Several members of the expedition, along with a few of the Altemen, followed Torg across the wide, gray stone floor of the cavern toward the far side—where the ground abruptly vanished into shadow.

The combination of the newly lit ceiling nodes and the flickering torchlight cast strange, competing shadows across the vast crevasse that yawned before them. It was at least sixty feet wide, and the opposite cliff wall appeared slick and black, swallowing light rather than reflecting it.

As they approached, Rishmond caught sight of something moving on the far wall. A wild kathtwip—white, hairless, and sinewy—was climbing the sheer rock face with impossible ease, vanishing silently into the shadows above.

The edge loomed closer, and now a low, thick iron chain came into view. It was strung between equally massive iron posts set into the stone a foot or so from the drop, a crude but unmistakable warning line.

The whispers in Rishmond’s mind didn’t fade—but they grew softer, more distant, like someone calling to him through thick fog. Yet their urgency remained sharp, a pressure behind his thoughts that refused to ease.

Torg walked steadily toward a break in the chain.

The posts at either end of this gap were taller than the others, curved forward and down over the abyss, like frozen tendrils of some ancient creature. The chain itself seemed to flow into the dark, disappearing over the cliff’s edge.

Rishmond’s breath caught.

The gap was no accident. It was a path. An opening in the protective barrier—a narrow threshold leading to a place that should not be stepped.

A place where one could simply walk off into the unknowable deep.

Torg stopped just short of crossing the boundary marked by the heavy chain stretched along the edge. He stood near the two tall support posts that curved outward and down into the void, close enough to reach out one stubby arm and grip the thick iron bar embedded in the stone.

Rishmond looked closer—and saw that the bar was the top rung of a ladder. A ladder that vanished over the side and into the dark crevasse below.

Torg’s head rotated slowly—until it faced entirely backward, staring at the group behind him. That motion, unnatural and silent, never failed to remind Rishmond that the golem was not a living being. Not really.

“I will return in just a few minutes,” Torg said calmly. “I must go alone. The maintenance tunnel is not fit for more than one. It will not take long. Once I have enacted the reset, I will return—and we can proceed to the Shrine.”

“Torg!” Rishmond called after him. “Is this safe?”

“Of course, Wizard Rishmond,” Torg replied, his voice as even as ever. “Do not be concerned. The ladders are sturdy. They have been here a very long time, but they are well-made and of excellent material. They will easily support my weight. We will be on our way in naught but a few minutes.”

Rishmond stepped closer to the line, heart tight in his chest.

“Be careful, Torg. Be safe.”

Torg’s head slowly rotated back to its proper position.

Without another word, he turned in that strange, compact way of his—half-pivot, half-fold—and stepped forward. He reached the edge, shifted his weight, and disappeared over the side with a sound like stone rubbing against stone.

Gone.

The cavern held its breath.

Rishmond stepped carefully between the two iron supports, gripping one tightly as he leaned forward to peer over the edge.

Below, Torg was already partway down the ladder affixed to the cliff face. The little golem moved with surprising speed, his crystalline body glowing softly in the shadows. Rishmond watched as he disappeared into what appeared to be a narrow opening in the rock about ten feet below.

Then Rishmond’s eyes were drawn outward—and downward.

The walls of the crevasse were veined with glowing green. Glittergreen. Some patches were small and isolated, others stretched in long, irregular lines that twisted through the black stone like frozen lightning. The deeper he looked, the more there was—green lights winking and pulsing, layer upon layer, until the darkness far below looked like a starless sky filled with fireflies.

At last, he thought, this is what I imagined.

The mines revealed themselves not through tunnels or carts—but here, in this impossible chasm lit by the Gods’ own breath.

“Rishmond.”

Tybour’s voice pulled him back.

He turned, hand still gripping the iron ladder tightly. Tybour stood a few paces back with a look of calm concern.

“Come away from the edge,” the First Mage said gently. “Let Torg do his work.”

Rishmond hesitated—then stepped away, back toward the group.

A familiar voice spoke off to his left, low and conversational.

“These ladders are how the Gods got around the mines in the days before the elevator, you know.”

VanLief Aericksen spoke in the voice Rishmond had come to recognize as his lecture voice—a tone he adopted whenever he wanted to impart some bit of information he found either important or, at the very least, novel.

“There are few records that remain from the days before the Blessing,” he began, “but writings about the mine do survive—carefully preserved by the Altemen.” He nodded toward Elder Geriswald, the gesture subtle but respectful. “The records are quite clear regarding the elevator—when it was constructed, that is, though not how. There’s no description of its mechanism, only that it came into being after the deeper caverns were reached.”

He turned slightly, addressing the group at large.

“The records state that the seven ladders built along this crevasse were built by the Gods themselves, to allow access to the lower levels of what was once a vast, natural cave system. By all accounts, the Gods mined glittergreen for their own purposes—until they discovered that the Altemen were immune to the ghosts of the mine and mountain.”

From Rishmond’s right, Elder Geriswald's voice answered—low and warm.

“It is true,” he said. “Our ancestors were brought here by the Gods, chosen to assist. They carved the stone, made space for divine design. The old records speak of marvels—of glowing halls, shifting bridges, voices from the stone itself.”

He paused, then added with quiet reverence, “I had not dared to believe such wonders would return—not in my lifetime. But now… now the hope has ignited within me. If a servant of the Gods can return and restore even part of what was lost, then anything is possible.”

He swept his hand toward the ceiling.

“These lights have not worked since the Blessing. And now, by grace alone, they shine again. If Torg speaks truly—and I have no reason to doubt him now—then the elevator will once more descend under its own power.”

A beat of silence passed, then Gregor Tranto spoke up, his voice skeptical but not unkind.

“I thought magic didn’t work here in the mines?” he asked. “Something to do with the glittergreen’s concentration?”

Rishmond noted the marked difference in the group’s mood.

Just minutes ago, everyone had been tense, tightly wound by the resurgence of whispers, the flickering ghostly forms, and Torg’s unsettling behavior. But now, many had gathered around VanLief Aericksen, drawn in by the rhythm of his lecture. Their attention had shifted—no longer consumed by fear, but pulled toward history, toward story.

Even Cantor and Illiar, still close beside him, seemed calmer. Not relaxed, not entirely—but no longer on edge. He reached out, took each of their hands in his own, and felt their grip tighten in reply. The contact grounded him, warmed him.

Across from them, VanLief continued, his tone now half-lecture, half-recitation.

“You would be correct, sir,” he said, responding to Gregor’s question. “Magic is—at best—unreliable here in the mines.”

He moved to stand beside Elder Geriswald, gesturing with quiet energy as he spoke.

“The concentration of glittergreen in this place acts as a catalytic force. It amplifies even the smallest use of lotret—our ambient magic—and does so in unpredictable ways. A minor charm may yield explosive results… or nothing at all.”

He turned, pacing slowly before the group now, clearly enjoying himself.

“It is for this reason, according to the ancient records, that the Gods created something they called a-leck-tra-city—a power not born of magic, but something else entirely.”

Rishmond saw several heads tilt curiously. The word itself felt strange, foreign. Heavy with lost meaning.

“We do not know what it truly is,” VanLief continued, voice growing more lyrical. “The Gods never revealed that secret. Our records speak of it only in fragments—most of them preserved right here, in this very mine.”

He looked toward the glowing tablet on the platform.

“We know that a-leck-tra-city can be generated from glittergreen, though how remains a mystery. We know the God tablets operate on it. We also know…” he paused for effect, “...that all mortal attempts to replicate it using magic have failed. Worse—such attempts have led to the destruction of nearly every remaining tablet in the civilized lands of Rit.”

He raised a single hand, fingers pointed like a storyteller concluding his tale.

“In fact, the tablet here at the elevator is the only known working tablet still in existence.”

He smiled, pleased with his conclusion, then added—just slightly too grandly—“A fragile bridge between us and the divine.”

Rishmond smiled faintly. VanLief’s lectures always walked the line between endearing and infuriating. But this time… the poetry felt appropriate. A bridge to the divine. That’s exactly what the mine felt like.

A loud clang echoed through the crevasse, followed by a sharp, metallic click.

The gathered group turned as one toward the sound, eyes fixed on the ladder descending into the dark.

Silence stretched for several long moments. Even the whispers seemed to pause.

Then, the scratching scramble of a wild kathtwip scaling the far wall broke the stillness, and breath seemed to return to the chamber all at once. No one spoke, but the quiet sound of collective exhalation filled the space like a subtle wave.

Rishmond turned his head, scanning the gathered faces. Everyone stood frozen, eyes locked on the ladder.

And then—Torg’s arm appeared, gripping the top rung.

He climbed with purpose, pulling his small body over the edge. His movements were smooth, energized. Without hesitation, he walked directly toward the group—and straight to Rishmond.

“The repairs are complete,” he said simply. “We can go now. The elevator will take us to the lowest level much faster. Are you prepared to proceed?”

Rishmond smiled, relief and affection softening his voice.

“Yes, Torg. If you’re ready, then I am too. What did you do down there?”

“I re-engaged the braking chains and reset the magnetic guidance rails,” Torg replied. “They had been partially misaligned. Now, all systems are restored.”

