The tunnel followed the curve of the river. The walls here were smooth, worn by water that had flowed through these chambers for centuries. The stone felt slick with condensation.
Kallum walked with his hand on the Kynish sword. The metal's steady vibration against his palm was the only thing keeping him upright. Each step was a negotiation with gravity. His body had limits. The Dirge did not.
"How long?" he asked.
"An hour to the gate," Elyria said. She kept the lumen-stone raised. The blue light caught the ripples in the water. "If the river cooperates."
The river did not cooperate. It moved with a slow, malevolent patience. The current was invisible, but Kallum could feel it pulling at the stones beneath his feet. A deep, hollow suction. The water wanted things in it.
The Vestige in his satchel pulsed.
Kallum stopped. He pressed his back against the wall.
"What do you hear?" Elyria whispered.
"Nothing," Kallum said. "That's the problem."
The silence was wrong. The Umbraflow should have made sounds. The drip of water. The skitter of blind things in the dark. The river itself should have murmured against the stone.
Instead, there was only a heavy stillness. Like the water was holding its breath.
Elyria lowered the lumen-stone toward the black surface.
The light touched the water.
And the water answered.
It began as a single point of blue-white light. A spark in the depths. Then another. Then a hundred. Tiny pinpricks of bioluminescence, blooming like stars in a night sky.
Glimmer-shrimp.
Kallum's hand tightened on the sword hilt. He had heard stories of the Umbraflow in the Scholasticum. The priests spoke of the horrors below as cautionary tales. Be good, or the river things will come for you. He had thought them lies. He was looking at the truth.
The lights began to move.
They weren't random. They were coordinated. A swirling vortex of brightness, spinning in the water like a galaxy gone mad. The lights pulsed in sequence. A rhythm. A pattern.
"They're communicating," Elyria said. Her voice was tight. "Coordinating."
The swarm surged toward the shore.
Kallum drew the Kynish sword. The blue-flecked steel came free of the scabbard with a whisper. The blade hummed against his corruption. The brand on his left arm flared in response.
The water boiled as a thousand shrimp erupted from the surface. They weren't just swimming. They were climbing. Tiny translucent bodies with needle-like mandibles, scrabbling over each other, forming living pyramids that reached toward the shore.
Kallum swung the sword.
The blade met the rising tide of carapaces. It sheared through them like smoke. The Kynish steel left a trail of darkness in the air, a void that the shrimp could not cross.
But there were too many.
A second column of shrimp surged past the first. They flowed like water over the stone floor. They came for his boots. For his ankles. For the heat of his blood.
"Elyria," Kallum shouted.
She moved. Not with panic, but with precision. She grabbed the fire paste pouch from his belt. She bit down on the wax seal, spit it aside, and hurled the pouch into the water.
The pouch shattered on impact.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the river caught fire.
It was not normal flame. It was alchemical fire, a cold blue blaze that consumed organic matter and ignored water. The shrimp screamed. It was a high-pitched, chittering sound as thousands of them burned at once. The vortex of lights collapsed. The beauty became a panic of dying stars.
The fire spread across the water's surface, racing toward the darkness. It illuminated the full breadth of the cavern.
Kallum saw the tunnel ahead.
He also saw what waited in the water.
Something moved beneath the burning surface. Something long and sinuous. A shape as thick around as a man's torso, pushing through the water with terrible speed. It had no eyes. It had no face. It was just a mouth and muscle and hunger.
Grave-Eel.
And it was not alone.
Three more serpentine shapes broke the surface behind the first. Their bodies were the color of old parchment, scarred from centuries of navigating lightless tunnels. They opened their mouths, revealing rows of teeth like backward-pointing spears.
"The fire drove them to us," Elyria said. She drew her throwing knife.
Kallum raised his sword. The brand on his arm screamed. The Dirge of Reprisal did not know fear. It knew only judgment. It demanded he unmake these things.
But there were four of them. And he was one man whose legs barely held him.
The first eel lunged.
