The air in the lower tunnels was heavy with stone dust and damp earth. The flickering glow of fungus-lamps lit the carved walls in a dim amber haze, throwing long shadows over the hunched figures shuffling between cavern mouths. The Rak'hor banners — three interlocking rings carved into slabs of slate — hung above the largest passage like an unblinking eye, a reminder of who held the choke points now.
From a raised walkway above the main junction, Krel surveyed the traffic below. The Bresh'tok traitor stood in a posture meant to look confident, hands clasped behind his back as if he owned the stone beneath his feet. A chain of polished bone circled his neck — the Rak'hor's symbol of authority among the enslaved. It marked him as "Overseer" of his people, though he knew well enough it meant he was little more than the hand they used to beat his own tribe.
Two Rak'hor guards flanked him. They said nothing, but their presence was a leash as much as their spears were.
Krel's jaw flexed. Every day his authority eroded just a little more. The Rak'hor had promised him protection and power, but what he got was suspicion from above and hatred from below. He'd heard the whispers — that the resistance was growing again, that tunnels he thought sealed were being used to move messages and supplies. Every time a work crew was late or a delivery came light, it was another seed of doubt planted in Rak'hor minds about his usefulness.
And the neutral clan had started asking questions.
---
The Veylin clan — that was their name — controlled a web of narrow, high tunnels in the northwestern quadrant. Too cramped for large troop movements but perfect for messengers, smugglers, and scouts. No side had been able to hold them by force for long; the Veylin had survived centuries underground by knowing when to vanish and when to strike a bargain.
Now they traded freely with both Rak'hor and resistance sympathizers, exchanging dried cave fish, pottery, and fire beetle shells for whatever would keep their storage pits full.
But the Veylin weren't unified. In the Veylin council hall — a long chamber supported by ribbed stone arches and lit by pots of glowing lichen — the argument was already underway.
---
"You've seen it yourselves," rasped Garrat, a thick-shouldered Veylin with the pale eyes of a cave-born hunter. "The Rak'hor control the junctions, the water draws, the major food stores. They are the strongest now, and they will stay that way. We should deepen our trade with them, secure priority passage before others take our routes."
"And chain ourselves to their wars?" countered Sylaith, a lean female with scars running from jaw to collarbone. "The Bresh'tok are not yet finished. I've heard their hidden tunnels still hold warriors. If they rise again, and we stand at the Rak'hor's side, we'll be the first they cut down."
From his carved seat at the head, Councilor Dorran tapped his clawed fingers on the stone armrest. "And if we choose the Bresh'tok now, we risk the Rak'hor moving to seize our high tunnels outright. You both know they've scouted our outer perches."
"They couldn't hold them," Sylaith argued. "Our passes are too narrow for their armored beasts."
"Perhaps not hold," Garrat said, "but they could collapse them. We would lose everything."
The murmurs in the chamber carried the split clearly — half the council inclined toward Rak'hor dominance, half toward holding neutrality as long as possible. No one wanted to be the first to commit, not while there was still the smallest chance the other side might prevail.
---
Meanwhile, in the low market caverns where the Veylin met outsiders, tension played out more subtly. Rak'hor emissaries stalked the stalls, their dark armor clashing with the pale stone. Resistance traders, stripped of obvious weapons but carrying the calm of those who knew the tunnels better than anyone, kept their heads down and their hoods up.
The Veylin merchants smiled at both. Prices rose and fell depending on the strength of the buyer's escort.
Krel came through that market in the afternoon, his guards clearing a path. He stopped at a spice stall where a Veylin matron was arranging bundles of dried tunnelleaf.
"You've been sending shipments late," he said without preamble.
The matron's eyes, milky but sharp, fixed on his face. "And you've been sending collectors late. Seems fair to me."
His hand tightened at his side. "Careful. The Rak'hor don't care for—"
"They care for power," she cut in. "They have it now, and perhaps they'll keep it. But if they lose, your bone chain will snap with it."
Her words followed him long after he'd moved on. Every conversation with the Veylin was like that lately — polite enough to avoid direct challenge, sharp enough to remind him his position was a borrowed one.
---
Farther north, in a tunnel the Rak'hor did not yet control, two hooded figures crouched over a map scratched into the dirt. Their words were low, their movements quick. They were Veylin, but their accents marked them from a fringe family known for dealing with strangers others feared to meet.
"Did you hear?" one whispered. "The Shale-wraiths are moving again."
The other shook his head. "Rumors. No one's seen them in two seasons."
"That's the point. No one sees them until they want to be seen."
The name hung in the air — the Shale-wraiths, a secretive tunnel faction that few in the Veylin or Bresh'tok had ever met. Their existence was part rumor, part threat used to frighten children into staying near home. But in the low firelight, the two spoke of them as if they were real, and close.
If the Shale-wraiths were moving, the balance below ground could shift in ways no one was ready for.
---
Krel felt the eyes before he saw the faces.