Rishmond grinned down at him. “I’m just glad you’re back safe.”

Torg tilted his head, the soft whir of his internal gears the only sound.

“That is kind of you, Wizard Rishmond. But there is no need for concern.”

Rishmond chuckled and placed a hand gently on Torg’s shoulder, bending slightly to do so.

“Just Rishmond. You don’t have to call me ‘Wizard’ all the time. We’re friends now—and friends don’t need to be so formal.”

Torg paused, his lights flickering briefly—then bursting into a vibrant cascade of rainbow sparks and streaks across his crystal core.

“I like that,” he said. “That we are friends.”

Rishmond’s chest tightened in a way he didn’t quite understand.

“I will call you Rishmond then. And we shall be friends.”

Torg turned and walked briskly back toward the elevator, his step lighter than it had ever been.

The crowd parted instinctively to let him pass, then fell in behind him. Rishmond followed, with Cantor and Illiar at his sides, their hands still in his. Tybour brought up the rear, trailing the group by several feet, deep in conversation with Elder Geriswald, Haningway, Ueet, and VanLief Aericksen.

Their voices were low, private. Something weighty was being discussed.

But Rishmond, for the first time in what felt like hours, felt steady.

The elevator—and the Shrine—awaited.

The group boarded the elevator one by one, their footsteps ringing softly on the ancient metal floor. Torg once again extended his legs, rising up to the control pedestal. His smooth ascent felt almost ceremonial now, and the glowing God tablet before him shone brighter than ever—even against the illumination from the newly restored lights.

Across the cavern, Rishmond noticed several Altemen moving quickly but calmly, snuffing out torches. The firelight was no longer needed. The Gods' light had returned.

Torg turned his head toward the guard who had first challenged him when they approached the elevator.

“I will show you how to operate the elevator,” Torg said.

The Alteman moved respectfully to his side, watching intently as Torg pointed out various symbols on the tablet’s surface, his crystalline fingers tapping gently at specific runes and glowing paths.

“Master Torg,” Elder Geriswald called out. “We have need to stop at the mid-level. Supervisor Haltoo has a task to perform there, and it would be good to take him along with us.”

“Of course, Elder Geriswald,” Torg replied. Then, turning slightly, he tilted his head toward Rishmond.

“Rishmond?”

The way he said it—like a question, like he needed permission—caught Rishmond off guard.

“Y-Yes. Of course,” he said quickly, a little embarrassed to be consulted as if he had authority over the journey. But then again… maybe he did.

Torg turned back to the gathered group and spoke, his voice louder now, steady and clear.

“Clear the doors, please.”

The sound of conversation hushed as people shifted, moving back toward the center of the platform. Altemen guards stepped aside, checking the edges. The final few stepped on board, and the elevator’s frame gave a faint groan of readiness, as if it had been waiting centuries for this moment.

Some shuffling followed as those nearest the doors stepped further into the elevator. It wasn’t crowded—the platform could have held twenty more people easily—but it seemed that everyone silently agreed: best to err on the side of caution.

Torg gestured to the Altemen operator, guiding his hand to a specific glowing point on the surface of the tablet.

The gates swung shut with a soft whirring hum, followed by a muted click as the latch fell into place.

Another tap. Another symbol.

The elevator shuddered—just slightly—and then began its steady, controlled descent into the depths of the Glittergreen Mines.

A faint hum vibrated beneath their feet, too smooth to be mechanical, too consistent to be magical. Something other.

Torg leaned in, speaking to the operator in calm, clipped instructions for a few brief moments. Then he turned back to the group and compressed his legs, lowering himself back to his original, compact height.

“It will take approximately eleven minutes to reach the mid-level,” he said, his voice clear above the quiet murmurs of those aboard. “Elder Geriswald has requested that we stop to deliver Supervisor Haltoo and his team.”

He paused, glancing around the group before adding:

“Once they disembark, we will continue to the bottom. That trip will take an additional ten minutes.”

The platform continued its descent, quiet and smooth as breath. Around them, the glowing crystals embedded in the elevator’s inner framework pulsed faintly—guiding light for a descent through the deep bones of the earth.

“Just how deep does this mine go?” Illiar asked, glancing around as the cavern walls slowly passed them by. “We seem to be falling fairly quickly.”

Torg turned his head toward her. His gaze swept across Illiar, then Rishmond, then Cantor—before finally settling on Rishmond.

“From the top of the shaft where we boarded the elevator to its lowest point is two thousand two hundred feet,” he said evenly. “The cavern floor where we boarded is three hundred feet below the surface level at the mine’s entrance. The Shrine is located ten feet beneath the lowest point of the shaft, measured from the surface. However, that is not technically the bottom of the current mine.”

He continued, his voice as smooth as ever.

“According to the most recent records, the Altemen have excavated a new floor beneath the Shrine, placing the functional bottom of the mine at two thousand five hundred twenty-two feet below surface level. However, since the mine extends under certain peaks of the Glittergreen Mountains, if one measures from the highest surface point directly above the—”

“Torg,” Tybour interrupted gently, holding up a hand. “I think the question was more general.”

The golem paused, then bowed his head slightly.

“Understood, Wizard Tybour.”

Illiar chuckled softly and leaned closer to Rishmond. “He’s like a talking map with feelings.”

“Useful feelings,” Cantor added, smiling faintly.

The elevator continued its measured descent, the soft hum of the mechanism filling the silence left in Torg’s wake. The deeper they went, the greener the glow of the crystal veins in the shaft walls became—twisting, branching, pulsing.

Like they were passing through the veins of a sleeping god.

“The elevator has never moved this fast in my lifetime,” Elder Geriswald said quietly, more to the air than to anyone in particular. He leaned heavily on the thick, carved staff he carried, his voice low with awe. “Before Master Torg’s repairs, it used to take well over an hour to reach the bottom. Coming back up could take two hours or more, depending on the load.”

He turned to face Torg directly, his expression solemn.

“We are greatly indebted to you, Master Torg.”

With effort, Geriswald bowed—not simply a dip of the head, but a deeper, deliberate tilt downward and to the left. Rishmond recognized the gesture: one of high respect among the Altemen.

Torg straightened a little, as if absorbing the significance of the moment. Then, without speaking at first, he returned the bow with a gesture Rishmond had never seen him use before—crossing his right arm across his chest, and sliding his hand from his left shoulder to the center of his torso, palm flat.

It was a precise, graceful motion—the same motion Rishmond had seen Altemen use when addressing someone of greater rank or spiritual standing.

A quiet murmur passed through a few of the nearby Altemen who noticed. Even Rosa raised an eyebrow slightly, clearly surprised.

Torg finally spoke.

“The speed should now be consistent, Elder Geriswald. Approximately one hundred feet per minute—give or take a foot, depending on the total load.”

There was no pride in his tone. Just calm clarity. As though restoring divine machinery was simply what he was meant to do.

But the look in his flickering lights—the subtle rise in glow, the rhythm of his core—suggested something else.

Pride. Quiet joy. Purpose.

Rishmond’s headache had subsided slightly, thanks to the fresh piece of gum he was chewing. But the whispers… they hadn’t stopped. If anything, they had grown more insistent—pressing at the edges of his thoughts, urging him onward with wordless urgency.

Through the wide horizontal gaps in the elevator’s walls, the rock blurred past in shades of dark grey and green. Each level they passed flashed by like a falling dream, their speed making it feel as though they were flying downward through open air. Veins of glittergreen streaked across the shaft walls, bright and alive, and the steady yellow-white glow of the Gods’ lights bathed everything in sharp, unwavering illumination.

It was too much. The play of light and shadow against the glittergreen caused the visions in Rishmond’s mind to surge. After only a minute or two, he found himself staring downward, focusing on the metal floor to escape the sensory barrage.

Illiar and Cantor huddled close beside him, doing the same. Both had quietly mentioned that the descent was making them nauseated and unfocused—not just physically, but magically, mentally. They leaned against him slightly, grounding themselves through contact.

“Sitting,” came Tybour’s voice suddenly, just outside Rishmond’s field of view, “helps. Keeps your balance, and your eyes below the motion outside the walls.”

Rishmond looked up to see Tybour lowering himself cross-legged beside Illiar. Cantor followed the example quickly—her face pale, eyes wide in the flickering light. Rishmond and Illiar joined them, forming a small, close circle on the floor.

“We need a distraction,” Tybour said, voice soft but deliberate. “Something gentle. Something we can listen to without effort.”

He looked up and raised a hand toward a tall figure a few paces away.

“Aericksen!” he called, beckoning.

Rishmond saw VanLief look over, brows lifting in interest. He moved with his usual precise elegance—long legs stepping carefully between travelers on the platform.

“Perhaps the esteemed Premier Researcher of the Malminar Council of Wizards,” Tybour continued, wryly, “might lend us the strength of his constitution. You seem… surprisingly unaffected, VanLief. Let’s put that to use.”

Rishmond caught the twitch of Tybour’s jaw—just a flicker of irritation at being bested, even in this small way.

VanLief smiled broadly and offered a slight bow. “Why, of course, Tybour. I would be honored.”

