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D EEP UNDER THE foundation of Kepenhill’s nine tiers, Kanthe stood inside a chamber carved from a massive vein of obsidian. The glassy walls and domed roof had been polished into large facets, reflecting their group a hundredfold. Sealed doors, twenty in number, led off into passageways that wormed throughout the school overhead, even into the neighboring castle of Highmount.

It seems all roads lead to this insidious cellar.

But only one door, carved of ebonwood, held Kanthe’s attention.

He shivered at the sight of the emblem etched into its lintel: a book clutched in the fangs of a viper. The symbol warned of the poisonous knowledge found within the Shrivenkeep.

When he was a student here, rumors had abounded of this place: of arcane rituals, of chained monsters, of witchcraft and warlockry. Kepenhill’s teachers had sought to allay such stories. They insisted the Shrivenkeep was merely a monastic hermitage of deep study and scholarly pursuits. It was here that the Shriven pursued dangerous inquiries, delving into cabalistic experiments, seeking paths beyond all boundaries of horizon and history. To ensure their secrecy, and for the safety of all, their labors had to be buried away. Even the school’s alchymists and hieromonks rarely ventured down into its levels.

Kanthe appreciated that caution now. Whether any of the stories of the Shrivenkeep were true, he did not have any particular desire to find out.

But there’s no retreating now…

Frell passed a surreptitious glance around the domed chamber. “We must not tarry,” he warned. “With the earlier quake, most gazes look outward, but that won’t last. Especially with Mikaen rushing back to Highmount.”

So far, their party had made good progress, raising no suspicions. Luckily, Abbot Naff had been summoned to Highmount due to the queen’s distress, to offer counsel and to bring in scholars fluent in poisons and venoms.

It left their path to these cellars unobstructed.

After arriving at the school in the wagon, their group had quickly made their way down. They kept to a tight knot. The few students and teachers who crossed their path cleared out of the way with bows and downturned gazes—not just due to the respect for the rotund form of Abbot Naff, but also out of a wariness at the sight of a Shrive passing among them. Such esteemed scholars—considered holy by many—rarely showed themselves, sticking to their subterranean keep or moving through passages and hidden doors known only to them.

From here, their group would need to be even more circumspect.

Tykhan eyed each team member, as if weighing their resolve. Finally, he drew forth a large key—one secured by Llyra—and stepped to the door. He quickly unlocked the way, exposing a torchlit tunnel beyond, and led them inside.

“Everyone keep close,” the ta’wyn warned.

Frell followed, while Tykhan retrieved a glowing lantern from a hook on the wall. Rami headed in with Cassta and Llyra.

Kanthe balked at entering—until Jester and Mead all but shoved him across the threshold. He stumbled inside and stared down the throat of the passageway. He had never set foot in here and had hoped never to do so. Its halls were said to be shivered by screams, both from the throats of men and those of daemons.

Kanthe listened for those howls.

Rami looked equally discomfited. He whispered through his beard, “Does this warren hide any vile creatures… like the Venin who haunted the Abyssal Codex of the Dresh’ri?”

Cassta winced at his words.

Kanthe pictured the mutilated faces of the Venin, guardians of that buried archive. In his nightmares, he still heard their insidious bridle-song, a chorus strong enough to ensnare and bend victims to their will.

Frell overheard this worrisome query, but rather than scolding Rami for speaking, he tried to assure them—and maybe himself. “I’ve heard no such stories.”

But Frell did not sound particularly sure on this matter. The alchymist had run afoul of the Venin, and from the sour set to his lips, he did not care to repeat that experience.

Tykhan held up his lantern and motioned Frell onward. “In the past, how deep have you traveled into this keep?”

“Only to its librarie. No further.”

“Then get us that far. From there, we’ll make inquiries and try not to rouse suspicions.”

Tykhan set off with Frell, who guided them through a growing labyrinth of crisscrossing passageways, each tunnel more crooked than the next. They also traveled deeper, traversing narrow stairs worn at the edges by centuries of sandals.

Care had to be taken as they swept past gray-robed Shriven, who ducked out of their way, clutching dusty texts to their chests, likely forbidden tomes from the Black Librarie of the Anathema. Most barely gave them a glance. The few who acknowledged them did so with a nod to the abbot or a curious squint toward Frell in his Shriven attire.

Cassta watched the latest passerby retreat down the tunnel. A flick of her fingers and a black knife vanished into a wrist sheath. “So far, our disguises continue to hold.”

But for how much longer?

As they continued, Kanthe’s ears strained for any sound of alarm, but all he heard were muffled voices, disembodied by distance, echoing eerily as if from the throats of the dead. The smoky air also grew tainted, stinging his nostrils with the reek of bitter alchymies from the Shrivenkeep’s countless laboratories or scholariums.

Worst of all, the flaming torches set into wall sconces grew ever scarcer. The darkness and dancing shadows set Kanthe’s heart to pounding harder. It reminded him how far they had descended from the shine of the sun, of the endless glory of the Father Above.

Finally, Frell stopped at the mouth to yet another stairwell that spiraled down. He pointed to a side passageway. “The librarie lies that way.”

Kanthe stared down the dark hall. The ghostly voices sounded more fervent in that direction. Many of the Shriven must be gathered at the archive, pursuing their dark studies.

Cassta stepped to the stairs. “The air rising from below smells of brimstan.”

Kanthe shifted over and confirmed the same, noting the sulfurous stench.

“What do you think?” Tykhan asked Frell. “Do we continue down on our own or seek a willing guide from the librarie?”

Frell studied the winding stairwell. “Over my years at Kepenhill, I’ve heard how the Iflelen often reek of burning brimstan, the stench clinging to their robes. And Lord ? reyk—their dark god—is said to travel the world through rivers of the same.”

Llyra offered her own input. “Mind you, if we must make inquiries of these gray-robed brothers, best we do it when we’re down as deep as we can manage on our own.”

Jester added, “And far from prying eyes.”

Rami supported this. “When it comes to trespassing, we should heed the wisdom of thieves.”

While everyone looked worried, nods followed.

“Then it’s decided.” Tykhan mounted the steps and headed down. “We continue on our own.”