The forgotten tunnel was a pocket of absolute silence, a dead space in the chaotic, breathing organism of the Sunken Market. The air was stale, thick with the dust of centuries, and the only light was the faint, ethereal glow from a single mana-crystal I held in my palm. It cast long, dancing shadows on the rough-hewn stone walls, shadows that seemed to writhe and coil around us as we finalized the details of our insane, desperate plan.
We were two ghosts in the dark, our faces illuminated by the crystal's cool, blue light. Christina knelt on the ground, her simple, hooded cloak pooled around her like a shroud. Before her lay a small, leather-bound kit, its contents a strange, beautiful, and very deadly collection of vials, powders, and intricately carved runic catalysts. Her hands, which had once been so accustomed to the delicate, precise art of embroidery, now moved with a new, more dangerous grace as she mixed a fine, silvery powder with a single drop of a thick, viscous liquid.
