Baron Dragomir Valdrik sat astride his majestic black destrier, Rodan, a powerful warhorse bred for both speed and endurance. Its sleek coat gleamed even in the dim light of Thalgar’s Tunnel, and it snorted restlessly beneath him. The Baron’s grip tightened on the reins as they descended further into the tunnel’s depths, frustration simmering beneath his carefully maintained facade.

Behind him, Gareth and his retinue kept a cautious distance, sensing their master’s foul mood. The undead members of the party, their faces concealed by dark hoods, moved with a chilling silence. Normally, Valdrik wouldn’t risk being so close to these foul beings—though they served him well, their very presence was a constant reminder of the precarious balance he maintained. Even here, in the relative safety of Thalgar’s Tunnel, a Level 32 Lexicant could never be too careful. The odds of encountering a Paladin or Priest who could detect Death Magic were slim, but Valdrik’s paranoia had served him well in the past, and he wasn’t about to let his guard down now.

He kept a steady pace—not too fast, not too slow. The last thing he wanted was to trip the damnable Ranger’s intuition skill. If Eldrin sensed him coming, all his careful planning might be for nothing.

As they walked, all he could think was, how had it come to this?

He, Baron Dragomir Valdrik, a high-level Lexicant with decades of experience manipulating the powerful and subduing the weak, had been bested by a low-level Socialite. Valdrik didn’t know Justin’s exact level, but it couldn’t be over ten. The upstart had no business challenging him, yet somehow, he had outmaneuvered Valdrik at his own game, knowing full well he wouldn’t throw everything away with everyone watching.

And worse, Justin had walked away alive and unscathed, mocking him with every step while damaging his reputation almost beyond repair. The rumors he’d sown would escape Windfall, the Baron was sure of it.

Oh, it had been hard to let him go. Incredibly difficult. But every time he was tempted to snuff out a life, Valdrik had only to think about his journey, his past mistakes, to know that patience was key. It had been a mistake to reveal himself so soon, but the risk had been calculated. What he hadn’t counted on was Justin becoming so intermeshed with the agents of this world. In hindsight, he should have expected it.

Valdrik had long since divorced his own feelings from these agents—he saw them as nothing more than pieces in a game. But he had made the novice mistake of assuming others would see them the same way. The young man’s attachment to them had surprised him. While Justin had been lucky enough to experience kindness early on his journey, Valdrik had the opposite experience. That might have been the simple difference between the two of them, he realized, despite their similar Earth origins. It had been absent from his mental calculus.

The memory of Justin’s words still burned in his mind. The audacity of the young man to make demands of him, to call his bluff in front of a crowd of nobles. To even suggest he was some recluse, tapping into dark powers for personal gain. He’d been perilously close to losing everything. Valdrik had thought himself untouchable, the master of every situation.

Yet Justin had shown no fear. That was what rankled most—the fact that a young upstart with so little power had stood up to him with such quiet determination.

And that blasted hat! How could he have guessed it would grant Justin immunity to his Cant of Compulsion? The gall to walk away from an offer of power, of protection—it grated on Valdrik’s pride.

He had miscalculated. It happened, even to experienced Lexicants like him. He had underestimated Justin’s resolve and overestimated his own intimidation. Earthers were unpredictable, challenging. They didn’t play by the same rules as the rest of this world, and that made them dangerous. And Justin Talemaker, for all his charm and social graces, had proven himself more cunning than Valdrik had expected.

Recruiting Bohemond had been a clever move, Valdrik admitted. The foolish noble was no real threat, but his father’s influence could complicate things if he were killed openly. Keeping Bohemond alive, for now, was the best course of action.

The Baron allowed himself a small, tight smile. He had not risen to power by being easily thwarted. Justin had won this round, yes, but the game was far from over. Patience, he reminded himself. This setback was merely temporary. There would be another opportunity, and when it came, Justin would not be so lucky. The Mark of Death could be replaced.

That was another thing. How had Justin figured it out? Had he merely bluffed, and the Baron had shown his cards?

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No, Valdrik decided. He’d known the truth. But how?

The answer would have to wait. For now, there were more immediate concerns. The tunnel stretched on as they came to a stop at an inn, Stonehearth Haven, built directly into the rock. Gareth quickly dismounted and went inside to check for any sign of their quarry. When he emerged, he shook his head, and they were on the move again.

The next place Justin and his companions could have gone was Drakendir. Valdrik knew the risks of pursuing them down there; it was the main reason he’d waited for Gareth and his undead retinue. The ancient dwarven city was beyond perilous, filled with forgotten horrors and creatures that had survived centuries in the dark. It was a desperate maneuver, but Valdrik wouldn’t put it past the Ranger to take such a risk in order to lose him.