At that exact moment, the sound of the elevator shifted—a low, cavernous change in tone as they passed from the confines of the rock shaft into a more open space. The air felt different. Colder. Wider.

VanLief stepped between Rishmond and Tybour, who scooted apart to make room. He placed a firm hand on each of their shoulders as he lowered himself—stiffly but without complaint—into a cross-legged seat.

“What shall it be?” he asked, eyes bright. “History? Mechanics? My specialty is what is known, but I’ve a good deal of what is guessed at too. Would you like me to begin with what we know of the elevator, and we’ll see where the conversation leads?”

Rishmond smiled, already feeling the tension lessen.

He knew what was coming now: a confident, wandering story, full of speculation and overly poetic language. But it would be human—a tether to something ordinary, something known.

It might just be the thing that carried them safely through the rest of the descent.

Aericksen could be pompous, yes—but Rishmond had come to think of him more as earnest than arrogant. The man was so thoroughly occupied with the knowledge he carried, and the desire to share it—or better yet, expand it—that he seemed almost blind to how he came off to others. It wasn’t condescension. It was just… momentum.

In the lessons Rishmond had taken with him, the Researcher had more than once forgotten time entirely, holding the entire class well past the end of the period as he dove headlong into some tangent—especially if it involved the days before the Blessing.

So when VanLief settled in and opened his mouth, Rishmond braced for a long, winding tale about elevator rails and glittergreen dynamics.

But then Cantor spoke.

“Tell us about kathtwips,” she said, her voice cutting softly through the hum of the descent.

Everyone in the little circle turned to look at her—slightly surprised. Even VanLief paused.

“They look like thwippits,” she continued, “but without hair. And they seem to climb the same way. At least the few wild ones we saw on the cliff face earlier. They looked like they were stuck to the rock. Like… like they were held there by magic.”

Rishmond smiled. Of course she’d ask about the animals. Cantor had always had a soft spot for creatures—scrappy, unusual, misunderstood. She’d once fed half her rations to a blind warren-fox back in Retinor and spent a week coaxing an injured firebat out of a rafters’ nest.

Aericksen blinked once, then brightened with genuine delight.

“Ah! An excellent question,” he said, lifting a single finger as if invoking a formal introduction. “The kathtwip!”

“Well…” VanLief paused, the gears in his mind visibly shifting. Whatever lecture he’d been about to deliver was replaced by a new track entirely. His expression settled into one of thoughtful focus, eyes drifting toward some unseen chalkboard in the middle distance.

“You’re quite right—they are related to thwippits,” he began, his voice steady and even. “Thwippits also populate the Glittergreen Mountains, mostly on the surface below the tree line—just like the ones in the mountains of Malminar. The variety here in the Reaches are short-haired, adapted to higher elevations and colder weather.”

He adjusted his posture slightly as he warmed to the subject.

“Kathtwips are their underground cousins. But interestingly… they’re found only here, in the Glittergreen Mountains. No records—no evidence—of kathtwips in any cave systems elsewhere on Halconiket. Not in Malminar, not in the Sunken Coast. Only here.”

As he spoke, the glittergreen tattoo on his forehead caught the shifting elevator light, the powder within it sparkling subtly, the lines pulsing brighter whenever he moved. It made him look faintly radiant, like his words themselves triggered a glow.

“They were domesticated before the Blessing,” he continued. “Used in the mines to haul ore and crystal to the surface. Their anatomy is ideal—short front limbs, long and powerful back legs—perfect for tight tunnels and heavy loads. And their eyesight… exceptional in darkness. The perfect companions for those who once carved this place from the bones of the world.”

He gestured toward the shaft walls, where glittergreen still pulsed in ribbons of light. “As you saw earlier, they’re still used to transport supplies, even now.”

Cantor leaned forward, her expression captivated.

“And the wild ones?” she asked. “Are they just escaped from captivity? Too agile to catch?”

VanLief smiled at her, pleased by the question.

“Oh no,” he said. “The wild kathtwips are left intentionally untamed. Even in their natural state, they serve the mine.”

He raised a finger, lecturing gently now.

“They’re extraordinarily sensitive to vibration and tremors. They know precisely where the rock is unstable. They sense collapses before they happen. More than that—somehow, they know the shape of tunnels ahead. Whether a path opens up wide enough to pass through, or if it tapers off into impassable crawlspace.”

Cantor blinked. “So they’re… guides?”

“In a way, yes,” VanLief replied. “By observing their behavior, experienced Altemen can make remarkably accurate decisions about where to dig, where to avoid, and when to evacuate. The kathtwips are part of the mine's safety system. Always have been.”

Rishmond couldn’t help but glance toward Torg, who stood silently nearby, the faint light from his crystal core flickering slowly in rhythm with the glow of the shaft.

Even in silence, this place was alive.

The sounds of the elevator shifted, subtly at first, then more noticeably. A soft mechanical hum deepened into a groan of slowing chains. Rishmond felt it too—not just the sound, but the change in pressure, the slight lift in his stomach that told him their descent was easing.

They were slowing down.

Mid-level, he thought.

He remembered asking about it earlier. It had been described as a kind of logistical hub—a supply center for restocking lower levels, an emergency staging ground, and an administrative point deep inside the mine. VanLief had once told him this was also where most of the surviving records from before the Blessing were stored—sealed away from the surface world in a vault built by the Gods themselves.

As if reading his thoughts, VanLief spoke.

“Ah,” he said brightly, “we are arriving at the mid-level.”

He spoke as if to a small classroom, smiling as he rose smoothly to his feet—remarkably graceful for someone of his age and angular build. He didn’t need help from Tybour or Rishmond, though both instinctively half-reached toward him.

“We’ll be here just a minute or two,” he continued, brushing imaginary dust from his robe, “before continuing on to the Shrine level at the bottom of the mine—well, what used to be the bottom.”

He gave a small wink, clearly referencing the deeper floor Torg had mentioned earlier.

All around them, people stood or shifted quietly, preparing for the stop. The ambient light remained steady, but the whispering in Rishmond’s mind pulsed—quieter now, but steady, waiting.

The elevator creaked slightly as it slowed further, the sensation of descent ebbing until it became a gentle sway.

Somewhere above them, the vast chains adjusted with deep, echoing groans.

They were arriving.

Rishmond stood and offered a hand to Illiar and Cantor. They each took one of his, and he helped pull them to their feet. Both flashed him brilliant smiles before slipping away toward Rosa, their heads quickly bending together in quiet conversation. Rishmond smiled after them, admiring the way they moved.

The whispers seemed to notice—sensing the rise in his mood, they surged forward in his mind, no longer comforting but urgent again, swirling like wind through a broken window.

The elevator shifted.

The shift in motion was subtle, but unmistakable. The hum beneath their feet changed pitch, and a slight upward pressure signaled their descent was easing to a stop. Somewhere above, massive chains groaned. Then, with a soft click and whir, the gates began to open.

The mid-level.

Smaller than the upper cavern, this chamber was fully enclosed—no open chasm here. The walls, floor, and ceiling were the same dark gray stone, broken in places by the jagged glow of exposed glittergreen. The crystal shimmered in every direction, embedded like ancient veins in a giant's bones.

Four thick metal posts stood at the corners of the elevator, each wrapped in massive chain. Smaller chains stretched between them, creating a complex web of divine engineering. Rishmond's eyes followed them instinctively, fascinated. He would have to ask Torg how it all worked—he needed something to occupy his thoughts, to block the whispers and flickering shadows that haunted his vision.

And then one of those shadows coalesced.

Suddenly—clearly—a vision crystallized before his eyes: impossibly tall humans, ten… twelve feet high, their hands gripping the very posts that supported the elevator shaft. Beside them worked more normal-sized figures, laborers placing supports, adjusting the great chains. A shining man with hair like sunlight stood to one side, issuing commands, and next to him—goddesslike—a woman with golden feathered wings cradled a massive tablet against her hip, her eyes glowing as she watched.

The whispers swirled faster, louder, as if Rishmond stood in the eye of their storm.

And then—gone.

Rishmond blinked and looked around. No one else reacted. Tybour stood calmly across the platform. Illiar beside him, untroubled.

“Did you see that?” Rishmond asked her quietly.

“See what?” Illiar turned to him, eyes narrowing slightly. Her gaze locked onto his, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. She studied him—really studied him—and something shifted in her expression. Concern.

“Are you okay, Rishmond? What did you see?”

Her voice was soft, low, and her hands rose to rest on his shoulders.

“I saw… I thought I saw… It’s nothing,” he said quickly, trying to force confidence into his voice. “Just shadows. Just visions. I let myself get caught up.”

He tried to smile.

But Illiar didn’t look away. Her green eyes bored into his, steady and unreadable. The whole world seemed to go quiet, her scent strong in his nose—flowers and earth, warmth and something wilder. His hands moved instinctively, resting lightly at her waist.

He didn’t know how long they stood like that. Time bent strangely in the half-light. The rest of the world faded.

Then—CLANG! The jarring crash of chain against steel broke the spell.

Rishmond stepped back, blinking rapidly. His hands dropped. He looked away, face burning.