The work crews lined the corridor walls, pretending to adjust supports or stack stone blocks, but their attention was fixed on him. He ignored it at first, walking the inspection route as the Rak'hor demanded, his guards trailing behind. Yet every time he looked up, another set of eyes slid away just a little too slowly.
Near the far tunnel mouth, a young Bresh'tok laborer blocked the path with a sled of ore. Krel stopped.
"Move it."
The youth didn't. His gaze locked with Krel's, calm but steady. The guards shifted, ready to intervene, but Krel gestured for them to wait. He would not give these people the satisfaction of thinking he needed Rak'hor steel to enforce his word.
"You're in my way," Krel said, each word clipped.
The youth's lips curved into the faintest smile. "So go around."
It was nothing. No open defiance. No shouted insult. But the message spread faster than any outburst could have: the Overseer could be spoken to without fear.
That small defiance followed Krel like an echo through the rest of his rounds.
---
In the Veylin council chamber, the debates had turned sharper.
"The Rak'hor have requested a formal escort through our northern routes," announced Dorran, voice flat. "They claim it is for safer trade."
"It's for cutting off the Bresh'tok," Sylaith said immediately. "Once they move troops through our tunnels, they'll never leave."
Garrat snorted. "And when the Bresh'tok come begging for passage, what then? Their numbers are scattered. The Rak'hor bring food, weapons, and coin. I'd rather deal with a known power than a dying cause."
"They're not dying," Sylaith countered. "They're waiting."
"And while they 'wait,'" Garrat said, leaning forward, "we could lose our chance to secure favor with the side that already holds half the Deep Crossings."
Murmurs filled the chamber — some in agreement, others shaking their heads. No vote was called; Dorran knew forcing one too soon could fracture the council entirely.
---
That evening, a Rak'hor emissary arrived at the Veylin stronghold. His armor gleamed with oil, black metal etched with the three interlocking rings. He brought no guards, but the weight of his presence filled the council hall.
"You have prospered under our peace," the emissary said, voice like gravel grinding against steel. "We wish to deepen that peace. Allow our soldiers to travel your northern tunnels. In return, the Veylin will receive priority rights at our markets."
Sylaith stood. "And when your soldiers have no more use for our tunnels?"
The emissary's gaze slid to her. "Then you will have proven your loyalty, and loyal allies are rewarded."
Dorran inclined his head politely but gave no answer. The Rak'hor did not press further. They never did — not openly. But every Veylin knew that once the request was made, the clock was ticking.
---
In the low markets, the tension spilled into small acts. Bresh'tok sympathizers began avoiding the stalls that sold to Rak'hor directly. Rak'hor-friendly merchants raised prices for anyone suspected of aiding the resistance.
The Veylin walked between these groups, masks of civility hiding the calculations behind every transaction.
That was when Krel found himself approached by an unfamiliar Veylin merchant. The man's face was lean, his eyes quick.
"You're the Overseer," the merchant said. "The one the Rak'hor keep close."
Krel stiffened. "You have business with me?"
"Only this." The merchant leaned in slightly. "If the Rak'hor fall, I would not want to be the one standing where you are."
It was meant as a warning, maybe even as a lifeline. But Krel heard the contempt under it.
He walked away without answering.
---
In the northern perches, a quiet meeting took place away from council ears. Five Veylin of mixed loyalties gathered around a rough-hewn table. Among them were two of Sylaith's supporters, two leaning toward Garrat's view, and one whose opinion was unreadable.
"They're pressing harder," one of Sylaith's allies said. "If we refuse them, they may decide to take the tunnels by force."
"If we agree," one of Garrat's men countered, "we'll have Rak'hor patrols keeping the Bresh'tok out. It could stabilize our markets."
"Or put us under their heel," Sylaith's ally snapped. "They've already claimed routes from other clans that agreed to 'share'."
The fifth man, silent until now, finally spoke. "It doesn't matter which side we like. What matters is which side will win. And right now, I don't think that's certain."
They fell into silence, each turning the thought over. The Veylin way had always been survival above all. But for the first time in generations, their usual neutrality felt like it might be running out of ground to stand on.
---
That same night, rumors trickled in from the southern tunnels. Supplies meant for the Rak'hor had been stolen en route, their guards found unconscious with no signs of a fight. No one claimed responsibility, but the whispers pointed to the resistance.
The Rak'hor would not ignore such an insult. The Veylin knew it.
And in the shadowed corners of the market, two hooded figures — the same fringe Veylin from before — traded quiet words.
"The Shale-wraiths," one murmured. "They were seen near the Flooded Hollows."
"Too far south to matter," the other replied. "Unless they start moving north."
"If they do," the first said, "this whole balance will change. And not in the way the Rak'hor or the Bresh'tok expect."
The words vanished into the hum of the market, but for those who heard them, the tunnels seemed just a little narrower.
---
The first sign came at dawn, though underground dawn was nothing more than a shift in the work cycles. At the main junction, Rak'hor soldiers were posted in pairs at every passage leading out. Their spears were grounded, but the message was plain: movement would now be watched.
