamber. I have touched its walls. As have many before me.”

He looked around, meeting the eyes of those closest to him.

“I don’t know how it was done—whether it was blessed, altered, or built with a different kind of kreleit. But the fact is simple: the room does not harm us.”

He turned to Torg, then back to the group.

“Why would the Gods create a sanctuary that kills everyone who enters? That’s not what this is. This is a place of stillness. Of clarity. Yes—it is cut off from magic. But it will not kill you. It will challenge you.”

His voice softened slightly.

“And maybe that’s the point.”

“If I might, Wizard Tybour?” Torg’s voice rose calmly from beside them.

Tybour nodded, stepping back slightly to give the golem space.

“I cannot explain the full process,” Torg said, “but I can tell you this: the metal you call kreleit had many uses among the Gods. Only one of those uses involved the extraction of jzirittiah—the life-force—from a living being. That application was not even of divine origin. It was developed later... by a Demon.”

A murmur passed through the group.

Torg continued without pause.

“The true purpose of kreleit, for the Gods, was as a shield—not a weapon. When properly formed and treated, it resists magic. It does not consume it. It creates stillness, a silence from the currents of lotret and lotrar. In the mines, the Gods shaped it into materials that would shelter mortals, not destroy them.”

His eyes glowed brighter for a moment as he looked toward the darkened passage ahead.

“The Resting Room was created so that those who aided the Gods in their work would have a space to recover. The magic in this place—its density, its intensity—can slowly wear down the minds of mortals. Without respite, many would have lost their sanity.”

There was a long pause.

“Thank you, Torg,” Tybour said at last.

“Yes,” added Elder Geriswald, smiling kindly at the golem, his expression soft and warm. “Thank you, Torg.”

He turned to the group and raised his staff slightly.

“I will go first,” he said. “And I will gladly demonstrate that touching the walls and doors of the antechamber is as safe as laying your head in your mother’s home.”

With that, he turned and slithered smoothly into the shadowed passage, the light of his staff bobbing as he vanished into the dark.

At the end of the short, dark hall, they came to a large black door.

Its surface drank the light. What little illumination reached it from behind was swallowed whole—the door didn’t shine, didn’t reflect. It absorbed.

Elder Geriswald slithered forward and placed both hands on the left half of the door. It swung silently on a center axis, pivoting open like a secret, and the group moved through.

One by one, they crossed the threshold—most unconsciously hugging the opposite side, careful not to brush the black sill or the door itself. Rishmond realized he was doing the same.

The room beyond was vast and dim.

The ceiling and walls were made of the same strange black metal. Lanterns hung from hooks along the walls, their gentle golden glow spilling through frosted glass—yet none of it reflected. The light existed, but it didn’t touch the room.

On the far side stood a door identical to the one they had just passed through. And in between—silence.

As Rishmond stepped inside, a wave of dizziness hit him. Not nausea—something deeper. He felt… unmoored. As if some invisible support he’d leaned on all his life had been pulled away, and now he wobbled with every breath.

His connection to Rit was gone.

The jzirittiah—his link to lotret and lotrar—had gone silent.

The room felt low and tight, like a closed box. The ceiling hovered only seven feet above the black floor, and Rishmond found himself hunching slightly, instinctively, as though afraid to strike his head.

Everything was dark. The walls. The ceiling. The floor. The long wooden pallets arranged in four tidy rows. Even the sleeping rolls, dark blue or black—it was hard to tell. The only real color came from the stark white pillows, small patches of brightness that looked almost surreal in contrast.

Each pallet had a wooden storage box at its foot, painted black like the rest. The lanterns themselves were black metal cubes, their golden windows glowing faintly like stars seen through distant fog.

No one spoke loudly. Whispers passed now and then, but most of the group moved in silence, subdued by the strange pressure in the air. Even Torg—always bright, always curious—stood near the far wall, uncharacteristically still.

But to Rishmond, the little golem was the only light that mattered.

Torg’s crystal body pulsed with soft color, magic swirling gently within him like light behind stained glass. His glow didn’t reflect on the kreleit, didn’t cast shadows—but it was there. A quiet defiance against the silence of the room.

Rishmond stared at him, and the pressure on his chest eased slightly.

As if sensing his gaze—or maybe something deeper—Torg turned and walked back toward him. He stopped at Rishmond’s side, and the heaviness that had settled in Rishmond’s limbs lifted just enough to breathe freely again.

Cantor and Illiar moved close, flanking him without a word. Their shoulders touched his, and when Torg arrived, they relaxed too—subtly, but unmistakably. Rishmond could feel it in their breathing. In the way Illiar’s shoulder no longer trembled slightly against his.

And though he hadn’t even noticed it at first, one thing was suddenly, blessedly clear.

The whispers were gone.

The visions, too.

Here, inside the Resting Room, there was only stillness.

“You’ll feel better in a few minutes,” Tybour said quietly from just behind Rishmond. “Not great, but… you’ll get used to it.”

