Syren and Mearin were descending deeper and deeper into the labyrinth.
The walls, covered with countless crooked grooves and claw marks, faintly shimmered in the dim light of the lantern. In places, there were traces of hardened aether on them, like pale veins running through the flesh of the tunnel. The passages of the anthill twisted as if writhing in chaotic order, winding between the levels of the underground world.
After several hours of uninterrupted descent, Mearin suggested to Syren that they find a safe place to rest for the night. He did not object. Soon enough, he found a suitable chamber with a spherical ceiling. Judging by its shape and size, it had once been a storage room, dug out by the ants.
The old mage lowered the air-cushion spell and began inspecting the space. At one point, he started drawing complex patterns of a spell in the air. Syren recognized it instantly — the mage had used this spell more than once as they moved through the labyrinth.
A wave of barely noticeable aether rippled out, enveloping the surrounding tunnels. This spell could not interact with the tense nodes in the walls — which might cause an explosion — but it allowed them to scan the surroundings for movements of free aether, warning of changes in air flow. It was thanks to this magic that Mearin had once discovered a faint residual aether impulse on Fenar's body, and the flow of dead aether that emanated from Syren himself.
— This place is safe. There are no threats nearby, — the mage said, beginning to trace intricate patterns of the future dome on the ground.
Syren simply dropped his backpack onto the ground and collapsed onto it, continuing to watch Mearin. The creation of the dome required constant magical upkeep from the mage to filter the aether within the magical field. The higher the level of the mage and their capabilities, the larger the dome. The one Mearin was constructing was quite small — about eight squares in volume.
Soon, the dome lit up, reflecting in Syren's eyes as a pale bubble of pure radiance. From where he sat, he could see faint black particles of dead aether clustering into lines, flowing toward the center where the lantern stood. Mearin exhaled deeply, apparently feeling some relief. Inside the lantern, in its center, rested a small shard of purified ore, emitting a warm glow. At the bottom, a thin residue began to accumulate — the byproduct of dead aether combustion.
— How does it work? — Syren suddenly asked, staring intently at the residue.
Mearin, unrolling his sleeping bag, replied:
— The dome isolates a small space, preventing dead aether from entering from the outside. The lamp burns what's already inside.
He cast a glance at Syren's silver eyes, feeling a slight shiver run down his spine.
— In essence, it's a trap that burns contamination caught within. Don't try to get inside. The dome won't withstand the flow that comes from you.
Syren looked gloomily at the lantern in the center, then lowered his gaze to his hands. From the pores of his skin, faint black particles were escaping in a thin mist. He had already come to terms with it.
On his right leg, there was a scratch, its edges covered in silvery crystals.
— Do you know how long the infected live? — he asked Mearin, his voice heavy with tired sorrow.
The elder mage paused for a moment, then answered:
— They say in the worst cases — just a few years. After that, the infected die from internal ruptures. But in some cases, people live to old age — if they sought help in time.
Mearin didn't try to comfort Syren — he simply answered the question honestly. In his long life, he hadn't interacted with many infected. Mostly because of the strict policies of Wolfkrag — the homeland of fire and progress. There, the possibility of infection was cut off at the root by installing lanterns in every city and sector. In such conditions, even if someone got infected by the ore, others would notice quickly and contact the church or hospital. The infected would be placed in strict quarantine, held under the constant filtering of powerful lanterns that extracted the residual granules and dissolved them in the dead flow.
But when the infection came from outside — everything became far more complicated. The patient would be examined, and the infected area would either be cut out or burned. If the aether reached the nervous system — such a person would be exiled from the city, condemned to eternal wandering.
— Do you think… there's still a chance to help me? — Syren lowered his eyes. He didn't know the nuances of medicine, but somewhere deep inside, he still hoped it wasn't too late.
— I'm sorry, — Mearin exhaled, cutting off hope at the root.
Syren's heart skipped a beat, and a cold wave swept over his mind. He had expected such an answer. But even so, he felt his soul being squeezed by despair. He didn't want to believe in a miracle… but it seemed he subconsciously still reached for it.
Mearin looked at the dejected Syren for several seconds, then quietly continued:
— We only agreed to help you get out of here, to the surface. Don't ask for more.
Their original three-week research plan had been shortened after Syren joined them, and sped up even more when Mearin decided to go further, sending his group back to the surface.
Syren smiled faintly.
— Just the fact that you're keeping me alive is enough. But still… thank you.
For a moment, heavy silence hung between them. Mearin broke it first:
— Tomorrow we should reach the heart of the anthill. I'll spend some time there, then ask you to escort me on the way back.
He rose from his seat and reached for the bag lying nearby. His long white hair briefly fell over his tired blue eyes, where a flicker of sadness passed. Shaking off that sudden feeling, Mearin reached into a pocket and pulled out a small iron compass.
The silver lid flipped open, revealing elegant, thin needles. The outer side of the device was covered in engravings, but the compass itself didn't look expensive or refined — more like an item that had been through a lot. Twirling it in his hand, Mearin threw it toward Syren.
The compass traced an arc, flying outside the dome and continuing onward until Syren caught it midair. He stared at the unfamiliar object, turning it over in his hands.
— What is this? — he asked, frowning.
Mearin replied, without looking away:
— A gift. Consider it extra payment for your effort.
Syren clicked open the lid and looked at the spinning needles.
— You could've given me something more practical than this trinket.
Mearin nearly choked and, scowling, snapped:
— If you don't like it, just give it back!
Syren quickly tucked the compass into his pocket and just as quickly replied:
— I'm fine with it… But what does it do?
For the first time that evening, Mearin gave a faint smile:
— Ha, do you really not know anything? How can someone with clairvoyant abilities not know the meaning of a compass?
Syren frowned, but said nothing. Should he admit he wasn't a seer?
— Remember this, — Mearin said quietly. — If you ever feel lost in life, just look at the compass needles and follow your heart. The compass will show you the way, and the heart will give you the courage to overcome obstacles.
Syren studied the old mage's face for several seconds.
— And what does that mean?
Mearin didn't take offense. He simply laughed:
— You'll understand when you're older. Now go get some rest.
Without thinking much, Syren closed his eyes. He didn't lower his guard completely, but sleep pulled him into its embrace every time.
In the dream — the same dark corridor. It stretched endlessly, vanishing into the darkness. Heraldic symbols on pillars, depicting birds with piercing eyes, still disturbed Syren as he moved slowly across the mirror-like floor covered by a shallow layer of water. The water rippled softly, accompanied by a gentle sound, soothing in his ears.
The dream repeated itself again and again.
But this time, change came unexpectedly.
A faint clinking of chains still echoed in his ears, just like before. Syren couldn't take it anymore and began to run.
But this time, the dream didn't end, despite the looming approach of the sound. It continued.
Syren was afraid to look back. He kept his eyes forward.
Unexpectedly, the corridor ended. At its far end stood a door — black as pitch.
Unable to contain the fear of the chains' sound behind him, Syren pulled on the door handle.