It moved faster than something that size should move. It came at him like a whip, jaws wide, intending to swallow him whole.
Kallum didn't dodge. He didn't have the strength.
He poured everything into the sword.
The Kynish steel responded. The blue ripple in the metal flared brilliant white. Kallum swung the blade with both hands, his left arm screaming as the necrotic flesh twisted around the bone.
The sword met the eel's skull.
There was no resistance. The Kynish steel passed through scale and bone like water through a sieve. The eel's momentum carried its severed head past Kallum. The body thrashed in the water, spraying black blood across the stones.
The other three eels screamed. It was a sound like tearing metal. They smelled the blood of their kind. They did not retreat. They came faster.
Kallum fell to one knee. The swing had drained him. His vision blurred at the edges.
"Elyria," he whispered.
She stepped past him. She did not have a sword. She did not have fire. She had the lumen-stone.
She raised it high.
"Look at me," she said.
Her voice carried a strange resonance. It was not loud, but it hit the eels like a physical blow. They slowed. Their sightless heads turned toward her.
The lumen-stone flared. The blue light intensified until it was painful to look at.
Kallum felt a pressure in the air. Not the cold of his Dirge. Something else. Something older.
The water in front of Elyria rose.
It did not splash. It did not churn. It simply lifted, forming a wall between them and the eels. The water hung suspended, defying gravity. The eels were caught in it. They thrashed, but the liquid held them like a trap.
Elyria's eyes were completely white. No iris. No pupil. Just light.
She made a sharp, downward gesture.
The water crashed back down. The eels were driven into the stone floor with the force of a hammer. Bones snapped. The thrashing stopped.
The cavern went silent.
Elyria lowered her hand. The white faded from her eyes. She swayed, caught herself against the wall. A thin line of blood traced from her nose to her upper lip. Her hands trembled violently against the stone.
The lumen-stone sputtered and died.
Darkness returned.
Kallum's breath came in ragged gasps. He pushed himself up from the stones. Every muscle trembled. The brand on his arm was a dead weight of ice.
"What," he started. "What was that?"
Elyria didn't answer. She was rummaging in her belt pouch. She pulled out a fresh lumen-stone. Cracked the seal. A soft blue glow returned.
She looked at him. Her face was pale. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She wiped the blood from her nose with the back of a shaking hand.
"The Eldrin Weave," she said. "Not what the Order taught us. What they forgot." She nodded toward her arm. "Everything has a cost."
She looked at the dead eels.
"We need to move," she said. "The blood will draw other things."
Kallum looked at the carnage. The dead shrimp were floating on the water's surface, their bioluminescence fading. The eels lay broken on the stones.
"You killed them," he said.
"I bought us time," she corrected. "Can you walk?"
Kallum took a step. His left leg dragged. He grunted, forced it to obey.
"I can walk," he said.
They moved deeper into the tunnel.
The river narrowed here. The walls closed in. The ceiling dropped until Kallum could reach up and touch the slick stone. The air grew colder. The water's movement slowed until it was nearly still.
Something was wrong with the current.
Kallum felt it before he saw it. A subtle vibration in the stones beneath his boots. Not the rhythmic thrum of the Vestige. Something else. Something mechanical.
"Do you feel that?" he asked.
Elyria stopped. She pressed her palm to the wall.
"The Order," she said.
Kallum looked at the water. The surface was broken. Not by creatures. By structures.
Iron grates. Massive rusted bars set into the riverbed, blocking passage. Beyond the grates, he could see a platform. A stone pier jutting out into the water. And on the pier, light.
Not the blue of lumen-stones. The harsh orange of torchlight.
Figures moved in the firelight.
Kallum's heart sank.
"Purifiers," he whispered.
The Order's death squads. The silver-flame sigil. The torturers and executioners who hunted the Marked and burned the heretics. They weren't Watchers. They weren't Sentinels. They were the surgical blade of the Quiet Light, and they never stopped cutting until the infection was gone.