There was a pause, then he added, “Hmm. Stick close to Torg. Apparently the Gods gave him his own private source of magic—like carrying a bucket of water into the Quouriobi Desert. Makes this place a little less unbearable.”

He trailed off, the next part said more to the air than to anyone in particular.

“I’ve never liked this room.”

Behind them, the door clicked shut with a sharp, final sound. A distinct click of separation. Of containment.

Rishmond reached out with his mind—an instinct now, like reaching for a cloak he always wore. He searched for lotret, the ambient dust of magic that floated everywhere on Rit.

But there was nothing. Not a speck.

He reached deeper, for lotrar, the deep pulse of Rit’s core, and felt only a faint trace. Muffled. Distant. A whisper through a wall. A voice across water. One source hummed nearby—Torg. The other felt impossibly far away, like the sighing of wind over dunes or the wash of waves on a far, forgotten shore.

The emptiness left him adrift—like trying to walk after the ground has vanished.

He looked to Illiar and Cantor. Both sat pale and tight-jawed, their expressions drawn and tired. Illiar’s fox-like ears, usually alert and twitching with every sound, were laid back almost flat against her head—an instinctive response, part fear, part strain. It made her look younger somehow. More vulnerable.

He didn’t hesitate. Gently, he led them to the nearest sleeping pallets and helped them sit. Torg followed, quiet and still, and stood before them—an unmoving beacon in a room that swallowed all light.

Rishmond took their hands, one on either side, and placed them on Torg’s crystalline shoulders.

The effect was subtle—but immediate.

A shared breath passed between them. Color returned to their cheeks, and a faint flicker of life returned to their eyes. The quiet no longer felt so heavy. So absolute.

Long moments passed before any of them stirred.

“Thank you, Torg,” Cantor said softly. Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. “And you, Rishmond. I’m better now.” She looked between them. “Illiar? Rishmond? Everyone okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Rishmond, managing a small smile. “You?”

“Not fine,” Illiar replied, voice edged with biting sarcasm. “This is not okay.”

Rishmond nearly laughed. That particular tone of hers—sharp and stubborn—was reassuring in a strange way.

Across from them, Tybour and Rosa had settled on pallets of their own, just beyond Torg’s faint glow.

“It takes some getting used to, that’s for certain,” Tybour said. “But take a look around—the room never seems to bother the Altemen. Not even a little. And Ueet, of course…”

His voice dipped at the mention of Ueet. Quiet. Respectful.

Everyone knew Ueet was magicless. A rare, private burden in a world shaped by jzirittiah. Most people were too polite—or too uncomfortable—to talk about it. Especially in front of those who carried that absence like a scar.

Indeed, as Rishmond looked around, he saw the Altemen moving calmly along the edges of the room, unaffected by the strange absence that weighed so heavily on the others. They slithered gracefully between pallets and lanterns, offering quiet assistance where needed. The stillness didn’t seem to touch them. If anything, they looked at home here.

He spotted VanLeif Aericksen and Gregor Tranto sitting cross-legged on their pallets, eyes closed, faces serene in meditation. Haningway stood by the far door, arms folded, face unreadable. Bantor mirrored him on the opposite side, ears angled in opposite directions, listening intently.

Then Rishmond noticed something new.

A sound—soft, constant, like a stream running through a stone garden.

He turned, scanning the room, and found the source: more than half of one side wall shimmered with water. A steady, glistening sheet ran from ceiling to floor, coating the dark surface in a continuous, soundless cascade. At the base of the wall, a narrow trench caught the flow. A low wooden bench, topped with dark gray cushions, ran along the trench's length.

Ueet knelt there now, calm and solitary. He dipped both hands into the water, brought them to his face, and splashed it across his cheeks with careful precision. One of the Altemen approached without a word and handed him a small gray towel.

Rishmond watched, transfixed. Something about the simplicity of the act—the ritual of it—cut through the pressure in his chest.

“We should all prepare now,” Elder Geriswald said gently.

He stood at the foot of the pallet Rishmond shared with Cantor and Illiar, dressed now in a soft gray robe with wide, flowing sleeves. The color echoed the walls and cushions, making him seem like part of the room itself.

“We must cleanse ourselves,” he continued, “of the dust and burden of our travels. Not just of dirt, but of worry, of pride, of noise. We wash away the world before we sleep. In the morning, we will enter the Shrine in only clean, fresh robes.”

He gestured toward a gray curtain in the corner, a soft barrier that fell from ceiling to floor, marking a small private space.

“A changing area has been set up there, for those who prefer privacy.”

As if on cue, two Altemen approached and offered each of them a neatly folded bundle of cloth. Rishmond took his without a word. The fabric was light, soft beneath his fingers—warm despite the chill of the room, as though it remembered the sun.

“Come, ladies. Let’s get changed,” Rosa said, rising with a soft grunt. “This area seems like a good place to bed down for the night. You can remove your weapons and packs—leave them here. The floor’s warm, surprisingly, so feel free to lose your boots. Slippers are provided, and you’ll have to leave your boots behind when we enter the Shrine anyway.”

