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B Y THE TIME Kanthe reached the bottom of the steps, his eyes wept from the sulfurous burn in the air. His stomach churned queasily. His throat had tightened, as if trying to keep the stench out of his lungs.

The stairs finally emptied into a dark, serpentine tunnel. With no other direction open to them, the group followed along it.

Rami covered his mouth and nose with the drape of his scribe’s robe. “We may suffocate before we ever find this damnable lair.”

On Kanthe’s other side, Cassta moved with an easy grace, unperturbed, as if strolling through a dark garden. The trio followed behind Tykhan, Frell, and Llyra, while Jester and Mead guarded their backs.

“Look here.” Cassta pointed to an emerald vein that cut through the black stone. It glowed faintly with a venomous gleam. “What do you make of this?”

Frell dropped back, clearly drawn by the question. “The hill that Highmount sits upon is riddled with such veins. Many believe it to be a corruption that traces back to the Forsaken Ages, when the world sank into millennia of chaos.”

Tykhan lifted a palm toward one of the shining seams, as if warming his hand before a hearth. “Despoiled ranium from ancient works. Tainted by alchymies lost to time. It still exudes a weak but poisonous spirit.”

Frell waved them onward. “I’ve heard the Shriven consume a salted elixir derived from gynkin seeds to shield them from the debilitation found down here.”

“What about us?” Kanthe asked.

Frell shrugged. “Best we not linger. Especially this deep.”

Kanthe swallowed as he followed, keeping away from the walls.

The group continued in silence, coughing occasionally against the sulfurous reek. After a short trek, the source of the stench appeared. Ahead, a steep-sided ravine cut across the passageway, as if the subterranean god Nethyn had cleaved it with his obsidian blade. A narrow stone bridge spanned the steamy gap.

Warded off by the stifling heat and the wretched smell rising from below, their group slowed as they approached it.

“Look at the pillars flanking the bridge,” Llyra noted.

Kanthe wiped his eyes free of stinging tears. Ahead, a pair of columns rose on either side of the span. They had been sculpted into towering snakes, reared high, with necks flared into cowls, their heads topped by thorny crowns.

A faint and steady hissing rose from them.

“What are they?” Rami whispered, plainly not as well-versed in the pantheon of Hálendiian gods.

Kanthe answered, “ Horn’d snaken. Sigil of the dark lord, D reyk.”

Tykhan drew them all closer. “Then this must mark the entrance to the Iflelen den.”

No one doubted this.

“Keep going,” Frell urged them.

The group mounted the bridge and headed across, moving more swiftly again.

Unable to stop himself, Kanthe peered over the edge. The hissing had come not from the sculpted snakes, but from the sulfurous steam rising from below. The chasm stank so heavily of brimstan that it choked his throat. Through weeping eyes, he spotted a baleful shine far below—the same sickly emerald of the glowing seams that ran through the black stones.

He shuddered, remembering Tykhan’s warning, and rushed the last of the way across the bridge. He joined the others as they gathered under an archway that fronted a large tunnel. The stone above had been scribed with arcane symbols, all glowing that abhorrent green, as if the very veins of the rock had been bent to the will of the Iflelen.

“We must take even greater care from here,” Frell warned them.

Kanthe balked at this threshold, as he had at the doorway into the Shrivenkeep, only this time Jester and Mead failed to push him forward.

In fact, no one moved.

Only concerned looks were exchanged.

Away from the hissing chasm, they all heard an echo of faint screams, agonizing and full of blood. A deep thudding reached them, too, felt through the soles of their feet, as if the black heart of Lord D reyk beat beneath them.

Tykhan finally shifted forward, taking one step, then another, into the tunnel. His next words, rather than encouraging, came out unsure, a rarity from the mouth of the Augury of Qazen. “Something is amiss…”

Rami followed with a cringe. “No need to tell us that.”

Tykhan continued onward. Ahead, not a single torch lit the way. The ta’wyn led with his lantern raised high, trying to push back the darkness.

No one spoke, stifled by the threat. Especially as the distant screaming abruptly cut off. The silence unnerved Kanthe, accentuating the drumming underfoot. The tremoring shook up his leg bones, rattling through his body.

It sent a clear message to his heart.

We should not be here.

