The adrenaline of Caldreth's deal was fading, replaced by a restless, burning energy that made his skin itch. He paced the length of the chamber, his boots kicking up small clouds of ancient dust.

  "We are wasting time," Caldreth snapped, turning to face Velcryn. "We have the power, why not march now? Every hour we sit in these ruins is an hour the demons have to fortify Shatterdeep."

  Velcryn's gaze remained fixed, drawing a line of frost across a piece of parchment with a skeletal talon.

  "Impatience," Velcryn murmured, his voice dry as old parchment. "It is the haste of a creature that knows it will die eventually. You are Sangrathi, boy. Learn to view time as a resource, not an enemy."

  "I view it as a window closing," Caldreth bit back, his hand hovering over the crude map. "While we draw lines on parchment, the demons are rallying at Shatterdeep. We need to strike."

  "What we need," Velcryn corrected, his voice dropping to a glacial temperature, "is to ensure that when we strike, we do not shatter our own hand."

  The lich drifted away from the table, his tattered robes trailing in the stagnant air. He turned his blue-flamed gaze toward his brother.

  "We lack mass," Velcryn stated. "The infection spreads, but we need a tide, not a trickle. The walls of Shatterdeep will be littered with the fools we herded there."

  He pointed a skeletal finger toward the northern ravines and the deep cavern systems marked on the map.

  "My brother will take a portion of our forces north," Velcryn commanded. "Scour the underground systems. The Vermin-Holes. Turn them all."

  Myrrakhael bobbed his head, a wet, gurgling noise escaping his throat. "Biomass. I can find biomass. There are things sleeping in the dark that will make fine puppets."

  The green-flamed lich turned to leave, but Velcryn's voice stopped him cold.

  "And Myrrakhael," Velcryn added, his tone sharpening. "Steer clear of the southern ridge. Avoid the humans."

  Caldreth looked up, frowning. "Why? If they have soldiers, they have bodies. We could use them."

  "Do you forget our past so easily?" Velcryn snapped. "The humans and their flame-rites are a variable we do not need. Not yet."

  Velcryn looked back at the map, his sockets narrowing.

  "They are content to hide behind their walls of black stone. Let them sleep. If we attack them now, we invite a second front. We take the citadel first. We secure the Tome's legacy. Then we turn our gaze to the embers."

  He looked at Myrrakhael.

  "Do not let them know we walk, brother. Leave the humans to their ignorance."

  Myrrakhael looked disappointed, his jaw clicking. "A pity. Human fear has such a distinct flavor. But very well. I will stick to the shadows."

  The lich offered a manic, gurgling giggle. "I will bring you a legion of monsters, brother. Shatterdeep will drown in them."

  "And you," Velcryn said, pointing a bony finger at Caldreth. "You are not ready for the throne of Shatterdeep. You have power, yes. But you lack depth. You are a shallow pool trying to be an ocean."

  Caldreth bristled, the Tome at his shoulder radiating a warm pulse of agreement with his anger. "Let's not forget who's responsible for bringing you back."

  Velcryn paused. The blue color in his sockets dimmed, feigning shock. He placed a skeletal hand over where a heart would be.

  "Ah. My deepest apologies," the lich rasped, his voice dripping with theatrical humility. "I had forgotten. All hail the great resurrector."

  The frost around him snapped as his tone dropped.

  "Do not mistake presence for agency, boy. You did nothing but die against your will. It was Vladar who created the curse. You are not the architect of our return."

  Velcryn drifted closer, looming over him until the chill of his aura pricked at Caldreth's skin.

  "But if you wish to be the key to something," Velcryn whispered, his skeletal finger hovering inches from Caldreth's chest, "there is a lock beneath this city that requires turning."

  The lich gestured to the floor.

  "For a century, our power was sealed. It had nowhere to go, building pressure within the tombs. Given more time, we would have burst the bindings ourselves from the inside out. But when the cursed shattered the physical seals, our accumulated necrotic force was released in a single heartbeat."

  "Normally, the leylines would swallow such a wave, absorbing the excess. But here... beneath us... it hit a wall."

  Velcryn's sockets narrowed with flickering calculation.

  "It reverberated. A pulse of pure creation pushing back against our dark force. The feedback rattled our very cores."