She was already out of her armor and weapon belt. With practiced ease, she tugged off her boots and moved to the next row of pallets across the narrow walkway. She placed her boots neatly in the storage box at the foot of a bed there.

She turned and smirked. “You men get to change out here in front of each other. Enjoy the bonding.”

Then, with a wicked grin, she planted one bare foot on Tybour’s side and pushed. He toppled over onto his back with a dramatic groan, which only made Rosa’s grin widen.

Illiar and Cantor exchanged a glance and slipped off their boots and socks. They lowered their feet cautiously toward the black floor, both hesitating just before contact. Rishmond wasn’t sure if it was fear of cold or the kreleit itself that made them move so slowly.

But Rosa stood there barefoot, smiling and unscorched. That seemed to reassure them.

Both women touched the floor at the same time—and identical looks of wide-eyed surprise bloomed across their faces.

Rishmond laughed.

He regretted it immediately.

Two sets of sharp eyes turned on him like twin lightning bolts.

“No no!” he stammered. “I wasn’t laughing at you—I mean yes, but—well, not like that! It was the look. Both of you—at the same time! It was just… you’re both so beautiful and then—that face, both of you—"

He trailed off, horrified.

“Sorry,” he muttered, cringing.

He yanked off his own boots and socks in record time, determined not to be left behind, and slapped his bare feet to the floor in exaggerated defiance.

Warm. Weirdly warm.

Soft, too. Softer than stone should be.

He glanced down quickly, wondering if he’d stepped on a towel or someone’s robe.

A synchronized scoff from Illiar and Cantor reached his ears before he even lifted his head. He opened his mouth to protest—then wisely shut it as the three women turned and made their way across the room toward the curtained changing area.

Rishmond turned to Tybour, who was lounging on one elbow, looking entirely too amused.

“What'd I do?” Rishmond asked helplessly.

Tybour just gave him that look.

The one he always did when Rishmond had said something foolish—something he should’ve known better than to say. It was equal parts amusement, disappointment, and the unspoken challenge of you’ll figure it out eventually.

He shook his head slowly, smiling that same wry smile, and began to disrobe without another word.

Rishmond glanced around the room, suddenly self-conscious.

He couldn’t just strip down here. Not in front of everyone.

It wasn’t that he was shy, exactly. But the birthmark on his back—those wing-like shapes—would mark him instantly. In the Arrangement, birthmarks like his were feared, hunted, burned from memory and flesh alike. He knew the people here weren’t like that—at least, not so strictly—but he had learned caution. It was survival. Even Beritrude and Halmond didn’t know.

Only Toby did.

His chest ached at the thought of his friend. His brother. He hoped Toby was safe—loved, protected. He knew Berti and Halmond would take good care of him, but still… the worry clung like a cloak.

Tybour, meanwhile, had already stripped down to his linen underclothes and was striking a casual pose, flexing just enough to admire his own reflection in a nearby black metal lantern housing. Of course. The man was almost unnaturally hairless and well-sculpted. Rishmond caught himself staring longer than he should have—then immediately looked away, cheeks burning.

Tybour raised an eyebrow, a slow grin creeping across his lips. Rishmond turned sharply.

And regretted it instantly.

Haningway was bent over near his pallet, retrieving a sock. His very, very hairy lower back was exposed to the world.

Nope.

Rishmond spun on his heel again, pulling his tunic up over his head as a distraction. Forget the robe. Keep the undershirt. It was thick cotton, heavy enough to hide the birthmark. It would have to do.

As the tunic cleared his head, the room came back into focus—and he froze.

Several Altemen moved about in various states of undress, their gleaming, muscular forms oddly statuesque in the half-light. Then his eyes locked onto her.

Halfway across the room.

Shoulder-length brown hair. Olive skin. Bare breasts.

Wizard Semmolee Turnsol.

Rishmond's brain shorted out.

He couldn’t look away. She was beautiful—unmistakably—and she seemed entirely unbothered as she let her shirt fall onto the sleeping pallet beside her. She turned, revealing square-cut white shorts that stopped at mid-thigh—standard soldier-issue.

She picked up her gray robe with calm grace, utterly composed.

Rishmond couldn’t breathe.

When did she even join the expedition? She hadn’t been on the elevator—had she? Was he losing his mind? And why—why for the love of the Gods—was she not behind the curtain with Rosa, Cantor, and Illiar?

He swallowed hard.

The sudden thought of Cantor and Illiar snapped him out of it. Oh no.

Rishmond tore his eyes away from Semmolee and spun back toward Tybour—who, of course, was grinning like an idiot.

He’d seen everything. Of course he had.

Rishmond’s panicked gaze darted around the room.

Haningway smiled at him, slow and knowing. Ueet and Bantore stood just beyond, both clearly having noticed where his attention had been. Rishmond's stomach flipped.

Everyone knew.

Heat rushed into his face, a bright, undeniable burn. It was one thing for Tybour to tease him—Rishmond could suffer that. But everyone else? There was no chance Cantor and Illiar wouldn’t hear about this. Rosa too. He’d turn red every time he spoke to them for days. Weeks.