A S ANOTHER CLANG of a bell chimed the passage of time, Kanthe and the others continued ever deeper. By now, iron doors appeared to either side, closing off rooms or the entrances to other passageways. One door had been welded shut by bars across it, as if whatever lurked inside must never be released into the world.

Rami finally whispered what they all must have been wondering. “Where is everyone?”

As if summoned by his question, a door opened ahead of them, its hinges grating and loud. Lights flared into the passageway, illuminating two shapes who stepped into the hall. One stood taller than the other. The pair froze, apparently startled to find a lamplit group only paces away.

The taller of the two, bony-limbed and gaunt, wore the gray robe of a Shrive. Only this one’s hair had not grown long enough to braid under his chin. Kanthe guessed he was an acolyte, someone new to the Iflelen order. He held a pale girl by the hand, a child of six or seven. She stood naked, with strange scrawls inked across her thin chest.

Kanthe remembered rumors from his time at Kepenhill. Whispers of secret passages, hidden doors, and students whisked off to bloody sacrifices.

Frell stepped forward, revealing the length of his gray robe. “I am Shrive Greysh,” he extolled haughtily. “Newly arrived from Ironclasp. I come with Abbot Naff to seek the counsel of the Iflelen.”

The acolyte remained silent, as if unsure how to respond. Then without a word, he turned and fled away, abandoning the child, who continued to stand in a dazed manner.

Rami stepped forward to give chase, drawing Kanthe with him.

But there was no need.

Ahead of them, the acolyte’s panicked flight ended abruptly—with the tinkle of a single bell.

The young Shrive’s body swung around to face them again. Behind him, Cassta stood at his shoulder, clutching a fistful of robe.

Kanthe glanced to his side, where Cassta had stood a moment ago, as if expecting to find her still standing there.

How had she moved so quickly, without drawing an eye?

His respect for her Rhysian training spiked higher, along with a trickle of fear. He swallowed down his shock.

Cassta pushed the acolyte toward them, resting the tip of a dagger under his chin. “A quisl, ” she whispered in her captive’s ear.

She plainly trusted that this scholar—even one so new to his robe—would recognize the name for the poisoned blade often employed by Rhysian assassins.

From the hike to the man’s chin, he did indeed.

As Cassta drove her charge back to the group, Llyra checked on the child. The girl remained in a stupor, with eyes glazed over and limbs leaden. Likely either spyllcast or drugged.

Llyra scowled at the young Shrive. “What foulness had you planned for this girl?”

The man seemed reluctant to talk, but Cassta dug her blade and freed his tongue.

“To… To be a bloodbaerne…” he finally gasped out, now on the tips of his toes to keep clear of the dagger.

Kanthe did not know what this meant, but Frell stumbled back a step. His face went pale, visible even through his painted features. Llyra scooped the child up, looking equally aghast.

“Such black alchymies are long forbidden,” Frell stated, biting off each word. Fury returned to flush his cheeks. “What is your name?”

“Ph… Phenic,” the man stammered. “Acolyte to Shrive Wryth.”

Frell cast a glance toward Kanthe, then back to their captive. “If you wish to live, you’ll tell us what you know of an ancient artifact, the bust of a man done in bronze.”

Phenic’s eyes darted around in a panic, showing plenty of white, but also recognition. “It is you. He… He said you would come. But we did not know when. You remain wispy shadows to him.”

“Who are you talking about?” Frell asked. “Your master? Wryth?”

Kanthe cringed at that name, fearing they had walked into a trap set by that Iflelen fiend.

“From bronze lips,” Phenic continued, his tone now exultant, “he foretold your arrival.”

Frell frowned. “What do you mean by—”

Tykhan groaned behind them, drawing everyone’s attention. His lantern fell from his fingers and crashed to the floor. The glass shattered, but the flame held.

“No…” the ta’wyn moaned, retreating a step, then another. “He wakes…”

Kanthe followed. “Tykhan?”

The ta’wyn stopped, shivering in place. He looked frozen, yet he clearly strained against it. His lips forced out words. “He… has hold of me.”

Confusion spread through the group.

“What’s happening?” Cassta called over.

Rami grabbed Tykhan’s arm, still half raised, as if in defense. It would not budge. “Something has him trapped.”

Kanthe joined Rami and added his strength, trying to unroot the statue.

“Do we flee?” Rami asked. “Try to carry him with us?”

Kanthe knew that was impossible. They did not have enough hands to haul that weight of bronze. To make matters worse, bells suddenly clanged deeper down the dark tunnel.

