The return to the secret settlement in the southern reaches of the unclaimed North was a journey of hushed whispers. Tucked away in a valley of hidden waterfalls and silver-barked trees, the four races had built a haven far from the warmongering kingdoms of the south. There, the Elven Sages took custody of the infant. They looked into Mateo's eyes and saw a calm that did not belong to the frantic, short-lived humans they knew. They vowed to raise him as a child of the North, a ward of the Four Races.
While the sages tended to the cradle and the mysterious glass sphere, the expedition returned to the ruins. Dwarves, Gnomes, and Elves descended once more into the lightless palace of El Refugio de Dios, driven by a hunger to understand the silent halls.
Deep within a vaulted chamber, they discovered racks of strange, heavy objects. They were crafted from polished steel and gold, etched with swirling patterns that seemed to mimic the flow of veins.
A Gnome scholar named Breun reached for a smaller, handheld device—a Pistol forged of gold and dark iron. "Is this a scepter? Or perhaps a key for the larger mechanisms?" he wondered aloud.
As his fingers closed around the grip, a sharp click echoed. Breun yelped, pulling his hand away as a needle-fine spike retracted into the handle. "Curse it! A safety mechanism? A trap for thieves?" He looked at the small bead of blood on his palm.
But an Elven Ranger named Muire was watching the weapon, not the Gnome. He saw a faint, crimson light begin to climb up a glass cylinder embedded in the pistol's frame.
"It isn't a trap," Muire whispered, stepping forward. "It's a thirst. Look."
Muire took the golden pistol from the Gnome. He did not flinch when the needle pierced his own skin. He stood still, his breath hitching as he felt a cold, steady drain on his vitality—a tugging at his very pulse. The glass cylinder hissed as it filled with a pressurized, glowing red fluid. Muire grew slightly pale, his head swimming as the device drank until the chamber was brimming with a vibrant, humming crimson.
"It is full," Muire panted, his voice thin.
He raised the weapon, pointing it toward a collapsed pillar of rubble at the far end of the hall. He felt the weight of his own life sitting in the palm of his hand, a heavy, vibrating potential. He pulled the curved trigger.
A crack like a lightning strike shattered the silence of the tomb. A bolt of concentrated crimson energy erupted from the barrel, striking the stone with such force that the pillar did not just break—it disintegrated into fine, white dust in a flash of heat.
Muire lowered the weapon, his hand trembling from the exertion. He looked at the empty glass chamber, then back at the destruction.
"It is no tool for carving," Muire said, his voice heavy with awe. "It is a ranged weapon. A weapon that uses our own blood as its fuel."
The Gnomes and Dwarves looked at the racks of larger, long-barreled Arquebuses lining the walls. They realized then that the First Race had not just built a paradise; they had forged a deterrent that turned their very lives into a devastating force.
******
The depths of the palace beneath El Refugio de Dios [God's Refuge] held more than just a graveyard; it held a treasury of impossible craft. As the expedition pushed deeper into the subterranean halls, their lanterns reflected off metals that remained untarnished after millennia of silence.
"Look at the luster," a Dwarf master-smith whispered, his thick fingers trembling as he brushed dust from a massive gear. "This isn't just steel. It's laced with Platinum and Silver. Even the hinges are forged from alloys we've only ever dreamed of."
The chamber was a cathedral of ancient industry. Rows of worktables were cluttered with artifacts that defied the understanding of the four races. There were shimmering plates of Gold etched with microscopic circuits, and delicate spheres of Steel and Platinum that seemed to hum with a phantom energy.
"It isn't just the weapons," Muire noted, his face still pale from the earlier discharge of the pistol. He pointed to a series of heavy, crystalline cylinders encased in reinforced platinum frames. "Look at these containers. They look like... Batteries."
These strange containers were the heart of the ruins. They weren't filled with gears or springs, but with a dense, pressurized vacuum. Beside them lay cables of woven silver, designed to plug into the larger artifacts—the massive forge-presses, the light-emitters, and the heavy doors that barred their way.
"They're empty," a Gnome tinkerer said, tapping the glass of a battery. "Just like the guns. They lack the spark needed to make the other machines move."
Muire stepped forward, his eyes narrowed. He looked at a small, golden port on the side of a battery. He didn't hesitate; he pressed his thumb against the intake needle built into the frame.
"Muire, stop!" a Halfling cried out, reaching for his arm. "You've bled enough for one day! You'll collapse!"
But the Elf ignored him. He felt the familiar, cold tugging at his pulse. This time, the drain was slower but far deeper. The battery didn't just take a drop; it began to hum, a low-frequency vibration that resonated in Muire's very bones. The glass cylinder slowly began to fill with a thick, swirling crimson essence.
Muire's knees buckled. He had to be caught by two Dwarves as he slumped against the table, his skin turning a ghostly, waxen shade of grey. The battery, now only a quarter full, emitted a steady, warm glow. The silver cables attached to it suddenly sparked, and a nearby lantern—a complex apparatus of platinum and glass—flickered to life, bathing the dark vault in a soft, sun-like radiance.
"It powers... everything," Muire panted, his voice a mere whisper. "Their lights... their heat... their very doors. It wasn't magic as we know it. It was Life-Feeding."
The expedition looked around the room with a new, terrifying clarity. The First Race hadn't just used blood for war; they had lived on it. Every convenience of their "marvelous civilization"—from the glowing halls to the automated forges—had been paid for in the literal vitality of its citizens.
"They built a paradise," the Dwarf captain whispered, looking at the hundreds of empty batteries lining the walls. "But they must have been exhausted every single day of their lives just to keep the lights on."
"Unless," the Gnome added, looking toward the dark corridors that led to the royal sector, "they found a way to fill these without using their own veins."