Why did Semmolee change out here? Why did I have to stare so long?!

And of course, her bare chest popped right back into his mind with infuriating clarity. His heart beat faster. His face burned hotter.

He yanked the gray robe over his head in one motion, using it like a curtain to hide his shame. The fabric was rough—scratchier than the soft cotton and wool he was used to—but at least it gave him something else to focus on.

When he finally looked back up, only Tybour was still watching.

“Hey,” Tybour said, stepping closer, voice low. “It’s all good, Rishmond. No one’s gonna say anything.”

He leaned in a little, smirking. “Well, not around the women, anyway.”

Then, louder: “Not everyone,” Tybour announced, “is brave enough to show ribs like that—stickin’ outta that skinny chest!”

“Like a badly shaved thwippit!” Haningway guffawed, slapping Bantore on the shoulder. The big foxman didn’t even flinch—but his lips pulled back in a wide grin, and a low rumble of amusement vibrated in his chest.

For a second, Rishmond blinked. Wait… they’re covering for me?

“We’ve got your back,” Tybour whispered with a grin. “But, uh, maybe steer clear of Bantore for a day or two.”

“In the tribes of Uhl,” said Ueet, utterly deadpan, “we have a musical instrument made from thin wooden sticks. Your ribs remind me of it. Very brittle. Not a pleasant sound.”

The other men gave him puzzled looks.

“It’s called Zhuur qae’illth in Qoitiken,” Ueet continued. “It means… ‘Breasts of Death.’ It is most often played at funerals.”

For a second, there was silence.

Then the room exploded with laughter.

Even Bantore barked a hoarse laugh, deep and wild. Haningway clutched his side, and Tybour nearly doubled over. Rishmond couldn’t help it—he laughed too, his face still hot but his heart lighter.

Somehow, this was worse and better at the same time.

Moments later, Rosa, Illiar, and Cantor returned, all three dressed in soft gray robes and barefoot, their hair down or loosely tied back. They moved with casual purpose, placing their weapons, belts, and folded traveling clothes into the storage boxes at the ends of their sleeping pallets.

“What’s so funny?” Cantor asked, raising an eyebrow as she caught the tail end of the laughter.

“Just Ueet being Ueet,” said Tybour smoothly. “He was regaling us with the story of how he lost his virginity to a very old ulbanto herder woman when he was but a boy of twenty-two turns.”

“I only told that story in response to Tybour’s tale,” Ueet replied, voice dry as dust, “about his first time with a twenty-two-turns-old wash rag. Just last year.”

That deadpan tone—absolutely humorless—made it land even harder. The men cracked up again.

“Yes, well,” Rosa interjected, arms folded, “boys always brag about their greatest conquests when they’re with other boys. Just something to know, ladies. And the stories are always... enhanced. Usually by about a hundred percent.”

All three women exchanged long-suffering glances, the kind that said we’ve heard it all before.

“Fold your clothes and put them away properly,” said Illiar, voice brisk as she gestured toward the boxes. “Don’t expect us to do it for you.”

The tone hit Rishmond like a flash of memory—her voice, sharp and motherly, from their younger days when she’d bossed him and Toby around relentlessly. Back then he’d thought she was the most annoying person in the world.

Now it just made him smile.

Without a word, each of the men turned and began to fold their clothes, placing them into their boxes with just enough extra neatness to show they were listening—even if they wouldn’t admit it.

At Elder Geriswald’s quiet instruction, everyone in the room gathered at the edge of the trough where the water ran down the black metal wall. One by one, they knelt and leaned over the low bench to cleanse themselves—hands, arms, faces.

The water was cold and startlingly pure. When Rishmond splashed it across his skin, he felt clearer. Sharper. The pressure in his chest eased just a little. The tension in his shoulders faded.

Afterward, they returned to their sleeping pallets. The room had quieted, the whispers of conversation giving way to the silence of anticipation.

Elder Geriswald turned to address the group—speaking not to the Altemen, but to the others. To the outsiders.

“Sleep now,” he said softly. “We rise early. Tomorrow, we enter the Shrine.”

He paused, looking around the room. His gaze lingered briefly on each of them.

“The experience cannot truly be explained. It is unlike anything in this world. The concentration of magic in the Shrine is the greatest known on Rit. Even the most seasoned among us have found it overwhelming. There are those who have collapsed within moments of entering—brought out unconscious, their bodies unable to endure the intensity of it.”

He let the silence settle before continuing.

“The magic itself is not dangerous. Not directly. But it is... immense. All-consuming. It sees you. It presses against every part of you. I must caution you—do not attempt to use magic inside the Shrine. Even a whisper of intent could trigger forces you cannot predict.”

He looked to Torg now, something reverent in his voice.

“We can only hope the Gods are in a listening mood.” A beat passed. “Perhaps, this time... we may speak with them again.”

He placed a hand lightly on Torg’s shoulder. “Perhaps what we have long searched and hoped for is finally with us.”

Rishmond slept better and deeper that night than he had since the expedition had left Retinor.