As the passage to Drakendir materialized in the distance, breaking off from the main tunnel, Valdrik’s eyes narrowed. The massive iron gate loomed, an imposing barrier to the ancient dwarven kingdom below. The craftsmanship was still intact, though the centuries had worn down some of its finer details. The Baron had never been here personally, but he’d read enough about it to never want to delve into its depths.

A Highcliff Watchman stood outside the gate, his eyes weary as the Baron approached. Seeing the Baron’s countenance and the retinue at his back caused him to straighten up quickly.

“Did anyone go through the gate recently?” Valdrik asked, his voice cold and commanding.

The man licked his lips nervously. “Might be I remember that.”

“Might be? Did they or did they not? Speak, worm!”

Valdrik’s words shattered whatever price the guard had been about to ask. “Yes, m’lord. Five people—four men and a young woman—passed through not an hour ago. A Ranger, a soldier, a dandy, a Bard, and an Orc.”

Valdrik watched the young guard intensely. “And?”

“Yes, one other thing. The soldier—Bohemond, I believe—was indignant that he’d been lied to about going down there, but he went down with them all the same.”

Hmm. That might be useful.

Valdrik turned to Gareth, who had approached his side. “Can Wolfram track them?”

From the shadows behind Gareth, a figure emerged—a tall, gaunt man with pale skin, greasy hair, and glowing red eyes. Just as Justin had a Ranger, so did Valdrik. Once a feared hunter in life, Wolfram Gravesong was now a silent stalker of the night. A large black Blood Bat perched on his shoulder, its eyes gleaming with unnatural intelligence. Valdrik tried to ignore the subtle, sickly-sweet scent emanating from the man.

Wolfram inclined his head slightly, his voice escaping in a rasp. “They will not escape us. Even if the Ranger leaves not a trace, Nighthollow need not see a speck of light to find his way in darkness.”

The bat gave a hideous screech, as if in confirmation.

Valdrik nodded, his gaze turning toward the steps leading downward into darkness. “Then let us proceed. I have no intention of letting them slip through my fingers.” He turned to the guard. “Open the gate.”

The guard moved quickly to comply, the grinding of gears and chains echoing as the ancient iron gate slowly creaked open.

“The horses, my lord?” Gareth asked, glancing back at the steeds.

Valdrik considered for a moment. At first, he hadn’t been sure if the Ranger intended to lead them to the Everwood or Drakendir. He’d brought the horses just in case it was the former.

The Baron answered. “Have a man take them back to Windfall. Stable them there and wait for further orders. No need to waste perfectly good mounts.”

Gareth gestured to one of the human soldiers, who quickly stepped forward, taking the reins of the horses. “Make haste.”

The soldier nodded and led the horses away, relief clear in his eyes. Unlike his comrades, he was getting off easy. He gathered the reins into a single, firm grip, expertly looping them through a thick lead rope. With practiced skill, he clicked his tongue, guiding the horses forward as they moved in a line, one after another, obedient shadows trailing behind him.

Once this was done, Valdrik’s eyes peered into the yawning darkness of the passage ahead. “Head in first,” he ordered. “There’s one last thing I need to take care of.”

Without question, Gareth and the rest of the retinue moved forward, disappearing into the gloom of the tunnel. Wolfram whispered something to his bat companion, and Nighthollow launched itself from the Ranger’s shoulder, screeching and flapping into the darkness beneath.

The Baron turned back to the guard, who stood frozen with fear in his wide eyes.

“Don’t be afraid,” Valdrik said smoothly, his voice laced with an unsettling calm as he raised his hand: “Thalvesh Vorritha.”

The Cant of Amnesia settled over the guard like a veil, his eyes glazing over as his memories of the past hour unraveled and dissolved into nothingness. The fear drained from his face, replaced by a blank, passive expression. He blinked, as if waking from a dream, completely unaware of what had transpired.

Valdrik watched for a moment, satisfied, then turned and descended into the depths after his men. The darkness welcomed him, and a stiff smile played on his lips. He was certain of one thing: he was far more equipped to navigate Drakendir’s dangers than his quarry.

With the resources at his disposal, it was absolutely inevitable that they would catch up. In the deep places of Eyrth, things were utterly silent—until they weren’t. The Drakendir Cavern was the largest in Serenthel, and sounds would echo for miles.

If one of them so much as kicked a rock, the Blood Bat would pick it up. And if they faced any sort of interruption, it would just speed up their demise all the more.

In a way, Drakendir was the best place they could have gone, from the Baron’s perspective. With no sun to slow his minions down, with no witnesses, he could at last be fully in control.

But Justin and his companions had to be stopped here.

Within days—perhaps sooner—the Prismatic Core was as good as his.