“We’ve been discovered,” Frell warned. “We can’t stay here.”

“And leave Tykhan behind?” Kanthe scoffed. “To hand him to the Iflelen? Are you mad? He’s our only means to communicate with Nyx and the others.”

“No matter.” Frell pointed a finger at Kanthe. “You must not be captured, not with your brother returning home.”

Kanthe kept hold of Tykhan’s arm. Through that grip, he felt the trembling war being waged within. “He’s still fighting.”

Down the passageway, shouts—angry and determined—joined the klaxon of bells.

“We must flee,” Frell demanded. “Better Tykhan be captured than all of us.”

Kanthe recognized this, but he remained at Tykhan’s side. He had come to consider the ta’wyn not only an invaluable resource, but also a friend, a loyal ally who deserved their support.

Though Tykhan could not turn his head, his gaze shifted to Kanthe. From the fury shining there, the ta’wyn agreed with Frell. Lips parted with exaggerated effort. “Go…”

Rami drew alongside Kanthe. “We must.”

Kanthe refused, even as torchlight flared down the tunnel. “Tykhan, you’ve walked the Urth for millennia. Longer than any ta’wyn. There must be a way to melt yourself free.”

Tykhan tremored, still trapped in place by an unknown force, but the panicked defeat in his eyes dimmed. His gaze appeared to turn inward.

“Think…” Kanthe urged him.

Tykhan’s body shook. Kanthe tried to tighten his grip on the ta’wyn, but the bronze turned soft. His fingers sank into the warmed metal. Disturbed by this strangeness, Kanthe let go and drew back.

Rami pulled him another step away. “What is he doing?”

Kanthe had no answer.

Slowly, Tykhan’s efforts melted free one arm. Even this must have taken all his strength. The azure glow of his eyes flared, bursting around the lenses that covered his crystal orbs. His features ran under the strain, streaming through the paint.

“Keep fighting,” Kanthe urged him.

Tykhan lowered his molten arm, his fingers now melded together. Still, he managed to rip open his robe. His palm lowered to his navel. With a loud groan and another burst of fire from his eyes, he lifted his hand away.

As he did, a glowing cube melted into view, flowing through his bronze.

Rami gasped at the sight of the crystalline object, veined in copper and pulsing with a golden mass at its core. “What is that?”

Kanthe recognized it. A year ago, Shiya had recovered a similar cube from a ta’wyn archive beneath the Shrouds of Dalal ?e a. Once seated inside her, it had served as a boundless forge that fueled her. Prior to that, she’d had to bask her bronze skin in the fiery heat of the sun to sustain herself.

Tykhan tossed the cube to the floor, then stumbled back, weak and unsteady. It was as if the pulsing box had been the anchor holding him trapped. Still, his body continued to roil, as if trying to right itself, like a ship broken loose during a storm.

Rami retreated from the glowing object, as did Cassta, as if both feared it was a bomb.

Tykhan gasped out a warning, adding to this fear. “Destroy it…”

No one moved, still too shocked, too unsure how to accomplish this task.

Another proved not to be so leery.

Phenic used this moment of confusion to wrest free of Cassta’s grip and knock her aside. He lunged forward, snatched the glowing cube from the floor, then leaped away. He fled toward the ringing bells, the shouts, the pounding boots.

By now, robed figures carrying torches appeared down the passageway.

Phenic raced toward them, but he had not escaped unscathed. He held a hand pressed to his neck as he fled. Blood flowed through his fingers. The quisl had bitten deep.

Cassta set off after him, but Phenic reached the torchlight.

“Stop!” Rami warned her. “It’s too late.”

This proved true for Phenic, too. His panicked flight turned into a drunken stumble. Unbalanced, he struck the wall and rebounded toward his brethren. In a handful of steps, driven more by momentum than muscle, he fell dead into the clutches of the Iflelen in the lead.

Kanthe recognized the grim countenance of Wryth, now adorned with an eye patch. Their gazes momentarily met across the distance. The bastard’s face shone with both anger and satisfaction, especially as he lifted that golden cube from his dead acolyte’s grip.

Then hands grabbed Kanthe and tore him around, pushing him toward the exit. Rami kept hold of his upper arm. “We must run!”