When his eyes opened, the room was dim. Most of the lanterns had been extinguished once everyone had found their pallets, leaving the chamber bathed in soft, golden traces of light that barely touched the black surfaces of the kreleit walls.

Illiar and Cantor had taken the pallets to either side of his, close enough that he could hear their soft, even breathing. Rosa and Tybour were a little farther off, across from Cantor. Their silhouettes moved only slightly with each breath.

But it was the pallet directly across the narrow aisle from his—just past the large storage box—that held his attention.

Bantore.

The massive foxman lay flat on his back, arms crossed over his chest, ears angled outward as if even in sleep, he was listening.

Rishmond shifted slightly under his blanket, trying not to think too much about it.

It wasn’t as if he’d been trying to climb into bed with Illiar—or anyone—and it wasn’t like anything had actually happened. But ever since the Semmolee incident, something about Bantore’s posture, his gaze, had changed.

Rishmond wasn’t sure if the man was angry, exactly. Just… alert. Watching.

Or maybe he was imagining it. Maybe the heat of embarrassment still hadn’t faded.

But even in the quiet calm of the Resting Room, he felt the weight of those golden predator eyes watching him.

Rishmond sat up slowly, the blanket pooling around his waist. From what he could tell, he was the first in the room to stir—aside from the two Altemen standing silently at their posts, one at each door. Each man stood in a soft pool of light cast by the lanterns mounted above.

They weren’t the same guards from the night before.

How often do they change shifts? he wondered. And why guards at all? Were they worried about kathtwips creeping in during the night?

The thought was absurd. And yet… it made the room feel less like a sanctuary and more like a threshold. Something still lay ahead. Something worth guarding.

Torg stood silently at the foot of Rishmond’s pallet, next to the storage box, as still as the stone from which he was carved. But inside him—inside that crystalline body—magic pulsed like sunlight caught in water.

So much light. So much beauty.

And yet, the room around him remained in shadow. Torg’s glow, somehow, didn’t illuminate anything else. It just existed within him, self-contained.

Rishmond tilted his head, watching.

Can anyone else see it? he wondered. Do they just see a lump of stone with stubby limbs and a faint hum of power?

It struck him then, gently but deeply: the thought that others might not see what he saw in Torg. That they might never glimpse the beauty of that flickering, prismatic magic within him.

It felt… sad, somehow.

Like a song no one else could hear.

“Rishmond?”

He turned. Cantor had sat up, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Morning, Cantor,” he whispered. The room was quiet—just the sound of flowing water and the soft breathing of those still asleep.

She rubbed at one eye, then looked at him. “Are you... ready for this? Today?”

There was a tightness in her voice—something uncertain. Maybe fear. Maybe worry.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he said, keeping his tone gentle. “Tybour’s been through it before. If there was anything we really needed to be afraid of, he’d have told us. Rosa’s been too, and she’s not worried.”

He leaned closer and reached for her hand. Their fingers found each other in the dimness, warm and familiar.

“Whatever it is,” he added, “I know you can handle it. You’ve always been tough. And you know I’ll be there for you.”

But she shook her head slightly. “I wasn’t worried for me, Rishmond.”

Her voice dipped even softer.

“I think Tybour—and everyone else—they expect something from you. Maybe a lot. And I know you can do it. I know it. But it’s just... a lot. And I worry that it might... bother you?” She said the last part like a question, unsure if she’d said too much.

Rishmond blinked, caught off guard.

He hadn’t really thought about it like that.

He was here because of Torg. That’s what he told himself. Torg had needed to come to the mines, and so he’d come too. That was all. Right?

Sure, people listened to him sometimes. But that was just because he tried to be helpful. He wasn’t important—not like Tybour. Tybour was the First Mage of Malminar. He belonged in great stories, in histories and legends.

Rishmond was just... Rishmond.

If something great needed doing, Tybour would do it. Or Rosa. Or Illiar, or one of the others. He was just here to help. To be useful. That was enough.

He gave Cantor’s hand a small squeeze.

“I don’t think anyone’s expecting greatness from me,” he said softly. “But... thanks for thinking I could handle it. That means more than you know.”

“All right, everyone!” Tybour’s voice rang out across the Resting Room, firm and clear. “Time to get up! Let’s get going!”

The quiet rustle of breath was replaced by movement—people rising from their pallets, rolling up bedding, murmuring to one another in hushed voices. In a matter of minutes, the entire group had gathered near the far door.

“We’ll return here for breakfast after we’ve visited the Shrine,” Tybour said. “It’s not recommended to go in with a full belly.”

Elder Geriswald stepped forward and pushed open the door. Like the one they’d entered through, it rotated silently on a central axis.

And then the world exploded.

Magic surged into the room like a tidal wave.

Rishmond staggered, nearly falling. The return of magic wasn’t gentle—it was overwhelming, blinding. It was like being yanked up from underwater and slammed into the sun. All of his senses blurred into one—sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, all tangled together in a single radiant confusion.