Krel arrived mid-cycle to find the work crews halted in clusters, murmuring. His guards pushed through to the central platform, where a Rak'hor captain waited.
"You'll escort the supply wagons today," the captain told him. "New routes."
Krel frowned. "New routes? That's not—"
"It's the chieftains' order," the captain interrupted, sharp. "The northern tunnels. Veylin routes."
The Veylin rarely allowed outsiders into their high tunnels, and when they did, it was in small numbers under constant watch. For the Rak'hor to push through with supply wagons meant more than trade — it meant presence.
And presence, in the Deep, was a claim.
---
The Veylin council was informed at the same time as the wagons began rolling.
Dorran stood in the high gallery of the council hall, watching the armored column wind its way through the pass below. Beside him, Sylaith's mouth was a thin line.
"This was not agreed," she said.
"They didn't need our agreement," Dorran replied quietly.
Garrat joined them, his expression unreadable. "If they're moving goods, it's because they see us as stable partners. That could work to our advantage."
"Or it could mean they no longer care what we think," Sylaith said. "That's the beginning of the end for a clan like ours."
Her words drew no answer. All three knew the truth — if the Rak'hor decided to keep these tunnels, there was no rule, no trade agreement, and no council vote that could dislodge them without a fight the Veylin were not prepared to win.
---
In the markets, the shift was immediate. Prices for goods from Rak'hor-controlled territory dropped, flooding the stalls. Resistance-friendly merchants pulled back entirely, their stalls shuttered or moved deeper into unmarked side passages.
Sylaith moved through the market with deliberate slowness, noting which vendors nodded to her, which ones avoided her eyes, and which now smiled a little too quickly when Rak'hor armor came into view. Loyalties were shifting — not to the Rak'hor cause, but to their strength.
And that, Sylaith knew, was more dangerous.
---
The Bresh'tok sympathizers in the tunnels noticed the change too. One of their scouts, a wiry figure with dust still in his hair, slipped into a shadowed alcove where two resistance operatives were speaking in low tones.
"They're pushing supplies north," the scout whispered. "If they get comfortable in the Veylin routes, they'll choke the eastern crossings completely."
The older of the two operatives exhaled slowly. "That would seal the Bresh'tok in. No escape."
"Unless," the scout said carefully, "the Veylin can be convinced to close the gates before the Rak'hor fully settle in."
The operative's eyes narrowed. "And what would convince them of that?"
The scout only shook his head. The Veylin weren't swayed by loyalty — only by odds.
---
Back in the Veylin council chamber, that very debate had begun.
"We can't provoke them," Garrat argued. "We've survived centuries by staying out of wars until the winner is clear."
"And how long do you think we can stay out of this one?" Sylaith shot back. "The moment they decide our tunnels are theirs, we will have no choice at all."
A third councilor, one of the quieter voices, spoke up. "Perhaps we don't need to provoke or submit. We can slow their movements — small obstacles, diversions. Enough to keep them from settling too deeply until we know who will win."
It was a dangerous middle path, one that risked the Rak'hor's patience without offering true loyalty to the Bresh'tok. But for the moment, no one argued against it.
---
The Rak'hor, for their part, had begun keeping closer watch on the Veylin. Small squads rotated through the high tunnels under the guise of "route familiarization," mapping every bend and choke point.
Krel noticed the change as well. Where before he was a tool for enforcing control over his own people, now he felt more like an afterthought — a placeholder in territory already claimed.
It was during one of these patrol shifts that he overheard a pair of Rak'hor soldiers speaking quietly near a turn in the passage.
"They'll fold soon," one said. "Once the chieftains decide it's worth the trouble."
"And if they don't?"
The first soldier shrugged. "Then we make an example. The others will fall in line."
The words clung to Krel as he finished the patrol. The Veylin might think they had time to choose. He knew better.
---
That night, the markets buzzed with a rumor — one of the Rak'hor caravans had been struck in a narrow pass, half its goods taken. No guards were killed, but they had been left bound and gagged, the attack clean and fast.
The Bresh'tok were blamed immediately, though some whispered the Veylin themselves might have tested how far the Rak'hor would tolerate interference.
The Rak'hor reaction was swift. By the next cycle, their banners hung over the northern gate of the Veylin routes.
---
In the high tunnels, two Veylin sentries spoke in low voices as they watched the Rak'hor guards below.
"They look settled," one said. "Like they mean to stay."
The other glanced toward the dark stretch of unlit passage beyond the guards. "Maybe they will. Or maybe someone else will come and push them out."
"Who?"
The sentry shrugged. "Whoever thinks they're strong enough."
Neither spoke the names aloud — Bresh'tok, Shale-wraiths, or anyone else. Down here, naming a power was like carving a mark in wet clay. Sooner or later, someone would see it.
And the Veylin had survived by leaving their clay unmarked for as long as possible.