Three of them stood on the platform. They wore robes of white and gold, their faces hidden behind masks of silver that reflected the firelight. They carried not swords, but brands. Iron rods heated until they glowed.
They weren't just guarding the grate. They were waiting.
"They know," Elyria said. "They know we're coming."
"The Vestige," Kallum said. "They can sense it. Solen must have trackers."
The Purifiers turned as one. They faced the tunnel. They couldn't see into the darkness. They didn't need to.
One of them raised a hand. The figure's robes fell back, revealing a silver gauntlet etched with runes. The gauntlet began to glow.
Kallum felt the pressure before the light hit. A psychic probe. A searching tendril of mind-magic, scraping through the darkness for thoughts that weren't theirs.
He grabbed Elyria's arm. He pulled her into the shadows of a stone outcropping.
"Don't let them in your head," he whispered. "They'll find us."
The probe swept past. It felt like ice water poured down his spine. The Vestige in his satchel reacted. It pushed back.
The probe stopped.
The Purifier's head tilted. The silver mask turned toward their hiding spot.
"Found you," a voice echoed through the cavern. Not from the figure's mouth. From their mind. It was a voice that sounded like burning paper.
Kallum drew the Kynish sword. His hand shook. Not from fear. From exhaustion. He had nothing left to give.
"The grate," Elyria said. "If we can reach it, the sword will cut the bars."
"There's three of them," Kallum said. "And they have magic."
"They have Resonance," Elyria corrected. "Formulae and tricks. We have something they don't."
She looked at his arm.
"What?" Kallum asked.
"A reason to fight," she said.
The Purifier raised the silver gauntlet. Runes flared to life along the metal. A bolt of white fire began to form in the air above their palm.
Kallum stepped out of the shadows.
He didn't raise the sword. He raised his left arm. The bandages were gone. The brand was exposed. The umber light flared, brighter than it had ever been. The veins of necrosis pulsed with cold fire.
The Dirge of Reprisal uncoiled.
It did not ask for permission. It demanded balance.
The temperature in the tunnel plummeted. Frost spread across the walls. The water beneath the grate hissed as it began to freeze.
The Purifier's bolt of white fire faltered. The light wavered.
The silver mask tilted. For the first time, the Purifier hesitated.
"That," the voice in their head said, "is not in the reports."
Kallum took a step forward. Then another. Each step was agony. Each step was defiance.
"My name," he said, "is Kallum Vire."
He said it like a prayer. Like a curse. Like the closing argument in a trial that had already decided his guilt.
"I was made in your laboratories," he said. "I was broken on your altars. I was branded by your scientists."
He raised the sword. The Kynish steel caught the umber light of his arm. The two frequencies hummed together. Cold and colder.
"Now," Kallum said, "I'm going to break your fucking gate."
He screamed.
It was not a scream of pain. It was a scream of release. The Dirge poured out of him. It was a wave of absolute negation. A frequency that said no to existence.
The Purifier's bolt of fire dissolved. The white light simply ceased to be. The silver gauntlet cracked. The mask split down the center.
The other two Purifiers raised their brands. They began to chant. Words of power. Words of structure. They were trying to build a wall of reality between themselves and Kallum's judgment.
The air thickened. Kallum felt the pressure of it against his skin. A barrier forming. The Purifiers were fast. They were disciplined. They had already recovered from the shock of his reveal and were weaving a Formula of protection.
Elyria moved.
She didn't chant. She didn't raise her hands. She simply ran. She moved through the space between heartbeats, a blur of motion the Purifiers couldn't track.
She reached the platform. She drove her throwing knife into the throat of the chanting Purifier on the left. The figure crumpled. The silver mask clattered against the stone.
The third Purifier turned. The brand came down. But the figure was fast—faster than the first. The Purifier anticipated Elyria's movement, pivoting with practiced grace. The burning brand swept toward her throat.
Kallum threw the sword.
His arm was too weak for a true throw. The blade should have fallen short. It should have clattered uselessly against the stone.