He thought he still held Cantor and Illiar’s hands. They’d taken hold before the door opened. But even that wasn’t certain now.

Everything was light. Color. Pressure. The world sang—and it was too much.

Then: a voice.

Tybour.

“Close your eyes,” he said, low and steady. “It helps. Just listen to my voice. Breathe. Through your nose. Slowly. Let the rest pass over you. Don’t try to hold it—just... let it roll off. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Rishmond focused. Not on the light, not on the roar of sensation, but on Tybour. On the rise and fall of his words. He pulled in a long breath.

He felt Cantor’s hand—tight, almost painful in its grip. Then Illiar’s—warmer, steadier. Real. Grounding.

The noise began to recede, little by little. His knees didn’t buckle, though he was surprised they hadn’t. His eyes were still shut, but the panic was fading.

Then: a thought, uninvited and strangely loud in the quiet he was trying to rebuild.

I felt Cantor’s hand first.

He had no idea why that thought came, or what it meant. Only that it had arrived, and it stayed.

“Rishmond?” Illiar’s voice was right by his ear. Close. Worried.

He opened his eyes.

Green light poured through the now fully opened door. People were already moving through it. Tybour stood just ahead, turned back to check on him. Cantor and Illiar still gripped his hands. Both were watching him closely.

“I’m... I’m good now,” he said. His voice sounded odd, like it came from behind stone or water. But he was still standing. Still breathing. And now—now the roar of magic had quieted to a distant hum. A song behind the walls of the world.

And what lay beyond the door was calling.

“I’m good,” he said again, stronger this time. “Let’s go. I have to see what’s on the other side.”

He grinned.

Together, they stepped forward and crossed the threshold into the Shrine.

The green light of the glittergreen crystals illuminated the entire cavern.

The soft yellow-white glow of the God-lights—present, still burning—was utterly drowned out by the overwhelming radiance of the crystal. The glittergreen pulsed from the walls, the ceiling, even the floor, which was laid with large, polished slabs of the glowing stone. It shimmered beneath their feet, a smooth path leading several yards forward toward the edge of a vast chasm.

There, a thick green mist hovered and rolled like a living thing—stirred constantly by a gentle breeze that blew across the chamber and swept over the edge. It smelled faintly of clean stone and something sharper, metallic and sweet at once.

Rishmond’s eyes were drawn upward.

Two long, black ladders descended from the ceiling—metal rungs reaching all the way to the chasm’s lip. The old method, he remembered. The way the Gods had once climbed down into the mine before the elevator.

But it was what lay beyond the chasm that stole his breath.

Glittergreen crystals burst from the far wall in chaotic splendor, half-shielded by a waterfall that tumbled endlessly down the cliff face. The water glowed green where it passed near the stone, casting the mist in a curtain of shimmering light.

The sight was unreal. A glowing green veil of water falling into a bottomless void, framed in crystal.

Rishmond could hardly move.

And then—

“Accept your purpose. Help us. Bring back order.”

The whispers slithered back into his thoughts—stronger now. More intentional. As if the Shrine itself were speaking directly to him.

He turned, instinctively seeking out Tybour. But the First Mage had already crossed the open floor to a cluster of low, backless benches arranged before a stone promontory.

Rishmond followed with his eyes.

The outcropping jutted over the edge of the chasm, mist swirling around its base. A dais rested at its farthest point—a four-foot-wide disk of brilliant gold, set three shallow steps above the floor. The mist moved around it constantly, making the platform appear, at times, as if it floated.

Two statues flanked the approach—one on either side of the stone walkway.

The left statue was a woman, carved in flowing robes, her hand raised in what might have been a gesture of blessing or warning. She shone gold and white, serene and stern all at once.

The right statue was male—taller, broader-shouldered, though not towering. He held a staff angled downward, and his gaze was cast slightly to the side, like he watched the horizon beyond the mist.

Rishmond stared at them both.

Gods, surely. But he didn’t know which ones. Or what they were waiting for.

The Altemen priests and guards who had accompanied them had already taken their places, forming a quiet perimeter around the shrine. Silent. Watchful. Reverent.

Without a word, Torg stepped forward.

Not waiting for instruction. Not looking to anyone else for permission.

The little golem’s heavy steps echoed softly over the polished glittergreen floor as he moved straight toward the dais. His crystalline core pulsed with contained light as he mounted the promontory alone, coming to a halt at the base of the three wide steps that led up to the circular platform.

There he stopped, gaze lifted toward the waterfall. Waiting.

Behind him, the rest of the group watched in stillness.

Elder Geriswald moved next, gliding toward the start of the promontory and taking his place just to the side of the benches. One of the Altemen approached Rishmond, Cantor, Illiar, and gently gestured them down the center aisle.

Rishmond led the way.

The three of them walked slowly, every footstep soft on the glittering stone. The weight of attention pressed against his back—the entire expedition watched, though no one spoke.

At the front, just before the steps to the promontory, Rishmond began to turn toward a bench.

But the Alteman touched his shoulder and motioned him forward.

Not there.

Here.