Illiar looked away too, brushing her hair behind one ear with a hand that trembled just slightly.

Across the platform, Tybour watched him. His smile was amused, knowing. He nodded once, the gesture half-approval, half-tease.

Rishmond looked away again, only to find Cantor standing beside him. Her expression was unreadable—too neutral to interpret. Embarrassment surged again.

“Yes… well. I’m fine,” he said, too fast. “Thank you. It was nothing. Are you—do you need anything?”

The moment felt heavy and clumsy. He knew he sounded ridiculous.

“I’ll go see if Torg needs me,” he muttered, and turned away.

He crossed the few steps to where Torg stood by the tablet, deep in discussion with the Altemen operator. Rishmond stopped beside him and stared at the glowing surface of the device, pretending to follow the explanation, though nothing registered.

The whispers still moved at the edge of his hearing—excited, insistent—but distant now, like wind behind a closed door.

His heart was still pounding far too fast.

The elevator resumed its descent, slipping once more into its smooth, steady rhythm.

Rishmond barely noticed.

The motion, the flickering light from the glittergreen, the soft mechanical hum—it all faded into the background. Time seemed to blur, lost to the tangle of thoughts in his head.

Illiar. Cantor.

His mind spun with images of them both. The way they moved. The way they smiled. The way their hands felt in his.

He cared for them, of course—both of them. But his feelings toward Illiar had shifted in a way he hadn’t expected.

Before the expedition, she’d mostly been an irritant—assigned to him more like a minder than a companion. Someone responsible for keeping him in line, not someone he’d have chosen to be close to. He’d noticed her beauty, of course—her poise, the grace of how she carried herself—but that had always existed alongside a litany of frustrations: bossy, sharp-tongued, a know-it-all who rarely let him forget when he was wrong.

And, to be fair, she was usually right—especially when it came to things he didn’t want to hear.

But during this expedition—without distractions to get lost in, without mischief to pull or rules to test—he’d seen something different in her. Or maybe he’d finally taken the time to look.

Smart, strong, steady. Unshakable when things were at their worst. The kind of person who didn’t panic when others did. The kind of person who kept walking forward even when ghosts whispered in the dark.

He’d always known those things about her, in theory.

But now… now he felt them.

And he wasn’t sure what to do with that.

And then there was Cantor.

She’d always been his friend. His true friend—the one who laughed with him, snuck out with him, dared the forbidden with him. She’d instigated as much mischief as he ever had—maybe more. When their little band of friends wanted to do something no adult would approve of, it was Cantor they turned to. She had the spark, the guts, the grin that said just try to stop me.

He’d never really noticed she was a girl. Not like that. She was just Cantor. Reliable, loud, reckless, warm. She was the leader of their chaos, the anchor of their laughter.

But somewhere along the way… something had shifted.

Now, when he looked at her, he saw the curve of her jaw. The light behind her eyes. The way she moved—confident, fluid, magnetic. Not just a friend anymore. Not just the clever ringleader. A woman.

When had that changed?

And how had he changed—so much, so fast—that he could feel this way about both of them?

Was this what it meant to grow up? To have your heart split in half by two truths you couldn’t deny?

He thought of Halmond and Beritrude. They didn’t seem to have this kind of trouble. They had each other, and that was that. Steady, certain. Like gravity.

What would they say about this tangle inside him?

Would Halmond laugh? Would Beritrude take his face in her hands and just know, the way she always seemed to?

He didn’t know.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Tybour’s arm landed across Rishmond’s shoulders with a soft thud, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“Hey,” Tybour said, leaning in a little. “How’re you doing? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Rishmond turned, expecting a crooked grin or the usual teasing glint in Tybour’s eye. But what he saw instead stopped him short.

Concern. Real, honest concern.

Tybour’s sharp blue eyes held no mockery—just quiet understanding.

“Kind of,” Rishmond said, his voice low. “When we stopped at the mid-level… I saw something.”

He hesitated. No one else had seemed to notice the vision. Would Tybour think he was losing his grip? Or just too deep in the mine?

But if anyone might have seen it—if anyone would believe him—it was Tybour.

“The visions sharpened,” Rishmond continued. “They weren’t just shapes or shadows. I could see faces. People. Huge people, like Apharallies. Others building something. A man and woman watching them… the woman had golden wings and held a tablet.”

He searched Tybour’s eyes for reaction.

Tybour didn’t flinch. He turned, facing Rishmond fully, both hands on his shoulders.

“Go on,” he said simply.

So Rishmond did.

He described it all—the construction, the scale, the shining man and the winged woman, the swirl of whispers surrounding them.

When he finished, Tybour was silent.

The seconds stretched.

Then he nodded slowly. “Interesting,” he said at last. “I didn’t see anything like that. Actually… the visions and whispers got quieter for me just before we stopped. That lines up with something VanLief and I were talking about earlier.”

Tybour’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“It’s like whatever’s causing this—whatever’s down here—has decided you are the one to focus on. Maybe it started with your vision of Denisisie. Maybe it started before that. But since then? It’s been circling you.”

Rishmond blinked, feeling the weight of that settle on him.

“I told you before you were important,” Tybour said, his voice softer now. “I just didn’t know how or why. But it looks like this is it. This is the reason everything lined up to bring you on this expedition.”

He clapped Rishmond on the back, his usual grin returning—but this time, there was something prouder behind it.

“Right then!” he said. “Let’s go ask VanLief and Elder Geriswald what your vision of the Apharallies and the Gods building the elevator could mean.”

The pair walked the short distance to where Elder Geriswald and VanLief Aericksen stood in conversation with Ueet and Haningway. Tybour did most of the talking, recounting the vision Rishmond had experienced at the mid-level.

Rishmond was quietly grateful for the distraction. Elder Geriswald and VanLief began asking questions—sharp, scholarly ones—and he focused on answering as clearly as he could.

Still, he couldn’t help but notice Rosa approaching—and with her, both Cantor and Illiar.

They walked arm in arm.

Rishmond’s heart stumbled.

What does that mean? Were they united against him now? Were they upset? Had he done something wrong? He couldn't even look at them. He kept his gaze on the Elder, trying to will the heat out of his cheeks.

Elder Geriswald’s voice was calm and thoughtful.

“The ancient records do mention that the building of the elevator required the labor of many,” he said. “Most notably, the Apharallies—a race of giants. Their size and strength were invaluable for the supports and mechanisms.”

Cantor’s voice broke in, full of wonder. “So giants are real? The Apharallies really existed? Where are they now? What happened to them?”

“Yes, they existed,” VanLief answered before Geriswald could. “Whether they still do… that’s unclear. As far as I know, the last credible sighting was well over a hundred turns ago.”

He paused, then his voice shifted, more storyteller than scholar.

“But as the legends tell it, we owe them everything. After the Blessing—when the Demon Lands were sealed off from the Blessed Lands—the worst of the destruction wasn’t the storms or quakes. It was the invasion. Demons sent devils and spawn-creatures by the hundreds, pouring into our lands to exterminate mortals while we were still reeling.”

He glanced around, his eyes serious now.

“And it was the Apharallies who stood against them. Towering warriors—ten, twelve feet tall. Stronger than any mortal. They held the lines until the rest of us could recover. Without them, there may not have been a world left to protect.”

“The stories say they didn’t survive it unscathed,” Elder Geriswald added quietly. “Their numbers were broken. Perhaps to the point of extinction.”

“No one’s seen them in two centuries,” VanLief said. “But remember this: no mortal has ever slain a true Demon—none but the Apharallies. They are the only known mortals who could kill one.”

At that moment, the whispers in Rishmond’s mind shifted again.

Not louder—clearer. Sharper. Focused.

The elevator began to slow.

The soft grind of descending chain shifted in tone, and the floor beneath them subtly eased its motion.

Around him, others turned their heads, sensing it too—the nearing of something sacred.

Something old.

Elder Geriswald's voice rose gently over the hush.

“Gather your things,” he said. “We are arriving at the Shrine level.”

The elevator gate hissed and clanked open, and Elder Geriswald stepped forward to lead the group out.

They emerged into a small cavern—just large enough to fit the elevator platform and allow the gates to swing wide. Everyone had to crowd to one side of the elevator before the far gate could be closed, then shift again, funneling single-file into a narrow tunnel carved directly into the rock.

The space felt different than the levels above—denser. Tighter.

Gone was the vast chasm they’d seen earlier. Here, there was no sense of depth, no dramatic descent—just dark, enclosing stone, broken only by flickering veins of glittergreen crystal glowing faintly from the walls, ceiling, even the uneven floor. Their soft green shimmer reminded Rishmond of stars at dusk.

A few of the bulbous lights Torg had rekindled earlier glowed dimly here, casting only the faintest yellow-white radiance. It wasn’t enough to banish the darkness—only to shape it. Long shadows stretched between the glints of crystal light, and the green glow felt somehow deeper, more alive.

Around him, the others moved cautiously, whispering quietly, their faces tinged with awe or apprehension. But Rishmond noticed something else—something troubling.

Tybour, walking just ahead of him, turned slightly and said, “The whispers are almost gone now. Strange. It’s like they’ve just… stopped.”