  He looked at the Tome, then back to Caldreth.

  "Vladar was a genius. He wouldn't have built the cities of his empire atop dead stone. I suspect he had Nethervale constructed directly atop a Leyline Anchor. That is what I felt in the deep, the anchor reacting to our return."

  "So find it," Caldreth said.

  "I cannot," Velcryn said. "I am a creature of death. The anchor is pure creation. To my senses, it is a blinding sun; I cannot navigate the glare to locate it. And if I were to touch it, it would incinerate my bindings."

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  He leaned in closer. "I need a living conduit to find the source. I need you."

  "And Krim?" Caldreth asked, glancing over to the necromancer. "He wields the same magic you do. You expect me to find this anchor alone?"

  Velcryn let out a dry, rattling scoff.

  "Hardly. The necromancer is merely a tourist in the grave. He still clings to his mortality, his beating heart, his... soul."

  The lich tapped his own hollow chest.

  "Myrrakhael and I surrendered those burdens long ago. We did not just learn the dark arts; we became them. We sold our essence for eternal life. Krim is just a man standing in a shadow. The anchor will make him nauseous, perhaps give him a migraine. But for us? It is annihilation."

  Caldreth stared at him, calculating. "So you want us to go into the dark while you sit here safe on your throne?"

  The air in the room dropped in a heartbeat. The frost on Velcryn's robes spiked outward like quills.

  "Safe?" Velcryn whispered, gliding forward until he loomed over Caldreth. "Do you think conquest is merely swinging a sword, boy?"

  The lich raised his hands. Dark, necrotic power poured from his palms, seeping into the stone of the floor. The masonry groaned. Black veins shot out from where he stood, racing up the pillars, corrupting the very architecture of the room.

  "I am re-weaving these ruins," Velcryn hissed. "I am corrupting the stone and poisoning the air. I am building a fortress of death. Do not mistake my stillness for idleness."

  He dropped his hands, and the pressure in the room alleviated. Velcryn turned back to his map table, his interest in the conversation visibly waning.

  "Myrrakhael will escort you to the Undercrypt entrance," Velcryn said, dismissing him. "Take the necromancer. And get yourself a weapon on the way out."

  Velcryn paused, glancing toward the shadowed archway that led to the lower barracks.

  "The city has crumbled, yet the weapon racks remain standing. Your smiths forged for eternity, not for the moment. It is respectable work. Do not shame their craft by dying unarmed."

  - - -

  The journey to the lower levels was silent. Myrrakhael led them through the twisting corridors of the under-palace, his green fire casting long, dancing shadows. Krim walked beside Caldreth, looking relieved to be away from Velcryn but terrified of where they were going.

  They stopped at a heavy iron door that smelled of rust and damp earth. Beside it lay a pile of gear scavenged from the battlefield at Hollow Canyon, but Myrrakhael ignored it, gesturing instead to a row of stone racks recessed into the wall. They were covered in centuries of grey dust, but the items upon them had not rusted.

  "Velcryn was right," Myrrakhael rasped, running a skeletal finger over a rack. "Your people built things to last. Demon steel rots in a decade."

  He pointed a bony finger at a suit of armor hanging on a mannequin of dark wood.

  "Arm yourself, Sangrathi. You will not reclaim anything looking like a refugee."

  Caldreth stepped forward, brushing the thick layer of dust from the leather. It was Drake-Skin, boiled and treated to be as hard as iron but flexible as cloth.

  He pulled the chest piece on first. It was a long coat of dark, matte crimson scales that fell to his knees, reinforced with blackened steel plates over the chest and shoulders. It was surprisingly light.

  Next came the boots, heavy and knee-high, made of leather with Void-Steel greaves riveted to the shins. They clamped shut with a satisfying snap, locking his ankles in for stability.

  Finally, he strapped on the vambraces. They were segmented plates of dark metal that covered his forearms from wrist to elbow, leaving his fingers free. As he flexed his hands, the armor seemed to settle against him, the leather groaning softly as if waking up from a long sleep. It felt like a second skin.

  "Not bad," Krim muttered, eyeing the craftsmanship.

