Cale’s blade-arm plunged into the earth.

  Two Bonechewers leapt toward them—snarling, twisted forms of sinew and hunger.

  With a thought, a spiked dome of steel burst from the ground, encasing both him and Moon. The creatures slammed into the barrier with a sickening thud. Then came the wet crunch—flesh torn on sharpened metal.

  In the pitch-black shell of steel, Moon pressed close behind him. He could feel her breath, trembling against his back.

  Stillness.

  And yet, he could feel it.

  The spirits of the Bonechewers—burning like malformed candles in the dark.

  From the dome, metallic tendrils shot outward. They slithered through the air like starving serpents, twisting, hunting.

  With surgical precision, they pierced the creatures’ hearts, throats, and skulls.

  The dome retracted.

  The world rushed back in—light, air, wind.

  And silence.

  The Bonechewers were dead.

  Cale stared.

  Grotesque forms lay twisted and broken, their lifeless black eyes staring at nothing. Blood seeped into the dirt, forming black puddles that steamed in the midday sun.

  He had done it.

  He had killed.

  His first.

  He waited for the nausea, for the guilt. For the horror.

  But nothing came.

  He only felt... cold.

  Then—hoofbeats.

  Fast. Urgent.

  His armor shifted away.

  He turned his gaze down the road just in time to see a rider crest the bend.

  The figure slowed. A man clad in light armor—dark leather over mail, stained from long travel. A cloak of gray-brown canvas, sun-bleached at the edges, billowed behind him. A longsword strapped across his back, worn but sharp.

  His face was weathered by sun and wind, eyes narrow and sharp as arrowheads. Piercing green. Eyes that had seen too much and slept too little.

  He dismounted, patting the side of his dust-caked horse. His eyes swept the carnage, taking in every detail without flinching.

  He walked straight to them.

  “Did you do this?” he asked, his voice like gravel and smoke, as he motioned to one of the slain Bonechewers.

  Cale nodded.

  The man crouched, inspecting the wounds with practiced ease.

  “Metal mage,” he muttered.

  Cale frowned.

  “Clean punctures, through bone. No blades in sight. You mold your weaponry from the earth,” he said, standing.

  Cale’s eyes widened slightly, impressed despite himself.

  “Where are you headed?” the man asked, glancing at him, then at Moon.

  “To the nearest city,” Cale replied.

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Looking to be a miner?”

  Cale blinked, caught off guard. “A miner?”

  The man smirked faintly, more to himself than to them.

  “This guy’s a monster hunter,” Xentar whispered from over Cale’s shoulder, drifting in circles around the stranger. “And a damn good one. Look at his gear—the worn edges, the clean blade, the reinforced boots. Efficient.”

  The man looked up again, eyes calm and direct.

  “Would leave a bitter taste if I didn’t at least buy you a drink,” he said. “You did my job for me. And seeing as we’re heading to the same place, might as well travel together.”

  He extended a hand.

  “Desmun.”

  Cale gripped it firmly.

  “Cale.”

  The man nodded once.

  His gaze shifted to Moon. “And the girl?”

  “Her name’s Moon,” Cale said. “She’s mute.”

  Desmun said nothing, only offered a nod of understanding before walking back to his horse.

  He brought the beast closer, then gestured.

  “Hop on,” he said to Moon.

  She looked to Cale.

  Her silver eyes searched his, as if asking permission.

  Gently, he helped her mount the horse, his hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary—steadying her, anchoring her.

  She didn’t look away from him.

  Then she nodded.

  Desmun led the horse forward, walking beside it. Cale fell into step beside him.

  Three travelers now.

  Together, they walked.

  And the road stretched on.

  “Are you a monster hunter?” Cale asked, curiosity tinging his voice after Xentar’s quiet observation.

  Desmun gave a small nod, eyes fixed ahead as he walked beside his horse.

  “Been hunting monsters all across Vallmoria,” he said, his voice low and gravelly—like a blade dulled by age but still sharp at the edge.

  “Ask him about his haunts,” Xentar whispered in Cale’s ear. “Monster hunters like to talk about that. They carry their stories like armor.”

  Cale hesitated, then turned back to Desmun.

  “Can you tell me about your haunts?”

  Desmun exhaled slowly through his nose.

  “Suppose I could,” he muttered. “Cleared out a nest of marrowcrawlers in the iron caves of Denfell. Took three days. Nasty bastards—six legs, no eyes, but they can smell blood from half a league off. Fought a bonewraith near the ruins of Windmoor. Had to cut it down three times before it stayed dead.”

  He paused for a beat, then added, “Worst one? Harrow Lake. Sirens there don’t sing. They drag you under and fill your lungs with sap. Steal the life out of you slow. Almost lost a leg to one.”

