When the Darkness Falls

The dungeon, plunged into viscous darkness, breathed with ancient dust and signs of a recent rampage. Only the rare glint of Rud's lantern tore outlines of uneven stone walls from the half-darkness.

Siren lay motionless, as if washed ashore by receding waves. Rud, without uttering a word, exhaled wearily and sank down beside him. He set his travel pack on the dry ground and sat directly on it.

Footsteps echoed moments later. The returned mage, still not fully recovered from feeling like a sack of potatoes, approached the warrior and reproachfully spoke:

— Hey, could you be more careful next time? You know I have a weak stomach.

Rud didn't spare him a glance. Silently, he drew his heavy blade from its sheath and, while running a sharpening stone along the edge, said:

— No choice—you're not a packhorse. Besides, I saved your life.

Lance snorted, not with malice but with a tired smile:

— A packhorse, you say? Quite the comparison, especially given your bear-like frame.

Rud paused for a moment, the blade frozen mid-stroke. Then, as if nothing had happened, he resumed sharpening.

— Aira went to watch those morons. Don't you need to inscribe a protective barrier?

The mage scratched his head and replied:

— About that… As you've probably noticed, there are few stable zones here to create a barrier. And for your information, the nearest one was taken by—those bastards from Volkrag.

— You mean we'll stay in an unstable zone, risking poisoning from dead ether because of those halfwits?

— I'd say so.

Rud growled and slammed his fist into the ground, raising a cloud of dust.

— Damn it! — he snarled. — First those bastards ambush us, then they just claim a safe zone as if nothing happened?! They're clearly asking for a fight.

— They're not asking for it, — a cold voice rang out. Aira stepped from the shadows, as if woven from the darkness itself. Here, in the depths, where only Rud's lantern cast flickering light, her figure seemed spectral.

For a warrior used to direct assaults, and for a mage reliant on the ether flow, this place was dangerous. But for someone like Aira, whose style depended on stealth and surprise, this labyrinth was almost a second home.

Both men turned to face her.

— What do you mean? — Rud asked.

— I spoke with one of them. It turns out they don't mind our presence in their camp. Plus, they have some business with us.

— And you took their word, these scum? — Rud snarled irritably.

— Yes, — Aira replied coolly, without blinking.

— The only condition was to keep him away from the barrier, — she added, pointing at Siren, still unconscious.

Lance glanced at her, then at Siren. He spoke thoughtfully:

— Makes sense. Keeping the barrier stable won't work with him nearby. You know how infected are—an absolute headache. They disrupt the natural ether flow just by existing. The barrier couldn't stabilize before cracking under a meter-wide surge.

Rud jerked upright, as if stung:

— So you two already decided everything?

Aira and Lance exchanged looks, then turned onto him with nearly identical puzzled expressions.

Aira frowned:

— What do you mean? Of course we'll stay alert, but we need to rest in a safe zone, or we'll get poisoned.

Lance added:

— We'll take shifts. We'll need to watch them… and him too, — he lightly kicked the unconscious Siren.

With a sigh, Rud reluctantly stood.

— In that case, I'll take the first watch. Whoever's next—decide among yourselves. I'm sick of today's mess, — he grumbled, gathering his gear.

Grabbing Siren by the scruff like a sack of spoiled provisions, he dragged him forward, leaving a trench in the dust. Aira and Lance followed.

They approached the dome—its shimmering hemisphere pulsated with etheric light, piercing the surrounding gloom like a heart beating in a rotting world. Crossing the invisible boundary, the oppressive ether pressure on their shoulders vanished. Inside, the air was cleaner and sound was muffled. Here, an ether filter gradually absorbed the contamination, creating a safe zone for rest.

Rud, securing Siren, dropped him just inside the dome and moved forward. Aira and Lance, exchanging glances, followed suit.

At the entrance, they were met by a mage—a man with weary eyes, standing near one of the engravings sustaining the dome.

— The senior mage and the priest await you at the center, over there, — he nodded curtly.

