Standing on the surface of a massive platform, Syren watched intently as withered veins pulsed beneath its shell. In his unbound hands lay an amulet, faintly pulsing with etheric energy.
"How did I even get caught up in all this?!"
That anxious thought echoed as he recalled the priest Tas with a surge of bitterness.
Not that he was in a better situation now. The burly Rood had taken his rifle and pistol, keeping them close. Meanwhile, the priest was surrounded by giant ants, ensuring he couldn't flee.
Apparently, the faint glow of ether on their carapaces was Lance's doing. Syren could clearly see etheric flows trailing from the nape of Evalyn's neck and from the ants — a vision only he possessed.
"Haah..."
Taking a deep breath, he looked again at the iron platform beneath his feet. There was no way out: if he didn't manage to use the key within a few hours, he'd be killed. If he failed to contain the ether flow — the backlash would kill him.
And if he did manage to open the gate, well...
He didn't really know what would happen then.
"Maybe... maybe it is all my fault," he thought bitterly, remembering how it all began.
✦✦✦
In a dark, damp chamber, someone shoved him and growled,
— "Get up."
Syren opened his eyes. The darkness hadn't changed in months — it remained just as dense, just as suffocating. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. Around him: gray stone walls.
Once, he remembered colors — the blue sky, sunlight, crimson tongues of flame. Now, only this unrelenting gloom and cold.
He lay on cold stone, covered with a ragged cloth. His joints cracked, chains rattled, and his body ached — but he had grown used to it. It was normal now.
Around him, the other workers stirred. No one spoke. Words had long lost their meaning here — they were a waste of energy.
Syren reached for his pickaxe. The handle scraped rough against his palm. He barely felt the pain — thick calluses covered everything. Before him stretched a tunnel, its walls laced with ether ore — glowing, to his eyes. To others, it would just look like crystal.
Descending the creaking ladder, he heard steps groaning, threatening to snap beneath him.
Below, the air was thick and heavy. The dampness pressed on his chest; the air reeked of dust, metal, and sweat. The faint light from a lamp barely reached the wall. But Syren didn't need light — he saw the ether in the rock.
He stood among thirty others, all silently awaiting the start of their shift. No words. No glances. Only stillness.
He raised the pickaxe and struck the wall.
The rock was hard.
The first hit — no mark.
The second — a slight dent.
The third — a small chip.
Over and over it went.
Each blow drained strength. His shoulders ached, his arms went numb, sometimes trembling. But Syren knew — he couldn't stop. His life depended on it.
From time to time, overseers passed by. Their gaze was cold, measuring. If your yield was too small — you'd get scolded, or worse — hit. Weakness wasn't tolerated.
Breaks were rare and short. Syren ate dry bread and murky water.
The workday dragged endlessly. In the mine, time didn't exist — only the cold, the dark, and the weight of labor.
Eventually, the bell rang — the shift's end. A dull echo rolled through the tunnels. Syren laid down his pick. His shoulders throbbed, his breath was heavy — but familiar.
The workers dispersed slowly, like sleepwalkers. No one spoke. Words had long been forgotten here.
He returned to his "cell" — not a room, just a corner of the mine where he could collapse and rest. He lay on the stone, pulling the rag over his chin.
Tomorrow, it would all repeat.
The same darkness.
The same filth.
The same labor.
Sleep claimed him almost instantly.
The ceiling stretched upward into boundless darkness — like a night sky shrouded in ancient dust. It seemed unreachable, cold, alien. Towering columns — stone titans etched with runes of forgotten worlds — reached high, framing the space like the ribs of an ancient temple long abandoned.
Their stone skin was cut with strange symbols — alien, unknowable, as if carved by faceless beings with no names. The walls exhaled antiquity, marred by the scars of centuries.
The floor — smooth and cold — mirrored the columns like water laced with stillness. Every step Syren took created ripples — circles spreading out, like echoes of a presence long gone.
He walked in silence. His body no longer obeyed — it moved on its own, carried by some invisible current. His thoughts tangled like rusted chains, sluggish, heavy, refusing to clear. He didn't try to stop or turn back — the corridor stretched on forever, pulling him deeper.
Between the columns perched stone birds — predatory, their eyes sharp, almost alive. Syren felt their gaze trailing his every movement. Time meant nothing here. Minutes, hours, days — all blended into the void.
Suddenly, a metallic clatter echoed from afar — sharp and cold, like chains dragged across stone. The sound rang out through the emptiness.
Syren froze.
His heart pounded.
But his legs moved faster, then broke into a run.
Footsteps echoed, but the chains drew closer.
And then—
The clatter rang out right behind him.
A thunderous crash wrenched Syren from sleep.
He sat up with a gasp, heart racing. Smoke billowed through the tunnels — thick, gray, rolling like a living beast.
Cursing, Syren leapt from his corner. The ground quaked beneath him — the mine shook with tremors, muffled explosions thudding in the distance.
Infected swarmed through the tunnels, their forms staggering in the smoke — mindless chaos unleashed by their own madness. Dead ether had drained their minds, leaving only frenzy and broken instincts.
Syren saw workers stampeding toward the exits — tripping, falling, screaming, sobbing. Panic had them in its grip like an avalanche.
And then — another blast.
A deep, resounding boom shook everything. The ceiling collapsed, burying several under stone and dust.
Syren froze for a heartbeat —
Then bolted forward, cutting through the smoke in search of escape.