Rishmond was ushered to the front, to stand beside Elder Geriswald—right at the edge of the unknown. Illiar and Cantor took their seats behind him, in the front row. Everyone else settled into the benches in silence, their eyes fixed on him.

Torg remained ahead, unmoving at the foot of the dais. As if waiting for something only he could sense.

Elder Geriswald gave Rishmond a small nod and turned toward the glowing chasm.

Rishmond followed his gaze.

And then—the light changed.

The waterfall across the chasm rippled, the smooth cascade twisting and reforming. The green glow shifted subtly, deepened, refracted—and a shape began to coalesce within the falling water.

A figure. A presence.

It resolved slowly into a form Rishmond knew.

The same face he had seen painted in the sanctuary at Rit. The same face from his vision atop the elevator: a beautiful, commanding woman with olive skin, golden-feathered wings spread wide behind her, and a mane of dark, curling hair that flowed like liquid ink.

Denisisie.

Torg bent low in a rigid, formal bow. His entire body seemed to shudder with reverence.

Gasps rose from the benches behind them.

Next to Rishmond, Elder Geriswald lowered himself in that impossible, fluid bow unique to the Altemen, his upper body bending at a perfect angle of devotion.

Rishmond hesitated—then bowed as best he could, left arm half-raised, right hand across his waist. He was late. Awkward.

But the vision in the falls did not seem to mind.

Her voice rolled out across the chamber—not from within the water, not from the air, but from everywhere at once. A sound that was music and power and judgment all at once.

“We haven’t much time,” she said. “The barrier is thin here—but reaching through it is dangerous. It exposes Rit to many threats. So we will dispense with the formalities.”

The sound of her voice was like a wind through his bones. Rishmond straightened slowly, barely breathing.

The Goddess had spoken.

And she was speaking to him.

"Rise, children. Do not be afraid." The voice of Denisisie filled the shrine, melodious and deep, vibrating through stone and bone alike. "Your Gods have waited for this moment for a long time. Hundreds of your turns. It is time now. Events have been set in motion, and our journey begins in earnest."

Rishmond dared a glance sideways. Elder Geriswald remained bowed low—lower even than before. His forehead hovered just above the floor. That couldn’t be normal. Was this truly the Goddess Denisisie? Were they... actually speaking to her?

He risked a look around.

All the Altemen were the same—flattened in reverent silence, foreheads pressed to stone. Even Tybour had fallen to one knee, his head bowed, arms drawn close to his chest in a posture of submission.

Then the Goddess spoke again.

"Come, children. Enough. Stand. Attend your Gods, and heed our words."

Rishmond raised his head—and found her looking directly at him. The face within the cascading water smiled. Not some distant, vague smile for the masses, but to him. He felt it. Knew it.

"Wizard Rishmond," the voice said, "thank you for bringing Torg to me. And for undertaking the task to get him here. You have pleased us with your sacrifice, your dedication, your strength of will."

Movement stirred behind her in the mist. Shapes. Vague and shifting, indistinct figures cloaked by the waterfall’s veil.

"But as grateful as we are, we request further service from you, Rishmond. We need a champion. One powerful in magic and devoted in heart and soul. We have chosen to ask you: will you serve? Will you help us save the world, Wizard Rishmond?"

Rishmond’s breath caught in his throat.

He took a step back, stunned. Her words rang like a bell inside him.

Save the world? Him?

That couldn’t be right.

“I—I’m not... I don’t think...” he stammered. “Are you sure you have the right person...? Goddess?”

There was a beat of stillness. Then:

"Step forward, Wizard Rishmond. Onto the platform. We would see you properly."

Torg was suddenly at his side. When had he moved?

The golem reached out a warm, stony hand. “Come, Wizard Rishmond,” he said softly. “Do not be afraid. My mistress needs to address you. I will be right here.”

Rishmond took his hand.

Together they stepped to the base of the dais, and Torg paused, motioning for Rishmond to ascend alone.

Rishmond nodded, heart pounding. He climbed the shallow steps.

As his foot touched the marble circle, it lit up beneath him with a soft white glow. A low hum vibrated through the stone—through him. He stepped into the center, and the world changed.

The breeze vanished. The sound of falling water ceased.

The whispering wind was replaced by a perfect, weightless silence.

He looked up.

And there she was.

Denisisie towered above him—twenty feet tall or more. The glow from the glittergreen crystals turned her silhouette into a halo of divine light. And behind her, the shadowed figures grew clearer—though still indistinct.

One, just to her right, wore a golden circlet on his brow. From its center shone a piercing white light, like a star or a flawless gem.

Rishmond stared at it, transfixed.

The face behind the light remained hidden. Still cloaked in shadow.

But the message was clear.

The Gods were watching.

"The others cannot hear us," Denisisie said gently. "They will receive their own questions. Their own instructions."

Her gaze remained fixed on him—eternal, soft, and impossibly ancient.

"For you, Rishmond, there is only one question."

"Will you accept the task we lay before you?"

"Will you travel to Bexxa’wyld, with your companions, and perform the Blessing ritual once again—to set right what went wrong before?"

