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T he stone walls of the catacombs bled their biting cold into the air. Bastille waited, his torch struggling to breathe in the closeness of the passage. The darkness was a leech, pulling every bit of light and warmth into its bottomless depths.

He had been to Sgùrdruid before but never to the catacombs. The place felt so ancient; it was a marvel that anyone was able to build this labyrinth of tunnels into the side of a mountain. The city sat far above, its inhabitants entirely unaware of what was to come.

Guilt weighed heavily on Bastille’s soul, but he knew what he had to do. People across Ichorna suffered more and more each day because of their isolation. He had to do something to entice the rest of the world into trade with them. They were a small nation and not equipped with the resources to be self-sufficient. He was out of options; if he did not follow through with this, he would watch his people sink into ruin.

After seemingly endless moments, he heard near-silent footsteps approaching. They were so quiet he thought he may be hallucinating.

The outline of a man appeared on the edge of the torch’s glow, an apparition stepping out of the blackness.

The man was youthful, with a long, angular face and stern nose. His eyes appeared fully black in the dimness. When he spoke, goosebumps prickled Bastille’s arms despite his thick cloak.

“I see you decided to follow through,”the other man said in a voice that was eerily gentle.

“I must do what I can for my people, and I see no other options before me,” Bastille answered with a sigh. His heart ached with the truth of what they were about to do.

“I still don’t understand why you’ve offered this—it doesn’t make sense,” Bastille added.

“It is not for you to understand. You must only know the consequences for yourself and Ichorna. Do you want to do this or not?” the man answered, his tone growing harsher. “There is no room for indecision.”

“Let’s begin, then.”