Illiar, further ahead, nodded in agreement. “The shadows too. I barely see anything now. It’s quiet. Still.”

Rishmond said nothing.

Because for him, it was the opposite.

The whispers had not faded. They had sharpened. Urged. They pressed in closer, more insistent than ever, winding through his thoughts like invisible vines tightening with purpose. The flickering shapes that had haunted them on the way down? For the others, they were dissolving into nothing.

But for Rishmond, they were crystalizing. Edging toward coherence.

They wanted him to move forward—not in fear, but in anticipation. Like something was waiting. Calling.

He swallowed and stepped forward with the others.

But he couldn’t shake the sense that while they were all entering the Shrine…

…it was him the Shrine had truly been waiting for.

Elder Geriswald raised a hand, halting the group just before a dark, arched entrance carved into the rock ahead.

“We are about to enter the antechamber to the Shrine,” he said, his voice calm but carrying with purpose. “It is a sacred place within the mines—a place of stillness and preparation.”

The group stood quietly, the green glow of the glittergreen behind them casting faint shadows along the stone corridor.

“In the antechamber,” Geriswald continued, “we will wash. We will rest. And we will ready ourselves for the Shrine itself.”

He paused, letting his words settle.

“This place… is different. It is cut off from the magic of Rit. One of the only places on this world where magic is almost entirely absent. The walls and doors were blessed by the Gods and covered with a sacred substance that resists the flow of magic.”

He let that sink in, then took a step forward.

“Inside, there is almost no lotret. No lotrar. No flow. No echo. You will feel the difference the moment the doors close behind us.”

His eyes moved across the group, catching each gaze in turn, even in the dim light. Rishmond felt the weight of his attention settle on him a moment longer than the others.

“It may be… disquieting,” Geriswald admitted. “Some of you may find it difficult. That sudden loss of connection—to Rit, to the deep hum of magic in your blood—can feel like losing part of yourself.”

“But,” he continued, voice gentler now, “this separation will also shield you. For those of you who hear the glittergreen's whispers, who see the echoes of deep magic—it will bring silence. It will bring peace. It is how we prepare for the Shrine. How we earn the clarity we seek there.”

He looked back at the arched entrance. The darkness beyond seemed heavier than shadow—like a place where things waited without breath or sound.

“We will sleep there tonight,” he said. “And in the morning… we will enter the Shrine.”

“I have never been to the Resting Room,” Torg said suddenly, his voice crisp and clear beside Rishmond’s ear.

Rishmond startled—he hadn’t even noticed the golem approach. Torg had moved up silently, his glowing eyes fixed on the dark arch ahead.

“I have wanted to see it ever since my mistress told me about it,” the golem continued, his tone calm but almost... eager. “I am told the entire room is covered in kreleit. That should be most interesting to observe.”

The silence that had followed Elder Geriswald’s solemn speech shattered.

A chorus of shocked gasps rippled through the group.

“Kreleit?” Gregor Tranto blurted, his voice cracking. “That can’t be! “Touching kreleit means instant death! It doesn’t just kill—it steels your jzirittiah. Your life-force. It rips you away from Rit itself!”

Other voices joined in—fear rising fast.

“No one survives that!”

“Even Demons can’t endure it!”

“They banned it centuries ago!”

Rishmond’s heartbeat surged. Even he had heard the stories—how kreleit didn’t just kill, it stripped you of everything that made you part of Rit. It devoured the connection to magic inside you—your jzirittriah, body and soul.

It was said to erase people. Not kill them. Erase them.

A weapon so feared it was banned in every land, even in the Demon Realms. Possession meant execution. Usually without trial.

“Everyone!” Tybour’s voice rang out, just loud enough to break the rising tide of panic. “Calm yourselves.”

The group stilled—uneasily.

“I won’t pretend I wasn’t afraid the first time I came here,” Tybour said. “I’d heard the same stories. But I have personally stood inside the antechamber. I have touched its walls. As have many before me.”

He looked around, meeting the eyes of those closest to him.

“I don’t know how it was done—whether it was blessed, altered, or built with a different kind of kreleit. But the fact is simple: the room does not harm us.”

He turned to Torg, then back to the group.

“Why would the Gods create a sanctuary that kills everyone who enters? That’s not what this is. This is a place of stillness. Of clarity. Yes—it is cut off from magic. But it will not kill you. It will challenge you.”

His voice softened slightly.

“And maybe that’s the point.”

“If I might, Wizard Tybour?” Torg’s voice rose calmly from beside them.

Tybour nodded, stepping back slightly to give the golem space.

“I cannot explain the full process,” Torg said, “but I can tell you this: the metal you call kreleit had many uses among the Gods. Only one of those uses involved the extraction of jzirittiah—the life-force—from a living being. That application was not even of divine origin. It was developed later... by a Demon.”

A murmur passed through the group.

Torg continued without pause.

“The true purpose of kreleit, for the Gods, was as a shield—not a weapon. When properly formed and treated, it resists magic. It does not consume it. It creates stillness, a silence from the currents of lotret and lotrar. In the mines, the Gods shaped it into materials that would shelter mortals, not destroy them.”

His eyes glowed brighter for a moment as he looked toward the darkened passage ahead.

“The Resting Room was created so that those who aided the Gods in their work would have a space to recover. The magic in this place—its density, its intensity—can slowly wear down the minds of mortals. Without respite, many would have lost their sanity.”

There was a long pause.

“Thank you, Torg,” Tybour said at last.

“Yes,” added Elder Geriswald, smiling kindly at the golem, his expression soft and warm. “Thank you, Torg.”

He turned to the group and raised his staff slightly.

“I will go first,” he said. “And I will gladly demonstrate that touching the walls and doors of the antechamber is as safe as laying your head in your mother’s home.”

With that, he turned and slithered smoothly into the shadowed passage, the light of his staff bobbing as he vanished into the dark.

At the end of the short, dark hall, they came to a large black door.

Its surface drank the light. What little illumination reached it from behind was swallowed whole—the door didn’t shine, didn’t reflect. It absorbed.

Elder Geriswald slithered forward and placed both hands on the left half of the door. It swung silently on a center axis, pivoting open like a secret, and the group moved through.

One by one, they crossed the threshold—most unconsciously hugging the opposite side, careful not to brush the black sill or the door itself. Rishmond realized he was doing the same.

The room beyond was vast and dim.

The ceiling and walls were made of the same strange black metal. Lanterns hung from hooks along the walls, their gentle golden glow spilling through frosted glass—yet none of it reflected. The light existed, but it didn’t touch the room.

On the far side stood a door identical to the one they had just passed through. And in between—silence.

As Rishmond stepped inside, a wave of dizziness hit him. Not nausea—something deeper. He felt… unmoored. As if some invisible support he’d leaned on all his life had been pulled away, and now he wobbled with every breath.

His connection to Rit was gone.

The jzirittiah—his link to lotret and lotrar—had gone silent.

The room felt low and tight, like a closed box. The ceiling hovered only seven feet above the black floor, and Rishmond found himself hunching slightly, instinctively, as though afraid to strike his head.

Everything was dark. The walls. The ceiling. The floor. The long wooden pallets arranged in four tidy rows. Even the sleeping rolls, dark blue or black—it was hard to tell. The only real color came from the stark white pillows, small patches of brightness that looked almost surreal in contrast.

Each pallet had a wooden storage box at its foot, painted black like the rest. The lanterns themselves were black metal cubes, their golden windows glowing faintly like stars seen through distant fog.

No one spoke loudly. Whispers passed now and then, but most of the group moved in silence, subdued by the strange pressure in the air. Even Torg—always bright, always curious—stood near the far wall, uncharacteristically still.

But to Rishmond, the little golem was the only light that mattered.

Torg’s crystal body pulsed with soft color, magic swirling gently within him like light behind stained glass. His glow didn’t reflect on the kreleit, didn’t cast shadows—but it was there. A quiet defiance against the silence of the room.

Rishmond stared at him, and the pressure on his chest eased slightly.

As if sensing his gaze—or maybe something deeper—Torg turned and walked back toward him. He stopped at Rishmond’s side, and the heaviness that had settled in Rishmond’s limbs lifted just enough to breathe freely again.

Cantor and Illiar moved close, flanking him without a word. Their shoulders touched his, and when Torg arrived, they relaxed too—subtly, but unmistakably. Rishmond could feel it in their breathing. In the way Illiar’s shoulder no longer trembled slightly against his.

And though he hadn’t even noticed it at first, one thing was suddenly, blessedly clear.

The whispers were gone.

The visions, too.

Here, inside the Resting Room, there was only stillness.

"You'll feel better in a few minutes, not great, but you'll get used to it." Tybour spoke from just behind Rishmond. "Hmm, stick close to Torg. Apparently the Gods granted him a bit of his own magic source, like a bucket of water carried into to the Quouriobi desert. That will make our stay in here a bit easier. I've never liked this room." He said the last bit to no one.