Rishmond’s breath caught in his chest.

Bexxa’wyld.

The name echoed in his mind like the tolling of a great bell.

No one went to Bexxa’wyld.

Not anymore.

It was the divine retreat—the hidden, sacred place of the Gods, sealed since the Blessing. Every account he’d ever studied said the same: those who tried to reach it either never returned, or were destroyed before they reached its gates. Even mentioning the journey in formal magical circles was often considered foolish. A death wish.

And now she was asking him.

To go there.

To fix... something the Gods themselves had failed to fix?

His knees trembled.

“Goddess...” he began, his voice shaky and small. “I—”

He stopped.

Then tried again. “I don’t think I can do what you’re asking. It’s not that I don’t want to—I do—but... I don’t have what it would take.”

He looked down, unable to meet her gaze.

“I’m just a kid. From the Arrangement of Peace. I’m not special. I’ve never been special. I’m not like Tybour, or Rosa, or even Torg. I mess up. I talk too much. I don't always think things through. There are others who are so much more able to do what you need…”

He trailed off.

There was a long silence.

When he looked back up, she was smiling. Not pitying. Not amused.

Proud.

A gentle, maternal warmth radiated from her—so familiar, it made something ache in his chest. Her smile reminded him of Beritrude when he’d scraped his knee and insisted he wasn’t crying. Of Cantor’s mother, who’d always made him feel welcome. Of Halmond when he ruffled his hair and called him boyo, no matter how serious the moment.

She understood.

Of course she did.

"Tybour would be a much better choice," Rishmond added, softer now. “He always knows what to do.”

The smile on Denisisie’s face deepened.

And then, slowly, she spoke again.

“Very well, Wizard Rishmond,” Denisisie's voice resonated with finality. “Your answer has been given, and we will all live or die by it. Only one step remains before we begin.”

The soundscape shifted.

The roar of the waterfall returned, as did the ever-present whisper of wind. Voices murmured around him, low and unsure. Rishmond turned to look down from the dais.

His friends had gathered just beyond the stone benches, clustered near the statues flanking the promontory. Cantor and Illiar stood at the front, eyes locked on him, worry plain in their expressions. He offered a small, sheepish wave—hand low at his side. They returned the gesture tentatively, their hands raising just slightly.

Then he saw Tybour.

The First Mage’s face was tight. Anger? Frustration? Disbelief? Rishmond’s heart skipped a beat.

What had happened while he was speaking with the Goddess?

He started to step down from the platform—but couldn’t. His feet were frozen in place.

The voice of the Goddess rang out again, no longer gentle.

“The question has been asked and answered. Now judgment will be passed. Worthiness will be assessed. Rishmond, you shall be judged in the light of Truth. May you be found worthy.”

The stone beneath his feet erupted in blinding white light. The gentle hum he’d felt earlier became a roar—a physical buzzing like a swarm of a million angry wasps. Every sense overloaded.

The sound of the waterfall faded, swallowed by the pulsing energy. The world blurred. He smelled cinnamon, smoke, soap, pine sap, sea air, and sun-warmed grass. A thousand scents at once. His lungs burned. His chest squeezed tight, like a cantaboa had coiled around him.

He tried to scream—but no air came.

His vision was overtaken by light.

From below, the others watched in horror as a searing pillar of white light consumed Rishmond on the dais.

Green and gold sparks burst like fireworks through the cavern.

For a moment, they could see only a shadow—his silhouette within the column of radiance.

Tybour was the first to move. He sprinted forward, scrambling up the steps—only to slam into an invisible barrier. He struck it hard, rebounding with a snarl of fury and despair.

Inside the light, the shadow of Rishmond began to come apart.

Chunks broke away, floating upward, fracturing into smaller pieces—until nothing remained.

A final burst of blinding light—

Then darkness.

The entire cavern was plunged into blackness. Even the Altemen, whose night vision surpassed most mortals, staggered and blinked.

The glittergreen had gone dark.

The humming, vibrant pulse of lotret and lotrar—gone.

Only the dim yellow-white light of the God-lamps remained.

Tybour found his footing first. He lunged onto the platform—searching, reaching—

Nothing.

No Rishmond.

Only a faint mound of ash.

A breeze—steady and cold—swept the dais, and the ash scattered, falling silently over the edge into the abyss.

“No,” Tybour whispered, his voice breaking. “No. That can’t be—”

He spun.

“Torg!” he shouted. “Torg, what happened?! What did she do?!”

But the crystal golem stood motionless at the base of the stairs, lightless and still. The soft glow that had always emanated from within him was gone. The flowing magic that had given him life—gone.

Just cold, inert stone.

Tybour reached for the currents of magic—his instinct, his training, his birthright as a Wizard.

Nothing.

He pushed farther—reaching into the depths of Rit itself.

Still nothing. Only the faintest echo. Like the ghost of a distant fire. A memory of power. The sea of magic that had filled this sacred place was gone.

It was as if the Gods had swallowed it all in one breath.

And with it...Rishmond.