The air grew colder with each step. The smell of earth and old stone thickened, joined now by something metallic and faintly sour—the lingering scent of ancient blood that had seeped into stone and never fully faded.
Torchlight and mage-light revealed murals carved into the walls—faded depictions of warriors standing over kneeling figures, lines of chained prisoners, robed figures raising hands toward a sky filled with unnatural stars.
This had once belonged to someone important. Someone who demanded more than a simple grave.
They entered a second chamber.
This one was larger, with a high, domed ceiling supported by squat stone pillars carved in the shape of armored guardians. Coins lay scattered across the floor—old, tarnished, some fused together by time and damp. Jewelry glinted here and there: rings, pendants, brooches, all corroded but still faintly valuable.
Grave goods.
Torren's companions' eyes lit up instinctively before guilt smothered the reaction. They were here for Henrik, not loot.
Valen's gaze swept the room, cataloging.
Ten sarcophagi. Six looted in the past. Four untouched. Spirit activity: present but quiescent. No awakenings yet.
He bent down, picked up a coin between thumb and forefinger, and brushed off the grime. The design was unfamiliar—an ancient crest that predated the current empire.
"This tomb is older than your guild's records, likely," Valen said. "It has been disturbed before, but not thoroughly."
"Is this..." one of the younger adventurers began, swallowing. "Is this not... desecration?"
Amber shrugged slightly. "The dead do not spend coins. Grave goods were always meant to be offerings, not investments."
Valen flicked the coin once, then slipped it into a pouch—not out of greed, but as a potential data point. Old currencies sometimes carried unique alloys, trace enchantments, or clues about lost enchantment traditions.
"We can argue ethics later," Amber said. "For now, we find your senior."
Torren checked the tracker again. The needle turned, pointing toward a far corner of the chamber where the shadows seemed deeper.
There, half-hidden behind a pillar, a narrow passage slanted even further downward. The stone here was different—less refined, more recent. Excavation rather than original construction.
Valen's eyes narrowed.
"That tunnel was dug later," he said. "Someone expanded this tomb from within."
"Grave robbers?" one of the adventurers suggested.
"Possibly," Valen said. "Or someone with more specific needs."
He gestured silently.
Terminal D drifted ahead, slipping through the new passage without disturbing so much as a grain of dust. The tunnel twisted, descended, then opened into another chamber.
This one was different.
Master, Iris's voice sharpened, dropping its usual light tone. Detecting recent blood. Human. Multiple bodies. And... a ritual circle.
The mental image streamed into Valen's awareness.
A wide, circular chamber, its floor inscribed with a complex array of symbols carved directly into the stone. Fresh blood traced the grooves, still glistening wet in places. At the circle's center lay an unconscious man bound in chains—broad-shouldered, scarred, mid-thirties. Rank 3 warrior, if the density of his physique and the remnants of aura around him were any indication.
Henrik.
Around the circle stood four robed figures, hoods up. Power clung to them in uneven layers—three at Rank 3 to 4, and one whose presence pressed against the air even through the spirit's senses. Rank 6, easily.
They were chanting, voices low and steady, weaving mana into the air in slow, deliberate patterns. Each word sank into the circle beneath their feet, feeding lines of power that pulsed in time with a distant, unseen rhythm.
They are synchronizing with Convergences, Iris murmured. Growth phase alignment. Efficiency: high.
Just as Terminal D began to drift sideways for a different angle, one of the robed figures stiffened. His head turned, hood shifting slightly as if he had caught a scent on the air.
His gaze snapped upward.
He could not see the spirit construct, but his hand rose, fingers curling in a quick, practiced gesture. A ripple of mana swept through the chamber—like a wave of fine sand grinding against glass.
Terminal D flickered.
Detection spell, Iris reported. Crude, but wide enough to brush my projection. Spiritual interference rising.
The lead ritualist did not break his chant, but his voice deepened, forcing the others to adjust their cadence. Without looking away from the circle, he snapped his fingers.
Three additional figures detached themselves from the shadows near the walls—lesser cultists, armored lightly, faces masked, weapons already drawn.