A distinct click came from the door through which they'd entered the room. Rishmond reached out tentatively with his mind, looking for lotret, the free magic that existed nearly everywhere on Rit. He couldn't find any, not a single spec of it in the entire room. Reaching out for lotrar was a different experience, he could feel a muted source, like the muted whisper of someone in the next room, coming from Torg as well as a far away sound like the whispering wind or the sound of distant waves against a soft sand beach. The feeling of being so far from something he'd always taken for granted as just a part of life, a constant like the air he breathed. He looked to Illiar and Cantor, both their faces were sallow and drawn. He quickly led them to the nearest sleeping pallets and they all sat together. Torg joined and stood before the three of them, stoic and still. Rishmond took one hand of each of the women next to him and placed them on Torg's shoulders.

Long moments passed before all three young people shook themselves from their reverie and looked about the room. "Thank you, Torg," said Cantor, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper. "And you Rishmond. I'm better now. Illiar? Rishmond? Everyone OK?"

"I'm fine," answered Rishmond. "You? Illiar?"

"Not fine," responded Illiar. "Not fine. This is not okay." The edgy sarcasm told Rishmond she was indeed fine, fighting back against the feeling of being cut off from magic almost completely.

Tybour and Rosa sat across from them, behind Torg. "It takes some getting used to, that's for certain," said Tybour. "Take a look around. The room never affects the Altemen. I don't know how they do it. And Ueet, of course." He said the bit about Ueet quietly. Ueet knew he was magicless, but polite people didn't bring that up or talk about it, especially not to those so afflicted. 

Indeed, they looked around and the Altemen moved about the edges of the room, unaffected by the feeling the others in the room were having. Rishmond spotted both VanLeif and Gregor sitting cross legged on sleeping palets, eyes closed, in seeming meditation. Haningway stood near the second door, arms crossed, face set in a stern expression, Bantor stood in much the same pose on the other side of the door, his eyes closed, ears twisted to different angles, listening.

Rishmond suddenly became aware of the sound of running water. Looking about he located its source. More than half of one side wall of the room had water running down it, a solid flow that coated almost the entire wall in water flowing from the ceiling to the floor. Curiosity overcame him and he stood, facing that wall. Along the base of that wall was a shallow, narrow trench into which the water flowed. A sort of very low wooden bench ran along the length of the trench, dark gray cushions topped the bench. He watched as Ueet crossed to the water wall and knelt upon the low bench. He leaned forward and scooped two handfuls of water from the trench and splashed his face carefully. One of the Altemen attendees slithered up to him and handed him a small gray towel.

"We should all prepare now." Elder Geriswald spoke from the end of the sleeping pallet Rishmond sat on with Cantor and Illiar. "We should each cleanse the dust and dirt from our travels from ourselves and with it our worldly concerns and impurities. It is the ritual before we sleep. Then we will change into clean robes to sleep. In the morning we will enter the shrine dressed only in clean, fresh robes." He gestured to a corner of the room where a gray curtain hung from the ceiling to the floor creating a small area cut off from the rest of the room. "A changing area has been setup for those who may want a bit more privacy to change."

Rishmond noted that Elder Geriswald had replaced the clothes he'd been wearing with a soft grey robe with long roomy sleeves. Two Altemen slithered up and held out gray bundles of cloth to each of them. They all took the proffered bundles.

"Come ladies, let's get changed," said Rosa, "This area seems like a great place to bed down for the night, so you can remove your weapons and things and leave them here with your packs. The floor is actually warm, so you can remove your boots if you like, slippers are provided and you will have to leave your boots here when we go into the shrine." Rosa proceeded to remove her boots, she'd already removed her armor and weapon belt. She stood and moved to the next row of beds just across the narrow walkway at the head of the pallets they were sat upon. She deposited her boots in the storage box at a pallet there. "You men get to change out here in front of each other." She pushed Tybour over with one bare foot, smiling broadly at him.

Illiar and Cantor both slipped off their boots and socks, both of them lowering their feet to the floor carefully and slowly. Rishmond couldn't tell if their careful action was in anticipation of the metal floor being cold, or it being made of kreleit. Rosa standing there on the floor in her bare feet encouraged them and they both touched the floor at the same time. The look of surprise on both of their faces made Rishmond laugh, which he regretted immediately as both women shot him angry looks. 

"No no! I wasn't laughing at you! I mean, yes, but it was the look, both of you.. the same look... at the same time. Its' just that you're both so beautiful! And that look! At the same time!..." Rishmond trailed off realising he was not making it better. "Sorry." 

He removed his boots and socks quickly under their disapproving gazes, practically slamming his bare feet upon the floor. It was warm! And oddly soft feeling. He looked down quickly to make sure a towel or something wasn't under his feet. He heard the scoff from both women before he realized that the surprise showed clearly on his face. He began to protest but stopped himself as the three women turned and began to make their way across the room to the curtained off changing area in the corner.

Rishmond stood and turned to face Tybour, "What did I do?"

Tybour just smiled a wry smile the same way he always did when Rishmond did something wrong that he should have known better than to do. Tybour shook his head and began to disrobe.

Rishmond glanced around the room self-consciously. He couldn't just remove his clothes here in front of everyone. It wasn't that he was shy, but the birthmark on his back would mark him instantly. He knew the people here weren't as strict or paranoid about birthmarks as those back in The Arrangement, but he had been careful for years. Not even Beritrude and Halmond knew of the wing-like marks across his back. Toby knew. His mind flew back to his best friend, his brother in all but blood. He hoped he was doing well. He knew Berti and Halmond were taking the best care of him. 

Tybour had already stripped to his linen underpants and true to his slightly narcissistic tendencies, he stood there flexing a bit, looking down at his oddly hairless chest. Rishmond couldn't help but admire his form. He was muscular but slim. Rishmond wondered if he used some magic to keep himself so smoothly hairless. 

Tybour raised one eyebrow and caught Rishmond's eyes. Rishmond realised he'd been staring for longer than he rightly should have. Damn it. How could that man make him feel embarrassed for no reason. He averted his gaze quickly, his eyes falling on the back end of Haningway at the pallet behind Tybour, bending over to pick up his socks. That was a vision Rishmond did not need, Haningway was not hairless, not by a long shot. 

Rishmond spun on his heel as he pulled his tunic over his head. He'd just have to leave his undershirt on, it was made of good quality cotton and it was thick and heavy, it would conceal his very large birthmark. The tunic cleared his head and the room around him was revealed. Several Altemen were in various states of undress, all of them muscular and well built. Movement drew his attention to a singular form standing about halfway across the room. It took a moment for his brain to register what he was looking at. Shoulder-length brown hair, olive skin,  and naked female breasts. Rishmond froze in place, unable to take his eyes from the Wizard Semmolee Turnsol. She was a beautiful woman and Rishmond couldn't tear his eyes from her nearly naked body. She dropped her shirt to the sleeping pallet next to her and turned to retrieve the gray robe folded neatly there. Rishmond noted she wore the white cotton shorts that almost every soldier he'd ever known wore, square cut with legs that reached down to mid-thigh. He couldn't swallow or move. When did she join the group? She wasn't with them on the elevator was she? Why was she not behind the curtain with Rosa, Cantor, and Illiar?

The sudden thought of Cantor and Illiar brought him to his senses and he tore his eyes from her. He spun back around toward Tybour. He was there grinning like and idiot. He'd seen Semmolee and he'd seen Rishmond see her. Rishmond's panicked gaze swung about the room. Haningway smiled back at him, it was clear he'd also observed Rishmond staring at Semmolee for entirely too long. Ueet, Bantore, it was obvious they'd both noticed as well. Rishmond had nowhere to turn.

Heat rose in his face, he knew he was turning bright red. It was one thing for Tybour to know, he'd certainly tease him about this for days, but for everyone else to know as well.. he'd be catching hell for this. There was no way Illiar and Cantor wouldn't find out. And Rosa too. He wouldn't be able to talk to any of them without turning red for days! Why did Semmolee change out here? Why'd he have to stare so very long? The image of her bare breasts popped back into his head in vivid detail and he felt his heartbeat quicken and the heat in his face intensify.

Rishmond pulled the gray robe on over his head, hiding his embarrassment at least for a moment. He concentrated on the feel of the rough material, not scratchy really, but rougher than the soft cotton and wool he was used to. When he looked back around and only Tybour was still looking in his direction.

"Hey. It's all good Rishmond," said Tybour quietly, stepping nearer. "No one will say anything." Tybour's head bent nearer. "Well, not around anyone but us guys...." Tybour wrapped an arm around Rishmond's shoulders, turning to look in Haningway and Ueet's direction. "Not everyone," Tybour said loud enough to be heard across the room,"is comfortable showing such ribs that stick out of a skinny chest like that!"

"LIke a badly shaved thwippit!" guffawed Haningway, slapping Bantore on the shoulder. The big foxman didn't even budge but he smiled and a low growl escaped his lips. 

For a moment Rishmond was confused. "We'll cover for you," whispered Tybour, "but expect to catch hell when we are alone. Also, perhaps don't be caught alone with Bantore for a couple of days."

"In the tribes of Uhl," said Ueet, his voice as droll as ever, "we have a musical instrument made of wooden sticks that your chest and ribs remind me very much of. It is not the most pleasant sounding instrument."

All of the men that seemed in on Rishmond's predicament looked at Ueet with odd looks. 