But the sword was not just steel.
As it left his hand, the Kynish blade seemed to seek. The blue ripple in the metal flared. The Vestige in Kallum's satchel pulsed in response. The blade arced through the air, guided not by his strength but by the resonance between them—steel that drank corruption, corruption that sought balance.
It struck the Purifier's chest.
The Kynish steel buried itself to the hilt. The silver mask cracked. The Purifier froze, the brand halting inches from Elyria's face. The figure stood there for a moment, suspended, before collapsing like a puppet with cut strings.
Kallum fell to his knees. The cold receded. The brand went dark. He pitched forward, his face hitting the stones.
Everything went gray.
He felt hands. Elyria's hands. She was pulling him up. Dragging him toward the grate.
"Stay with me," she said. "You don't get to die in the dark. Not after all of this."
She reached through the iron bars. Her fingers found the lock. They were still trembling. She pressed something against it—powder, diamond dust perhaps. She whispered a word. The lock's mechanism groaned. Then it shattered.
Elyria leaned her forehead against the iron bars for a heartbeat. Her breath came short and sharp. The Weave had taken more than she'd let him see.
The gate swung open.
They were through.
Kallum's vision swam. The world was a blur of orange light and black water. He could hear something behind them. The surviving Purifier. The voice in their head, screaming for reinforcements.
"The gate," Elyria said. "The Kyn Gate is just ahead."
Kallum couldn't see it. He could barely see her.
"Elyria," he whispered.
"Quiet," she said. "Save your strength."
The tunnel widened. The ceiling lifted. The orange light of the Purifiers' torches faded behind them. Ahead, a different light appeared.
It was faint. Starlight. Real starlight, filtered through centuries of ash and cloud, but starlight all the same.
They had reached the Kyn Gate.
It was not sealed. It was not even closed. Massive iron doors stood open, revealing a ramp that sloped upward toward the surface. Beyond the doors, Kallum could see the outline of mountains against a bruised violet sky.
The Silent Peaks.
They were outside the city.
Elyria let him down gently. She leaned him against the stone wall of the tunnel. His breath rattled in his chest. The brand was a piece of dead meat attached to his shoulder. It didn't hum. It didn't pulse. It was done.
"You made it," she said.
Kallum laughed. It was a wet, bubbling sound.
"Barely," he said.
He looked at the opening. At the mountains beyond. The peaks were jagged, rising like broken teeth against the sky. Somewhere in that range was the Throne of Quietus. Somewhere was the mountain where sound went to die.
"They're coming," Elyria said.
She was looking back the way they'd come. Down the dark tunnel. From the darkness came sounds. The clank of armor. The shouted commands of Temple Knights. The Purifier's voice, echoing in their minds.
"Then we run," Kallum said.
He pushed himself up the wall. His legs trembled. His vision blurred. But he stood.
"Kallum," Elyria said. "Look."
She pointed at his arm.
The brand was changing.
The black veins of necrosis were receding. The umber light was fading. In their place, something new was forming. A pattern. Spirals of silver and gold, threading through the flesh. It looked like the Kynish steel. It looked like the ripples in the metal.
"The sword," Elyria whispered. "It changed you."
Kallum looked at his arm. The pain was gone. The cold was gone. In its place was a hum. A steady frequency that pushed back against the corruption of the Dirge. The sword had done more than cut. It had remade him.
Or perhaps it had only revealed what was already there.
"I'm not done," Kallum said.
He looked at the mountains. He thought of Solen's voice. He thought of the golden figure on the Throne. He thought of the baker being dragged into the dark. He thought of the Watchers' faceless masks.
The judgment in his arm had changed. It was no longer just cold. It was purpose.
"Let's go," Kallum said.
They walked out of the city.
The Kyn Gate groaned shut behind them, moved by ancient mechanisms that the Order had never found. The lock engaged with a sound like the earth itself settling into place.
Ildaren was closed to them now.
The world was open.
The hunt had just begun.