"Someone watches," one of the robed men said between verses. "Divination magic. From above."
"Deal with it," the Rank 6 ritualist said coldly. "The ritual takes precedence. Nothing breaks."
The three lesser cultists moved toward a side tunnel—the same new passage that led up, toward Valen's group.
Terminal D withdrew, slipping back through stone, evading the tightening net of detection.
Back in the upper chamber, Valen's eyes opened.
"They have detected us," he said.
Amber's expression hardened. "And?"
"There are four ritualists," Valen said. "One is Rank 6. They are performing a blood ritual anchored to three Convergences which are likely happening outside in around five kilometeres range. Henrik is the core sacrifice."
Silence fell over the adventurers.
Rank 6.
For guild-trained Rank 1s, the difference might as well have been the gap between man and mountain.
"Rank..." Torren's voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. "Rank 6? Are you certain?"
"Yes."
The word landed like a stone.
Mara's knuckles whitened around her staff. "Then we cannot fight them. Not even with your help."
"Correct," Valen said. "We would be erased before we crossed the threshold."
Torren took a half-step forward, then stopped himself. His eyes were wide, staring, caught between fury and despair.
"But Henrik—"
"Is about to die regardless," Valen said quietly.
Amber shot him a sharp look, but did not contradict him.
Truth was rarely comforting.
Torren shook his head violently. "There must be something—"
"There is," Valen said. "But not here. Not with us."
He met each of their gazes in turn, letting the weight of his words settle.
"You must run," he said. "Return to the surface. Find the Watcher or any other Rank 6 present. Only they can confront what is below."
Torren's jaw clenched. "You are asking us to abandon Henrik."
"I am telling you that if you stay, you will die," Valen replied. "Then your guild will lose five more members for nothing. Henrik's fate is sealed the moment the ritual reaches its midpoint. The only way to honor him now is to ensure that his death does not also doom everyone above."
His tone remained calm, but he watched their reactions carefully.
Torren's shoulders trembled. Jens and Kalla looked sick. Mara's eyes were haunted, but clear. She understood the arithmetic of survival.
"We can at least try to break through," Torren whispered. "If there is a chance to reach him—"
"There is not," Valen said. "They are already aware of us. They have sent hunters up the tunnel. We will hold the rear and buy you time to reach the surface."
Amber nodded once. "We can stall them. You cannot."
Mara closed her eyes briefly, then exhaled. When she opened them again, the indecision was gone.
"Torren," she said softly. "Henrik would break our legs and drag us out himself if we tried something this foolish."
Torren flinched.
"He stayed behind on that mountain pass so the rest of us could retreat," Mara continued, voice low. "This is no different."
Slowly, painfully, Torren's shoulders slumped. He pressed a hand over his eyes for a heartbeat, then dropped it.
"Fine," he said hoarsely. "We will go."
He looked at Valen, desperation burned down to a small, hard ember.
"If he survives," Torren said, "if there is anything left of him—"
"We will do what we can," Valen said. "Now move. Time is not our ally."
The adventurers hesitated only a moment longer, then turned and began retracing their steps, boots clattering against stone. Torren looked back once, face tight, then vanished into the tunnel's darkness.
Their footsteps faded.
Amber rolled her shoulders, flexing her fingers as mana began to gather around her once more.
"How many?" she asked.
"Three," Valen said. "Lesser cultists. Rank 2, 2, and 3. Their task is to eliminate witnesses, not hold the line."
"Unfortunate for them," Amber murmured.
Valen stepped farther into the chamber, placing himself between the stairway and the passage that led deeper. The air felt heavier now, a faint vibration running through the stone underfoot.
The mana was getting chaotic.
"Iris," he said silently. "Mark their approach."
Already done, Master, she replied. Range: forty meters and closing. Formation: staggered line. No scouts. Confident or careless.
Careless, Valen decided. The confident ones are already chanting.
He lifted his hand.
"Amber."
"Yes?"
"Do not overdo it," he said. "We are not here to impress them."
Her smile was thin. "No promises."