"Its name in Qoitiken means breasts of death and it is most often played at funerals.

All of the men now surrounding Rishmond broke into raucous laughter, even Bantor guffawed. 

Moments later they were joined by Rosa, Illiar, and Cantor. "What's so funny?" asked Cantor as they placed their things in the storage boxes at the ends of the sleeping pallets.

"Just Ueet being Ueet," said Tybour. "He was telling us ribald stories all about how he lost his virginity to a very old ulbanto herder woman when he was just but a boy of 22 turns."

"I only told that story in response to Tybour's story about his first time with a 22 turns old wash rag just last year." Ueet's almost monotone voice made his statement even funnier to the men gathered around. 

"Yes, well, boys always talk about their greatest sexual conquests around other boys. Something for you to know ladies. And it is guaranteed the stories are much enhanced to make the boys in them seem better than they are." Rosa's voice was disapproving. All three women shared exasperated looks. 

"Fold your clothes and put them in the storage boxes, don't expect we will be doing that for you," said Illiar, reminding Rishmond of the days when she looked after Toby and himself. He'd thought her bossy and impossible back then. It seemed so long ago now even though it was just last turn.

Each man turned and did as they'd been told.

Everyone in the room gathered at Elder Geriswald's direction and knelt at the edge of the trough where the water flowed down the wall and was carried away. They washed their hands, arms and faces. The water was pure and cold and Rishmond felt much better after.

"Make your way to your pallets and sleep now. We'll rise early and enter the shrine tomorrow. The experience cannot be explained but it will be intense. The concentration of magic in the shrine is quite great, it is the greatest we know of on Rit, it can be overwhelming if you aren't prepared. Even if you are prepared it can be more than some can handle, more than one person has had to be carried from the shrine after passing out. The magic is not dangerous so much as just intense. I must caution you against attempting any magic use while in the shrine." Elder Geriswald addressed the group of non-Altemen. "We will hope the God's are in a listening mood. Perhaps we will again talk with them now." He turned to Torg. "Perhaps we have found what we have long searched and hoped for."

Rishmond slept better and deeper that night than he had since the expedition left Retinor. His eyes opened on a darkened room, most of the lanterns had been extinguished once they's all gotten to their sleeping pallets. Illiar and Cantor had taken the pallets to either side of his, Rosa and Tybour had taken the two on the far side of Cantor. Much to Rishmond's consternation, Bantore had taken the pallet just across the narrow aisle at the head of his own pallet, the large storage box between them was the only saving grace to that arrangement. Rishmond was unsure why that should make him so nervous, it wasn't as if he'd been trying to share a bed with Illiar, or anyone else for that matter, but the incident with Semmolee had changed the big foxman's attitude toward Rishmond, or at least that is how it seemed to him. Like the big man was angry and watching Rishmond's every move.

Rishmond sat up. He appeared to be the first in the room to do so, except for the two Altemen stationed at each door on either side of the room. Each stood in a small pool of light from lanterns hung above the doors. The two men were not the same as those standing guard last night. Once again Rishmond wondered at the need for guards on the doors, did they expect wild kathtwips to try and sneak into the room? 

Torg stood at the foot of his pallet next to the storage box. It was odd to see the magic inside of him as so much light and yet none of that light be shed on anything in the room. Sometime Rishmond wondered exactly what others saw. He knew others could feel the magic coming from the little crystal golem, but did others just see a dark rocky form? That seemed oddly sad to him, that they couldn't see the beauty of his magical light.

"Rishmond?" Cantor sat up and said his name sleepily. 

"Morning, Cantor." He spoke quietly, not wanting to disturb the quiet of the room. Only the sound of water and quiet breathing of those still sleeping around them.

"Are you... ready for this today?" Cantor's voice was quiet and held a tenseness. Rishmond thought perhaps she was worried about what they'd experience in the shrine. 

"It's gonna be fine. Tybour's been through this before. If there was anything to be concerned about, he'd of told us. Rosa's been there too and she's not worried." Rishmond leaned over and reached for Cantor's hand, their fingers closing over each others. "Whatever it is, I know you can handle it. You've always been tough, and you know I will be there for you."

"I wasn't worried for me, Rishmond. I think Tybour, and everyone else... they expect a lot from you. I know you can do whatever is needed, but it's a lot to expect from you and I worry that it might... well... bother you?" She said the last bit as a question.

Rishmond considered for a moment. He hadn't thought anything about anyone expecting anything from him. Perhaps they did. He was just here because Torg needed to be here, right? Of course. And even if they did expect something from him it couldn't be all that much. He was just a kid, old enough to be considered an adult he guessed, but not important and not someone anyone expected great things from. Sure, they expected him to do what he had to, but if any greatness needed to be done there were plenty of others that would fill those roles. Tybour would be the one who had to do anything great. He was the First Mage of Maliminar and he'd be the first one to tell you that he was the one to save the world or do great things. And he was right, Tybour was the great one. Rishmond was just along for the ride, happy to contribute and support.

"Alright everyone!" Tybour's voice boomed across the room. "Time to get up! Let's get going!"

Quiet breathing quickly turned to the sounds of people rising from their pallets and preparing to leave. In a matter of minutes the entire group had gathered near the shrine door. "We will return here for breakfast after we have completed our visit to the shrine. Its not recommended to enter the shrine with a full belly."

The door was pushed open, rotating on its center axis like the door they'd entered through. The feel of magic returned suddenly and with shocking intensity. Rishmond felt as if all of his senses were on overload, so much so he couldn't differentiate between smell and sound or sight and feeling, everything was jumbled together. It was unlike anything he'd every experienced in his life.  He thought he could feel Cantor's and Illiar's hands in his, they'd joined hands before the door was opened but even that was not certain in his mind. 

Tybour's voice drifted into focus through the noise, "Close your eyes, it helps. Concentrate on one sound, the sound of my voice, try to push everything else to the back of your mind. Breathe through your nose, slowly, deeply, calm your body. The shock will lessen and pass. Let it roll over you, don't get caught up in the noise." 

Rishmond concentrated on Tybour's voice. He let everything else slide around him, careful to not pay attention to any of it. He could feel Cantor's hand in his, gripping him tightly. Illiar's hand was in his other hand, warm and strong, gipping tightly as well. The cacophony began to lessen, his eyes were still shut tight. Did it mean anything that he felt Cantor's hand first? The stray thought was unbidden and it struck Rishmond as quite an odd thought to have at this time.

"Rishmond?" Illiar's voice was close to his ear and she sounded worried. "Rishmond, are you ok?"

He opened his eyes. Green light poured through the now completely open door to the shrine. People were passing through the doorway. He was still standing, that surprised him. Tybour stood just in front of him, Cantor and Illiar still held his hands and both women looked at him with concern.

"I'm... I'm good now." His voice sounded odd in his own ears, like it came through a tunnel. The assault on his senses had reduced to a dull roar in the background now and even that was growing quieter by the second. It dawned on Rishmond that what was on the other side of that door was something amazing and not to be missed. His curiosity pushed his anxiety and fear away and his eyes widened and his heart quickened.

"I'm good. Let's go! I can't wait to see what's on the other side!"

They made their way to the door and through it.

The green light of glowing glittergreen illuminated the entire cavern. The yellow-white glow of the God lights was completely drowned out by the green of the glittergreen. Even the floor had large chunks of the green crystal in it, cut and smoothed to walk upon. The floor stretched smooth and even several yards to the edge of the chasm. A mist hung there in the chasm, painted green by the glow of the crystal, it moved and billowed like a living, breathing thing. A constant breeze blew lightly but persistently across the floor toward the chasm and down over the edge. Rishmond noted the two metal ladders descending from the ceiling to the floor's edge at the chasm, the old method of access to the various floors of the mine.

Across the open chasm glittergreen glowed in the shear wall, much of it obscured by the waterfall spilling down the far side into the chasm below, the apparent source of the mist capping the open gap. The waterfall itself seemed to glow green from the crystal behind and near it. The sight was awe inspiring, a glowing green curtain falling to the depths below.

The whispers returned as Rishmond took in the awesome sight of the shrine. "Accept your purpose. Help us. Bring back order." The words floated in and out of Rishmond's mind. 

Rishmond wanted to ask Tybour about the words whispered in his head but the First Mage had already moved across the open floor to a number of low, backless benches set before a promnitory that jutted out a few feet over the chasm, a bright dias sat at the end of the rock outcropping some three or four feet higher than the floor. The billowing green-lit mist ebbed and flowed around the disk making it look as if it sometimes floated above the mist, disconnected from the chamber. Three wide, shallow steps led up to the four foot wide circle. Gold and white statues stood to either side of the walkway to the dias, a female form on the left and a male form on the right, each stood about five feet in height. The whole place definitely fit Rishmond's definition of a shrine, the statues must be of two of the Gods but Rishmond was not sure which.