With no other choice, knowing a noose or worse awaited him if caught, Kanthe fled with the others. Tykhan kept pace, at first faltering, then more surefooted as he gathered the residual energy available to him. But there was no telling when those reserves would bottom out, turning Tykhan into a bronze sculpture again.

They needed to reach sunlight.

They hit the bridge, pounded across it, and passed between the two carved snakes. A glance behind showed their pursuit had ebbed. Torches glowed on the far side of the bridge, but they approached no farther.

Fearing that might change, they did not slow. They followed the tunnel, returned to the stairs, and clambered up toward the main keep.

Rami huffed heavily, staring behind him. “Why… Why have they given up the chase?”

“They must have secured what they wanted.” Frell’s brow crinkled with concern. He stared toward Tykhan, looking for an explanation.

The ta’wyn remained sullen and silent.

At the top of the stairs, the group resecured their hoods and robes, doing their best to resume their roles. But Tykhan remained too weak to melt his bronze into the rotund form of Abbot Naff. All he could manage was a weak approximation. To help hide his crude features, he drew the robe’s cowl over his head, shadowing his brow and keeping his gaze bowed down.

Still, it proved enough.

The group escaped the Shrivenkeep and soon headed through the school, which thankfully appeared empty. The reason became clear as they exited into Kepenhill’s stable yard, where their wagon still waited.

Students, alchymists, and hieromonks lined balconies and crowded the tiers. Faces stared upward. High above Highmount, a trio of armored wyndships blazed in the sky, framed by the fire of their overheated forges. They circled and lowered toward the royal mooring field within the castle walls.

Frell shoved Kanthe into the wagon. “It seems your brother has returned.”

Llyra followed them. She still carried the girl they had recovered, wrapped in the blue-and-gold cloak of the guildmaster’s disguise. “From the gathering out there, word of the queen’s poisoning must’ve spread, too.”

Once the group had piled inside, the drover got the wagon moving.

As the carriage rocked and jolted, Frell never took his eyes off Tykhan. “What happened back there?”

Tykhan remained grim, but he finally spoke. “Among the orders of ta’wyn, I’m a Root. Shiya is an Axis. We each have our own talents. But above all stand the Krysts. They have the ability to bend a ta’wyn to their will. They can emanate a force that enslaves both Root and Axis.”

Kanthe remembered how the Venin had been able to combine their bridle-song into a chorus that broke the will of men. The Krysts must share a talent like that, an ability to control another ta’wyn by commandeering a victim’s gold-pulsing forge. By shedding his cube, Tykhan must have wrested himself free.

But at what cost?

This seemed to worry Tykhan, too. “I never suspected Eligor could have woken already. Not in his decapitated state. Especially to stir forth with such strength.”

Frell nodded to the girl clutched by Llyra. “Wryth and his ilk must be using bloodbaernes to somehow fuel their efforts.”

Tykhan rested a palm on his belly, where the cube had melted out of him. “With what was stolen from me, bloodbaernes will no longer be necessary. Eligor can now set himself free.”

“What does that mean for us?” Kanthe pressed him.

Tykhan fixed Kanthe with his glowing gaze, dimmer now but with a glimmer of gratitude. “He surely wanted all of me, not just the schysm I carried. If he had secured my body, too, he could have scavenged its resources. His rebirth would have been shortened to weeks, if not days.”

Rami patted Kanthe’s knee. “It seems your steadfast devotion saved us all.”

“And it is appreciated,” Tykhan said. “I would not have attempted such an effort without your encouragement. But know this, such an act has only bought an extra measure of time. Nothing more.”

“Then what?” Frell asked. “If the Iflelen have that cube—your schysm —what does it portend?”

Tykhan lowered his gaze. When he answered, it came with the finality of a prophecy. “It means we’ve lost already.”

A stunned silence followed.

“That can’t be,” Kanthe muttered.

Tykhan lifted his face, displaying his conviction. “It took a vast ta’wyn army to defeat Eligor before. An army we don’t have and can never raise.”

Kanthe’s heart sank at these words. He pictured the others who were striving to reach the turubya in the Barrens. He sat straighter, refusing to accept this judgement, especially knowing who was out there.

“You’ve never met Nyx,” Kanthe argued. “While she lives, there is hope.”

Tykhan looked sadly upon them all. “I’ve read all paths forward. Every weft and weave. With Eligor risen to full power, doom is inevitable.”

Those glowing eyes firmed with certainty.

“Even for her.”