Valen drew barrier mana to his palm—dense, resilient, meant to form walls and domes. Instead of letting it solidify, he compressed it into a thin, circular frame no wider than his forearm. Around that frame he wound streams of sand and water, fine as dust and sharp as broken glass.
The construct hummed as it took shape—a spinning ring of translucent force, its edge blurred by the high-speed flow of grit-laden water.
Compound Spell: Chakra of Water Jet.
He formed a second to mirror the first.
The pair hovered in the air before his hands, spinning lazily. Each subtle shift of his fingers altered their angle and trajectory.
"They are close," Amber said, her eyes glowing.
He nodded.
The first cultist burst into view at the tunnel mouth—a tall man in layered leather and half-plate, mask concealing everything but his eyes. He carried a curved blade that dripped faint, oily darkness.
He saw Valen and Amber and moved without a word, blade coming up in a smooth killing arc.
Valen flicked his wrist.
One of the spinning rings shot forward with a low, grinding whine. The cultist twisted, blade lashing out to parry the strange construct.
It did not parry cleanly.
The chakra caught the blade's edge and bit into it, the spinning sand-and-water sheath tearing through darkened metal like a grindstone through rotten wood. Sparks and flecks of shadow flew. The weapon's tip sheared away.
The chakra continued unhindered, grazing across the cultist's breastplate.
Armor that had shrugged off blades and low-tier spells screamed under the assault. A ragged groove appeared across the metal, followed by a spray of blood as the force bit through into flesh.
The cultist staggered, choking.
Valen twitched his fingers. The chakra curved midair and whipped back, striking the man across the back of his knees.
Bone and tendon parted. The man went down hard, legs folding.
He did not have time to scream.
Amber's light lanced past Valen's shoulder and struck his mask. Golden radiance flared, then faded, leaving nothing but a charred ruin where his head had been. His body twitched once and lay still.
The second and third cultists appeared an instant later, one with a staff crackling with dark lightning, the other already mid-chant, shadows coiling around his outstretched hand.
They did not charge blindly. They spread out, one to each side of the tunnel mouth, seeking angles.
Competent, then. Just not enough.
The staff-wielder thrust his weapon forward. Black lightning snarled down the passage, slamming into the solid barrier Amber threw up almost casually. The stone under their feet vibrated with the impact, the air filling with the smell of ozone and burnt dust.
The shadow-caster launched a swarm of needle-thin darkness, each tendril seeking exposed flesh.
Valen stepped into the gaps.
His second chakra spun out, intercepting the shadow-needles. Each tendril that touched the ring was shredded, dispersed by the relentless current of grinding stone. The air hummed as mana collided, broke, and dissipated.
He shifted his stance, sending the first chakra arcing toward the staff-wielder.
The man tried to dodge, but the spinning construct curved with him, tracking his movement. He raised his staff defensively, but the chakra tore it in half and continued, biting deep into his arm.
He screamed, dark lightning bursting uncontrolled from the severed limb, scorching the walls and ceiling.
Amber seized the opening. Her next spell was smaller than the one in the Draugr chamber, but far more focused—a concentrated bolt of golden light that punched cleanly through his chest.
He fell without another sound.
The remaining cultist cut his chant short and tried to retreat, shadows gathering around his legs.
Valen did not let him.
He stepped forward, sending both chakras at once. One sliced across the man's arms, shredding tendons and severing fingers before he could complete a defensive seal. The other struck low, carving through muscle and bone.
The cultist collapsed in a spray of blood and stone dust.
Amber ended it with a sharp, precise burst of light.
The echoes of the brief, brutal engagement faded, leaving only their harsh breathing and the dripping of blood onto ancient stone.
"Efficient," Amber said.
Valen dispelled the chakras. The spinning rings unraveled into harmless motes of mana that faded into the air.
His heart rate had barely changed.
"Let us go," he said. "We have delayed them as much as we safely can."
They moved quickly, following the adventurers' trail back up the tunnels. The air grew marginally less oppressive with each step, though the faint thrumming underfoot remained, like a distant heartbeat gone wrong.
External fluctuations increasing, Iris reported.
External, Valen thought. Above ground, then.
They climbed the last stretch of stairs and emerged back into the upper passageways that led toward the valley.