The few Altemen priests and guards that had accompanied them had already taken their places around the shrine. Elder Geriswald stood just to one side of the start of the promnitory, just beyond the front most benches. One of the Altemen led Rishmond, Cantor, Illiar, and Torg down the middle aisle between the benches right up to the front. Rishmond turned to sit but was ushered forward by the Altemen to stand next to Elder Geriswald. Rishmond watched as everyone else seated themselves on the stone benches. He was acutely aware of all eyes on him. Torg moved forward of his own accord proceeding up the promnitory all the way to the first step up to the dias.

Elder Geriswald turned toward the dias and gestured for Rishmond to do the same.

As if on cue, the waterfall rippled and the light changed. Rishmond watched, fascinated as a shape appeared in the waterfall, slowly resolving itself into a form Rishmond recognised. The vision in the waterfall was the same as the painted fresco he'd seen in Denisisie's sanctuary near Rit, where he'd discovered Torg, an imposing, beautiful woman with long, dark, curly hair, olive skin and golden feathered wings spread behind her. Rishmond watched as Torg bent low in an odd, stiff bow. Gasps rose from behind him and Elder Geriswald next to him bowed in that odd way the snake-people had, tilting their entire upper body at an impossible angle. Rishmond reacted late but then executed an awkward bow, his left arm half extended and his right across his waist.

"We haven't much time, the barrier is thin here, but reaching through it is dangerous and exposes Rit to many dangers. We will dispense with the formalities." The voice was powerful and melodious and filled the entire space, it took Rishmond a full second to realize that the voice came from the vision in the falls across the chasm.

"Rise children, do not be afraid. Your Gods have waited for this moment for a long time. Hundreds of your turns. It is time now, events have been set in motion and our journey begins in earnest now." Rishmond watched Elder Geriswald out of the corner of his eye. The man remained bent over and was even lower now than before, his forehead nearly touching the ground. Rishmond didn't think this was normal or expected. Were they actually speaking with the Goddess Denisisie?! He dared to look around, keeping his head down, all of the Altemen were like the Elder, those that hadn't prostrated themselves completely upon the floor. Tybour was just visible in Rishmond's eyesight, he'd fallen to one knee, his head bowed and his hands tight against his body.

"Come children, enough. Stand, attend your Gods and heed our words."

Rishmond raised his head to look at the larger than life vision of the Goddess in the water falling across the chasm. His eyes met hers, or seemed to. She smiled and Rishmond was certain she could see him, and that she was focused on him.

"Wizard Rishmond, thank you for bringing Torg to me and for undertaking the task to get him here, and thank you for your dedication and willingness to make sacrifices and work so hard to get here. You have pleased us."

Rishmond noted movement behind the Goddess, several shadowy figures, indistinct  like they were hidden by the mist of the waterfall.

"As grateful as we are, we request further service from you Rishmond. We need a champion. One powerful in magic and dedicated in heart and soul. We have chosen to ask you to be that champion. Are you willing to serve? Will you help us save the world Wizard Rishmond?"

Rishmond stood up and took a surprised step backward. That the Goddess would know his name! Of course she would, she's a Goddess. But that she seemed to know him, had plans for him. Asked him to serve. Save the world? How could he do that?

"I.. I'm not.. I don't think. Are you sure you have the right person?... Goddess?" He was unsure of how to address her properly, was that correct? Her Highness maybe?

"Step forward Wizard Rishmond. Up on the platform so we can see and address you properly please."

Torg had come down from the first step up to the platform and was standing near to Rishmond. "Come Wizard Rishmond. Do not be afraid, my mistress needs to address you. I will be right here with you." The little golem lifted one hand toward him. Rishmond reached back, taking his oddly warm hand in his. Torg guided him to the steps stopping again before the first step, gesturing for Rishmond to continue up to the circle of marble at the top of the shallow steps.

Rishmond stepped onto the dais, looking down at his feet as he did so. The circle of stone lit up, a gentle soft light, Rishmond felt a soft vibration coming through the stone like a hum. He stepped to the middle of the circle and the sounds of the shrine fell away, the sound of falling water and the steady breeze blowing disappeared. Rishmond looked up at the giant aspect of the Goddess Denisisie before him, she stood twenty feet tall at least, the shadowy figures behind her sharpened but did not become clear. The male shadow immediately to her right and behind her wore a golden circlet on his forehead, a bright point of white light in the middle appeared like a shining diamond, his face was still blurry and in shadowed.

"The others cannot hear us, they will receive their own questions and instructions. For you Rishmond, there is only one question. Will you accept the task we lay before you? Will you travel to Bexxa'wyld, with your companions, and perform the Blessing ritual once again to set right what went wrong before?" 

Rishmond tried to wrap his brain around what was being asked of him. Travel to Bexxa'wyld? No one went there. According to all the lessons he'd ever had on the legendary retreat of the Gods, any who'd ever tried to go there since the Blessing had never returned. Any mortal attempting to enter the fortress was killed before getting in or went in and never returned.

"Goddess," Rishmond hesitated. Dare he question a Goddess? Directly to her face even? "I'm not sure I can do what you ask. It's not that I don't want to, but I don't have what it would take. I'm just a kid from The Arrangement of Peace. I'm not special. There are others that are much more able to do what you need..." He trailed off at her smile. It seemed so kind. She must understand. "Tybour would be a much better choice." The kindness in her face made him feel like he was just talking to Beritrude or Cantor's Mom. Of course she understood. She's a Goddess. She'd pick Tybour and he'd say yes and he'd save the world. Rishmond would go along to help, supporting Tybour in whatever he needed, but Tybour would be the one to lead, the one to make the right decisions, like he always did.

"Very well Wizard Rishmond. Your answer has been given and we will all live or die by it. Only one step is left before we begin."

Sound changed once again, the waterfall roar and gentle wind noise returned, with it came the murmur of people talking amongst themselves. Rishmond turned to look upon his friends, all gathered now in the space between the benches and the statues at the entry to the promnitry to the platform he stood upon. His gaze landed on Cantor and Illiar, they both looked up toward him, concern on their faces. He smiled and waved self-consciously, his hand down by his side, waist level. They smiled back and each raised a hand in a trepedicious return wave. His gaze fell on Tybour, the man's face was set as if he was annoyed or angry. Rishmond was taken aback for a moment. What had happened while he was talking with Denisisie? What was wrong? He attempted to cross the platform to the steps down but found himself unable to move.

The voice of the Goddess rang out across the cavern again, "The question has been asked and answered and now judgement will be passed and worthiness assessed. Rishmond, you will be judged now by the light of Truth, may you be found worthy."

The light of the circle of stone beneath Rishmond's feet changed once again the gentle glow replaced with harsh, bright, white light, the hum Rishmond had felt since stepping onto the platform intensified, growing to more than a feeling, now a buzzing sound like a million angry wasps. Rishmond watched as his friends all seemed to rush forward toward him, then they slowed as if they were attempting to slog through thick swamp muck. Rishmond didn't understand. He smelled cinnamon, soap, evergreen and a multitude of other scents, too many to sort. His feet were glued in place. His mind grew fuzzy and it felt as if all the air was being pulled from his lungs. His chest felt tight like he was being squeezed by a cantaboa. Bright light filled his vision.

All of Rishmond's friends and companions watched as a searing bright beam of light fell from above onto Rishmond and the platform he stood upon. Popping sounds and bright sparks of green and gold exploded throughout the cavern. The light engulfed Rishmond until they could only see the shadowy form of him through the bright light. Tybour was the first to reach the steps to the platform. He dove toward Rishmond only to be stopped short by an invisible wall at the edge of the light. He watched helpless as the shadowy form of his friend and charge seemed to slowly dissolve, breaking apart in chunks that floated up, continuing to break up into smaller and smaller bits. Moments later the entire shadowy form was gone and the light flashed out.

The cavern was plunged into darkness, the contrast between the extreme light a moment before and the almost complete darkness now blined everyone. Even the Altemen with their excellent night vision took several seconds to adjust. The glow of the numerous glittergreen crystals was completely gone. The glow of lotret and lotrar were also gone, only the soft yellow-white light of the God lights remained, leaving the cavern much darker than before.

Tybour recovered quickly, scrambling onto the platform looking for Rishmond. He was nowhere to be found, only a small grey mound of ash remained and that was quickly blown over the edge of the platform into the abyss below. What in all hells had just happened? The ash could not be Rishmond's remains. Gods didn't kill mortals. Was this the judgment Denisisie had spoken of? What could Rishmond have done to deserve this? He was a good man. No. There must be a different explanation. This could not be.

Torg! Tybour spun to where the crystal golem still stood at the base of the steps up to the platform. "Torg!" he yelled! "Torg! What the hell happened?!"

The little golem didn't move or speak. Tybour realized that the flow and spark of magic he'd always been able to see in him was gone. He moved closer. The golem was motionless. No spark of magic, nor flow within his body. He was just a hunk of rock, unanimated and unresponsive. 

Tybour looked around. The incredible amount of magic, both free-magic and the flow from deep within Rit was gone. It was as if magic had never existed. He reached out to find the magic that was always there. Nothing. He reached out further, searching for the magic of Rit, finally near the limit of his reach he was able to feel something, a distant faraway feeling like the memory of water in a desert.  All of the immense amount of magic in this place was gone, like it had all been used or taken.

Apparently the Gods had spoken, and judged, harshly and with extreme prejudice.