Silently, the three headed to the center. Inside the dome it was brighter, but not warmer—the lamp in the center cast a dull, deathly light across the dome. A fragment of processed ore within it was accumulating a dim residue—a crystallized dead ether, the rot that sparked the Great Cataclysm nine centuries ago.

There were four people: a female mage with black hair tinged bluish by the etheric glow, the senior mage Mearin himself, another mage—a silent man with dark circles under his eyes—and a grey-haired priest holding a rune-engraved rifle. Lance recognized it as the one that had first fired at them from ambush.

Approaching, Aira, Lance, and Rud sat opposite the priest and the senior mage. Rud, true to form, was the first to break the silence:

— You guys have done well setting this up here...

But he was cut off by Lance, who anticipated his friend's irritation:

— Apologies for my friend's rudeness. We are grateful for your invitation.

Mearin regarded him with a faint half-smile.

— No offense taken. Everyone has a temper, — he glanced at the priest with the rifle. — Don't take offence, friends, but I must ask about your origins. After all, we're currently on neutral territory, inside one of the ancient labyrinths.

Lance smiled thinly, though his eyes flickered with wariness.

— Ah, well… Since you've already introduced yourselves, we should too. My name is Lance Bonfri, and these are my companions—Aira and Rud. We are enthusiasts from the nomadic Goida clan.

Mearin squinted:

— The Goida clan, you say? Never heard of them. So they're from the northwest?

— From the south, — the priest interrupted without looking up from his rifle, his fingers tracing the runes on the weapon as though reading by touch. — A southern clan, mainly trading information in the southwest. I've known a few of them.

Mearin raised an eyebrow in surprise:

— Really? Well, you, Tas, had quite a few missions in Shelgard. No wonder you cooperated with some nomadic clans.

Aira and Rud exchanged glances again, silent. Lance continued diplomatically:

— Ah, quite flattering to know that our clan is known to a priest from Volkrag. How are things in the southern lands? Did our clan manage to offer you proper hospitality?

Tas finally lifted his gaze, piercing like a shot:

— You could say that. The only thing I truly appreciate about nomadic clans is their customs forbidding contact with the infected.

Lance's eyes flickered. He coughed as if something caught in his throat.

— As we said, we only helped a poor soul not to die.

— And so you bound him and knocked him out? — Tas didn't avert his gaze.

Mearin frowned:

— Tas, I repeat: whatever they did to that man is their business. It doesn't concern us.

— Does it truly not concern us? — the priest's voice was hoarse yet firm. — That bastard clearly has some skills. At least the gift of foresight.

The room froze. Mearin's, Lance's, and Aira's looks darkened. Even the female mage and the other man exchanged nervous glances.

— Eh?.. Why do all of you look so serious? — Rud asked, puzzled, but was ignored.

Tas continued without pause:

— You should have noticed it, shouldn't you? Not only did he dodge my hidden attack, he dodged arrows and projectiles more than once. And that's not even considering that he foresaw the collapse of walls and ceiling minutes in advance. Such a man cannot be an ordinary wanderer or passerby. So, I'll ask again—who is he?

Silence stretched into eternity. Lance and Aira fell silent, tense.

Mearin also sank into thought; his fingers tapped lightly on the lamp. The crystal inside flickered slightly, as if sensing the tension.

— Seriously?.. all this pomp over a plague-ridden street urchin? There are vagrants like that by the thousands, — Rud snapped, pushing himself up. — If you're that curious, I'll tell you. That kid's a slave—from the mines. And, as you've noticed by the stink of dead ether exuding from him—he's not going to live long. I'm no doctor, but even I can say he won't live past thirty in his condition.

He stepped aside, as though unwilling to be part of the conversation any longer. His voice rose:

— And so what if he's got a heightened sense of danger? Sure, he dodges well—but that only confirms he's a beaten dog.

Anger boiled in Rud's chest as he stared down Tas:

— If you have nothing better to do, go do it, instead of trembling before a half-corpse.

He turned to Lance:

— Lance. I'm taking the first watch. I'll wake you in two hours.

The mage stared at him in surprise, then sighed heavily and nodded:

— Sure, do whatever you want.