  Cale listened intently, his eyes wide.

  They walked in silence for a moment, the forest road curling ahead.

  “What’s the name of the city we’re heading to?” Cale asked eventually.

  “Gravemount,” Desmun replied without turning. “Built on the rim of a crater. Right in the center—there’s a dungeon. Goes deep. No one knows how far. Some say it reaches the other side of the world.”

  Cale frowned. “A dungeon inside the city?”

  Desmun nodded. “Been there myself. Place is steeped in elemental energy—earth affinity, mostly. The air down there breathes stone. And from it, monsters crawl up. Crag fiends. Iron gorgers. Gem beetles the size of oxen.”

  “Why would anyone live near that?” Cale asked.

  Desmun finally looked at him, green eyes narrowing.

  “Because there’s profit in danger. That dungeon’s full of raw ore, enchanted stone, precious gems. You hit a good vein or slay a rich enough creature, you can make a fortune. That’s why people keep going in.”

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  Cale nodded, understanding dawning.

  Desmun continued. “They call themselves Miners. But don’t picture pickaxes and shovels. These are warriors. Mages. Battle-hardened mercs. You go down there without magic in your blood, you come back in a box. If you come back at all.”

  Cale glanced ahead, thoughtful.

  That’s why Desmun had asked if he wanted to be a miner.

  “Can anyone become a miner?” he asked.

  Desmun’s tone sharpened. “Only mages.”

  As the sun began its descent behind the hills, the thick veil of trees started to thin. Faint golden light spilled over the path ahead, and then Cale saw it.

  His jaw dropped.

  Valebridge was a village compared to this.

  Rising far beyond the fading treeline, the towering walls of the city loomed. Massive, sun-worn stone, dark and proud, wrapped the city in a shell of impenetrable strength. Spires and domes peeked over the battlements, catching the dying light. Smoke rose in distant columns, painted gold and pink by the sky.

  Desmun didn’t even slow. "Keep up," he said casually, as if they weren’t approaching something that swallowed everything Cale had known.

  As night fell, they finally reached one of the colossal gates. The size alone made Cale feel like a speck. Torchlight danced on iron and stone, illuminating the people who came and went. This place felt alive, in a way Valebridge never did.

  It was a river of humanity—and more. Cale spotted skin of every tone, eyes of colors he’d never imagined, hair like fire and snow. Some wore silks; others rags. A man passed with horns curling from his brow. Another, casually sipping from a flask, had pointed ears and slitted cat eyes. One even had feline ears twitching atop his head.

  "A lot of folks come here from all over the world," Desmun said over his shoulder, noting Cale’s awestruck expression.

  They passed beneath the gate and entered the city.

  The noise changed. Louder. Denser. Horses clopped, merchants yelled, children laughed or cried. Somewhere, someone sang. Somewhere else, someone screamed.

  A few blocks in, they stopped at a worn building leaning against a row of narrow shops. A rusted iron sign creaked overhead: The Branded Boar.

  The tavern reeked of sweat, woodsmoke, ale, and old blood. Its walls were dark with soot and age. Men and women sat hunched over drinks, eyes hidden under hoods or glinting in candlelight. Several were armed—swords, axes, and even a crossbow slung across one woman’s back. A pair of armored mercenaries played dice near the hearth.

  Desmun led them to a corner table. The room pulsed with low murmurs, but nobody seemed to pay them much mind.

  A broad-shouldered barmaid approached, her sleeves rolled up over scarred arms. Desmun ordered two mugs of ale and something hot for himself, Cale, and Moon.

  Moments later, she returned with a plate of steaming stew and drinks.

  "Thank you," Cale said softly.

  Moon's silver eyes scanned the room like a cat watching mice.

  They began to eat.

  Cale lifted his gaze as the air shifted.

  A shape approached—a man, huge and lumbering. He looked carved from bark and stone. His face was a roadmap of old wounds, one eye milky with a long-healed scar. The other burned with drunken fire.

  His hand slammed the table.

  Desmun didn’t flinch.

  The man growled, voice like gravel soaked in rot. "Didn’t think I’d see your smug face again, Desmun."

  Cale tensed, glancing at Moon. She was leaning toward him.

  His skin under the clothes started to shift.

  Desmun slowly wiped his mouth, then looked up. "Still trying to pick fights you can’t win, Gorran?"

  The big man leaned in. "You owe me."

  Desmun stood.

  His chair scraped back, soft as a whisper. Cale felt the weight in the air. Tension, thick as oil.

  Desmun sighed.

  They slipped out the side door into a narrow alley. The city night was cool and dense with mist.

