The underground descended into silence once again.
The remaining soldiers backed away from their bloodied comrade, their swords suddenly feeling heavy in their hands. The miners pressed themselves against the tunnel walls, as if trying to disappear into the stone. Everyone understood that something terrible was about to unfold, and no one wanted to be close enough to get splattered.
Eighty-seven swayed on his feet, the pickaxe dragging at his arms like it was made of lead instead of iron. Blood still seeped from his ruined ear, painting his neck crimson, and his chest felt like someone had opened a furnace door inside his ribs. Each breath was a struggle against the fire burning in his lungs.
The rage in Captain Sarka's gaze was gone, replaced by something far worse-the cold certainty of a predator who'd cornered his prey.
"You crossed the line, bastard."
The words fell into the silence like stones into a deep well. Sarkas drew his sword with the smooth motion of long practice, the steel singing as it cleared the scabbard. The remaining soldiers scattered like startled birds.
But then something impossible happened.
Pale green aura began to seep from Sarkas's body like luminous smoke, crawling across his skin. The light gathered around his sword, transforming the mundane steel into something that hummed with otherworldly power. The air itself seemed to thicken, pressing down on everyone present like the weight of the mountain above.
It was then that everyone realized Captain Sarkas was a Deviant.
Eighty-seven's remaining strength nearly deserted him. His crimson eyes went wide and his grip on the pickaxe became slick with sudden sweat. It wasn't his first time seeing someone wield the Essence - that mysterious force that separated the blessed from the mundane-but he'd never in his worst nightmares did he imagined that lazy, lecherous, and loathsome Captain Sarkas could be one of the chosen few.
Deviants are rare and worth their weight in imperial gold. They were the ones who turned battles, toppled kingdoms, carved their names into history with fire and lightning. The idea that one of them would waste away in a mining pit, growing fat on bribes and watching female dwarves, was like finding a dragon working as a tavern cook.
But the evidence blazed before his eyes, impossible to deny.
The pale green aura around Sarkas's sword pulsed like a heartbeat, casting dancing shadows across the tunnel walls.
Eighty-seven realized at that moment, he was fucked!
He may have faced the soldiers through luck and fury, but against a Deviant? In his current condition, missing an ear and bleeding like a stuck pig? He'd have better odds wrestling a cave-in with his bare hands.
Desperately, he turned toward Russ, hoping for some sign that the scarred man had a plan beyond watching him die. But what he saw made his blood turn to ice water.
Russ was smiling.
Not the broken-glass grin he'd worn in the black cells, but something wider. Something that stretched his ruined features into a mask of anticipation that belonged on a corpse. His single red eye gleamed with the kind of satisfaction that came from watching a carefully laid trap finally spring shut.
For a moment, the worst thoughts crashed through Eighty-Seven's skull. Had he been played? Was this all some elaborate scheme to watch him die in the most spectacular way possible? The rotten rope he'd grabbed onto - was it already around his neck?
But before panic could completely overwhelm him, a new sound cut through the tense silence.
-Clank, roll, clank.
Everyone's heads turned toward the noise.
A dented bucket rolled across the tunnel floor, its progress marked by the wet slap of whatever filth coated its interior. It came to rest in the center of the standoff, flopping over with a final, pathetic clang.
All eyes followed its trajectory back to its source.
There, standing in the shadows where the tunnel bent toward the deeper mines, was a figure that made even the hardened soldiers take a step back.
The old man, his spine curved like a question mark, his face mapped with more wrinkles than bark on an ancient tree. But for the first time since anyone could remember, he was smiling. The sight was more unsettling than Sarkas's blazing sword.
And right in the hand of the old man was a wooden box-its lid open, revealing a black pill, emitting an ominous aura.
Captain Sarkas went rigid, the green aura around his weapon flickering like a candle in a strong wind. Something was wrong here - very, very wrong. The man who'd spent years perfecting the art of casual brutality suddenly looked like he'd seen his own grave.
"No, no, no…" Sarkas whispered, the word barely audible over the hum of his essence-charged blade.
But the old man was already raising his hand, grasping a black pill from a familiar wooden box. His gnarled fingers worked the clasp with surprising steadiness.
Eighty-seven's heart stopped.
He recognized that box. The insurance Russ had given him was still sitting heavily in his pocket. But this was a different box, held by different hands, about to unleash whatever hell Russ had planned from the beginning.
When Eighty-Seven snapped his gaze back to Russ, the scarred man's smile had grown so wide it threatened to split his face in half. His remaining eye blazed with triumph and something else-something that sent ice-cold fingers crawling up Eighty-Seven's spine.
Captain Sarkas lunged forward, his sword trailing green fire through the stale air. "Stop him! STOP-"
But the old man had already tilted back his head, and before the pill touched his lips, words spilled from his mouth like a final confession.
"Embrace this poor soul, O Lord Vessa!"
─── ✦ ✦ ✦ ───