  Caldreth turned to the weapon rack. Velcryn was right; the smiths had forged for eternity. Unlike the crumbling city above, the arsenal was pristine. Rows of spears stood with shafts unrotted; heavy greatswords hung with edges unchipped, waiting for soldiers who would never return.

  Caldreth scanned the options, ignoring the heavy polearms and the straight knightly blades. His eyes locked onto a weapon near the center.

  He reached for it.

  It was a curved blade forged from Void-Steel, a metal so dark it seemed to drink the light from the torches. The steel was folded in a ripple pattern, like oil on water. The crossguard was minimal, designed for speed rather than defense.

  A scimitar. It was balanced perfectly. Caldreth gripped the hilt. It fit his hand just right, the balance distinct and familiar. It woke muscle memory he hadn't used in centuries, the ghost of old drills flowing through his wrist.

  He gave it a test swing. The air hissed as the dark edge cut through the stagnant silence.

  "Good steel," Myrrakhael observed, the green flames in his eyes flickering with approval. "It wants blood."

  Caldreth sheathed the blade at his hip. The dark scimitar settled against the red drake-skin coat, completing the image.

  "It will get plenty," Caldreth said.

  Myrrakhael grunted in approval and turned, leading them out of the armory and deeper into the twisting corridors of the under-palace.

  They hadn't gone far when they passed a set of heavy iron doors. Unlike the others, these were buckled inward, the thick metal rent and twisted as if a battering ram had smashed them from the outside.

  Caldreth stopped.

  The air drifting from the room was stale, carrying the scent of disturbed dust and old despair. He didn't need a torch to know what lay inside.

  He stepped through the broken archway, his boots crunching on stone grit.

  Krim and Myrrakhael continued a few paces before realizing he wasn't with them.

  Inside, the room was exactly as he had left it days ago, a tomb violated. Black sarcophagi lined the far wall. The center one, his own, was crumbled, the essence mechanism shattered. The other two stood open and empty, their occupants having fled only to die in the sand above.

  Caldreth walked slowly toward the one on the right. Serintha's.

  He ran his hand along the rim of the stone basin. Inside, amidst the residual dust of stasis, something glinted in the gloom.

  He reached in.

  His fingers closed around cold metal. He pulled it out and brushed away the grime. It was a heavy pin, crafted from polished silver and obsidian. The sigil of the Crimson Veil: a weeping eye cowled in shadow. It was a badge of office, a masterwork symbol of the elite guard that Morvain and Serintha had died upholding.

  "Sangrathi?"

  Myrrakhael's voice rasped from the doorway. The lich stood there, green fire flickering with impatience. Krim peered around him, looking nervous.

  "Come," Myrrakhael demanded.

  Caldreth hesitated. He looked down at the emblem in his palm, then at his new armor. On the left breast of the drake-skin coat, right over the blackened steel plate protecting his heart, was a small, reinforced grommet. A mount specifically designed for this pin.

  "I thought I heard something," Caldreth lied, his voice low.

  He didn't look at them. He pressed the pin into the grommet. It fastened with a sharp, audible click, locking the weeping eye against his chest.

  He took a breath, steeling himself against the ghosts in the room, and turned around.

  "Let's go."

  He rejoined them, the silver eye catching the torchlight as they resumed their descent.

  "The Undercrypt is deep," Myrrakhael warned, his hand resting on the heavy lever of the next door. "There are things down there that evolved in the dark after the city fell."

  Caldreth frowned, adjusting the strap of his vambrace. "I thought Velcryn said you couldn't enter the lower levels. How do you know what's down there?"

  Myrrakhael let out a dry, rattling chuckle.

  "We have eyes, boy. Or rather, we had disposable ones." The lich gestured vaguely back toward the upper levels. "We sent a few cursed into the dark to secure a foothold."

  "And?"

  "And they did not return," Myrrakhael stated.

  With a grind of rusted gears, Myrrakhael threw the lever. The door groaned open, revealing a stairwell that spiraled down into absolute blackness.

  Caldreth looked at Krim. "Ready?"

  Krim spat on the ground, then wiped his mouth nervously. "Nope."

  Caldreth stepped to the edge. The Tome burned against his shoulder, urging him forward.

  "Let's go," Caldreth said.