  "Xentar," Cale whispered. "Go take a look."

  The wisp floated through the wall.

  Gorran followed Desmun out the front.

  Xentar trailed them silently.

  The alley darkened. Oil lamps flickered weakly, casting long shadows. Then, more men emerged. Three. Then five. All with clubs or short blades.

  Desmun stood in the center, his hands loose at his sides.

  "This doesn’t have to end messy," he said, voice low.

  They lunged.

  Desmun moved like a whisper through steel.

  His sword came out not with a hiss but a sigh of death. He fought not with rage, but with rhythm—like a dance. He dodged low, twisted, stabbed. A wrist snapped. A blade bit shoulder. Blood sprayed.

  A club cracked against his ribs, knocking him to a knee.

  He let out a low breath, and then it happened—

  Desmun pressed his hand to the ground, releasing a surge of compressed wind. A burst of elemental force exploded outward, hurling his attackers back into stone walls. Some struck hard. Others rolled, choking on dust.

  For a heartbeat, he stood alone, the wind swirling around him, dust rising like smoke.

  He straightened, blood on his lip, fire in his eyes.

  One man screamed as Desmun slammed him shoulder-first into the wall. Another fell with a shattered jaw.

  But it wasn’t clean.

  Desmun bled.

  Still, he rose. He spat blood into Gorran’s snarling face.

  “You don’t learn,” Desmun muttered.

  The final blow came swift. A twist. A punch.

  Gorran collapsed, choking.

  Desmun stood over him, panting.

  He spat again.

  “Still trying. Still failing.”

  Then he turned and walked back toward The Branded Boar.

  When he stepped inside—bloody, bruised—no one batted an eye. As if this were just another evening in Gravemount.

  No one looked up.

  Someone laughed at a joke. Dice clattered.

  Desmun slowly lowered himself into his chair and leaned back.

  Cale stared, wide-eyed, as Xentar floated beside him, recounting the fight in whispers.

  “Do they do that often here?” Cale asked.

  Desmun wiped blood from his mouth.

  “Only when they’re stupid. Eat your stew. It’s still warm.”

  After the meal, Desmun leaned back in his chair and asked, "How much coin do you have on you?"

  Cale blinked.

  Cale blinked. "None," he said, sounding a little embarrassed. "A friend had all the coin. And now that she’s gone… we’ve got nothing."

  Desmun sighed, closing his eyes for a moment in thought. Then he stood up, brushing off his cloak. "Come on. Follow me—and stay close. This part of the city isn't very safe at night."

  The streets of Gravemount were dark, lit only by flickering oil lamps. They passed gamblers hunched around crates, playing cards with worn fingers and sharp eyes. Some drank from rusted flasks; others just stared, hollow-eyed, from the shadows. A group of fire mages lounged by a crumbling fountain, laughing as they manipulated a snake-like flame between their palms.

  Not all of them looked fully human.

  Cale spotted someone with gills along their neck. Another with eyes that shimmered like a lizard's.

  The deeper they went, the worse the buildings became. Cracked stone. Barred windows. Doors scarred by old fires.

  They finally stopped in front of a leaning house, its second floor drooping dangerously to one side. Desmun knocked four times in a slow rhythm.

  Cale could feel a soul stirring on the other side.

  The door creaked open an inch.

  "Good night, Meli," Desmun said.

  The door opened wider. A woman in her late fifties stood there, broad-shouldered and barefoot. Her left leg from the knee down was a wooden prosthetic, worn smooth from use. Her arms were crossed over a patched apron.

  "Desmun," she said, voice dry as old parchment. Not cold, but not warm either.

  "Can you house these kids for a couple of nights?"

  Meli peered past him. Her gaze swept over Cale and then to Moon, who clung a little closer to him.

  "Sure," she said, with a shrug. "If they have the coin."

  Desmun reached into the inside of his cloak and pulled out a few bronze coins. He handed them over without a word.

  Meli didn’t even look at the money as she took it.

  "Thanks," Desmun said. "Goodbye, Meli."

  He turned, casting Cale one last look.

  "Goodbye, kids," he said, and walked off into the night.

  Meli stepped aside, holding the door open. "Well? Come in. I don’t have all night."

  They entered.

  The room was small but cozy. A single bed sat against one wall, with a second cot folded near it. A staircase wound up the corner, and a hearth crackled warmly with a black pot bubbling over it. The smell of stew filled the room—rich with herbs, meat, and potatoes.

  "I’m Meli," the woman said. "What do I call you two?"

  "I’m Cale. And this is Moon," he said, placing a hand gently on her back.

  Meli nodded. "Pretty eyes, that one. Quiet too."

  Moon gave a tiny bow, then lowered her gaze.

  "So," Meli said, settling into a creaky chair. "What brings you to Gravemount? You're a bit young for mercenary work."

  Cale hesitated, unsure how much to say. But her tone was steady, honest. So he answered.

  "We're here to visit the libraries. I'm looking for history books. Old records. Anything that might tell me more about... the past."

  Meli raised an eyebrow, then nodded thoughtfully. "Well, you picked the right city. Gravemount’s got more books than it has sane people. You’ll find libraries in every ward, though the big ones are up near the scholars’ district."

  She stood, stirring the pot over the hearth. The scent of stew intensified, rich and meaty.

  "You hungry?"

  Cale smiled faintly and shook his head. "No, thank you. We just ate."

  Meli shrugged, ladling some into a wooden bowl for herself. "Suit yourself."

  Moon wandered to the cot, her silver eyes still wide with wonder. Cale followed, feeling the tension of the day slowly drain from his shoulders.

  He knelt down and opened the supply sack he’d carried all day, pulling out his lute. He looked over at Meli, who was still seated by the fire with her bowl of stew.

  "Can I play it?" he asked politely.

  Meli glanced up, an eyebrow raised. "Sure. What songs do you know?"

  Cale began listing a few, and her face lit up slightly at the mention of one in particular—a lively tune often played at harvest festivals, the kind that made drunk old men get up and dance like fools.

  "That one," she said, her voice lighter. "Let’s hear something cheerful."

  Cale smiled and adjusted his grip. He strummed gently at first, tuning the instrument by ear. Then, slowly, the chords came together, smooth and bright. His fingers danced across the strings, and soon the melody filled the room.

  Meli leaned back and closed her eyes, the lines on her face softening. "That brings back memories," she said with a faint smile. "We used to pay bards to play that every time our team made it back from the dungeon."

  The music lifted something in the air—like the weight of Gravemount’s gloom had been pushed back, even for just a moment.

  When the song ended, Meli opened her eyes and gave a slow, sincere clap.

  "You really know how to play that lute, kid."

  Cale flushed with a shy smile. "Thanks."

  The woman gave him a knowing smirk. "You said you were here to dig through history, right?"

  Cale nodded.

  "Well, you’re playing a tune that’s part of mine," she said. She reached down and gave her wooden leg a couple of knocks with her knuckles. "I used to be a miner. Spent fifteen years diving into that cursed dungeon beneath this city."

  Cale sat up straighter. "Really?"

  "Yep," she said, voice firm. "Back then I carried a war hammer bigger than most grown men’s torsos. Didn’t have the gift for elemental magic, not like some. But I made up for it with grit and speed. And a head that stayed clear when things got ugly."

  Moon was watching her now too, her expression gentle.

  Meli stirred the fire absently, eyes distant.

  "One dive, we went too deep. Word was there was something massive—some ancient creature called the Iron Spine. Looked like a scorpion made of old blades and spite. You ever seen a scorpion, kid? Imagine a creature with a body like a curved shell, eight legs, and a pair of pincers like bone-crushing vices. But its real terror comes from the tail—arched over its back, ending in a venomous stinger. Now picture that made entirely of rusted metal, jagged edges, and a hatred older than the dungeon itself. We were fools. Thought we could take it down."

  She paused.

  "It wasn’t a fight. It was a slaughter. Half the team died in the first minute. I made it out with two others. Barely. But I left part of me behind."

  She tapped her wooden leg again, the sound dull and heavy.

  "And just like that, it was over. My career. My team. My pride."

  The fire crackled.

  "I thought I could plan for anything. That if I followed the rules, stuck to the systems, I’d always make it back. But sometimes the world doesn’t care how careful you are."

  Cale lowered his gaze. "I’m sorry."

  Meli shook her head. "Don’t be. I lived. Got out with my mind intact and enough coin to put up with this old city’s nonsense. I’ve seen enough death to know when to step away."

  She looked at Moon, then back to Cale. "You two have the look of people carrying something heavy. But if you’re smart—and I think you are—you’ll know when to dig deeper, and when to turn back."

  Cale nodded quietly, and Moon offered a small, solemn nod too.

  For a moment, they sat in silence. A fragile peace.

  Then Meli gave a snort and stood up. "Alright, enough gloom. You’ve got a roof over your heads tonight. Don’t waste it worrying about mine. Sleep while the city's quiet."

  She climbed the stairs slowly, her wooden leg knocking softly against the steps.

  Cale looked at Moon, her silver eyes watching the fire.

  He whispered, "We’ll be alright."

  She nodded, resting her head gently on his shoulder.