When Pirin woke up again, he bolted upright, panting. At some point through the night he had started cycling his Essence, completely accidentally, and it had made his mind run in circles.

He slapped the side of his head, trying to make the random assorted memories that flashed through his mind disappear. The Memory Chain stopped whirling and his heart stopped pounding.

Myraden ran to his side, skittering to a halt on the floor and kneeling beside him. “What is wrong?”

“I’m…I’m fine.” Pirin pushed himself up higher, then climbed to his feet. Gray stood up right behind him, shaking out her wings. “Well, debatable, but I’m not going to fall apart any time soon, I guess.”

Before they moved on, Pirin gathered up some rations from his haversack. He didn’t know how long they’d truly be down in the tunnels, but he figured it was safe to spread their rations out for a month worth of meals—they had filled his haversack with enough to last a journey overseas (before they had known they’d be flying with Alyus); there would be enough for a simple delve into the tunnels.

While they ate, Pirin marked their position on the map. He could say with certainty where they were, now—the hall they were in wasn’t hard to find.

Then they set off again. Pirin traced a deeper path through the mountain with his finger as they walked. He figured it was about halfway through the day when one of the torches that Myraden had taken from the hall went out—she had to use her Tundra Veins technique to give them light.

But that meant they had to slow down. It took effort to maintain it, and it didn’t throw the light as far. They didn’t need to walk into a trap.

A few hours later, a horde of Rustlers stampeded down the tunnel. They ran on all four limbs, chittering and screeching to one another. At first, they seemed only intent on running past Myraden and Pirin—so the two plastered themselves against the wall with their Familiars—but a few Rustlers stopped and barred their teeth, ready to attack.

Myraden swatted most away with her spear, and Pirin attacked the stragglers with his sword. He used a half-charged Shattered Palm to push away a trio.

Finally, the horde passed, leaving their fallen companions behind in the hallway. Already, the bodies were starting to disintegrate into nothing but black dust.

As soon as they started to walk again, Pirin asked, “What is this place? Really. I get that it’s a set of tunnels, but it has to have a purpose.”

“I have no concrete answers,” Myraden said.

“The walls are made out of the same…well, it looks the same as the sandstone at the shrines on the Elven continent.”

“There are structures like this buried beneath every land in the North,” Myraden said. “The North being north of the Stormwall. Many of these structures have been repurposed. They were built long ago, and they rise to the surface where the Eane is strongest.”

“Why?” Pirin asked.

“I do not know.”

“Who built them?”

“I do not know.”

“How long ago?”

She looked back over her shoulder, a frustrated expression on her face. After a second, she wiped it off and offered a faint smile. “I do not know. Before the elves. Before the Dominion, though probably not before the time of the Ostanor Kingdom. This world has had many eras, Pirin.”

He scratched his cheek nervously. “Remind me which era we’re in, again?” His memories didn’t cover that. He wished he could use the Memory Chain to recall, but he couldn’t control it yet.

“We are in the Age of Dominion—as they call it. It has lasted for two millenia, but it has not always been called that. The Dominion was not always a conquering empire with a backbone of wizards and conscript armies.” She dropped her arms. “It was once a noble kingdom, dedicated to defending the Stormwall.”

“And these temples were built before this age?”

“I would say so.” She crossed her arms. “The Age of the Scar.”

Pirin didn’t know that age either, but he didn’t want her to lose any more faith in him. He nodded along, then looked down at his map. “Well, regardless of who built it, they left some nice stuff. We’ve gotta get down as far as we can.” He held the map out in front of her. “I doubt they’ve found the room we need, but they have to be close to it. If we get as deep as we can, we can sweep the place from east to west.”

They stopped at an intersection of three tunnels. Myraden spun in a circle, holding out her arm and illuminating each way. Two tunnels led back upwards, and one descended down steeply.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Myraden said, “If we find a more powerful wraith—you will know; it will have manifested eyes—you may be able to use its memories and show us where we need to go. If it has seen the Reign gems, of course.”

“Then our priority needs to be to get deeper into the tunnels.” Without hesitation, Pirin stepped towards the downwards-leading tunnel.

image [https://static.wixstatic.com/media/f3a882_5e221995337243e6a7d4250b55d3aeea~mv2.png/v1/fill/w_280,h_232,al_c,lg_1,q_85,enc_auto/embercore%20sigil.png]

“How’s your internal timer, Gray?” Pirin asked. “You wouldn’t happen to know what time it is?”

He had, of course, reformed his Reyad earlier in the day.

Well, I’m hungry? she said. Therefore, it must be kinda near dinner time. How’s that for internal timing?

“Kythen is effective for keeping track of the time,” Myraden said. “If only he would tell me on a regular basis.”

The bloodhorn bleated, then looked over at Myraden.

“He is saying that the sun has set.”

By Pirin’s best estimates, they had also made it deep enough into the mountain that they were just above sea-level.

“We should rest, as best as we can,” Pirin said. “I’ll take the first watch.”

“You are not tired?”

“You’ve been holding a technique all afternoon,” he said, glancing at her glowing arm. The torch they had stolen from the hall had gone out. As he said that, though, he began the Whisper Hitch—just so he’d have a little light to see by. “I think I can survive a little longer without resting.”

As soon as his technique formed, he slumped down against the wall and sat beside Gray. He waited until Myraden had fallen asleep, then pulled out his path manual. “Alright,” he whispered. “We’re gonna form our first Timber. No more waiting.”

It should work better with the Eane so powerful around here, right?

“Hopefully. Or, at any rate, we’ll be able to draw in what we need twice as fast.”

The sparrow Path manual described a technique of layering feathers into a long stack of condensed, foundation Essence. The most recognizable, important feature of a sparrow was its feathers, and the same should go for a gnatsnapper. Pirin should be able to apply the same principle to form high-quality foundation Timbers of his own.

His Essence channels were densest nearest to his core, so that was where he formed the feathers. He held it in position in his channels, then tried to let it soak outwards—out of his channels, and across the boundary between the arcane and his own flesh.

His stomach began to heat up. He felt a brown feather of pure Essence forming just beneath his core.

The manual had described a breathing technique—or, more appropriately, a cycling technique—for the job.

The Wheel-Crushing Wingbeats, it was called. Perfect for converting the Eane into usable Essence, and perfect for turning that Essence into

He had to imagine his lungs as pumping wings. If he was imagining bellows before, he had to unlearn that. Now, a bird was blasting air into the furnace of his core with fluttering wings.

Essence began in his body, then shot across to Gray with such force and volume that it manifested a trail of sparks in the air. When he passed it over, it was a pale blue, and when she returned it, it was a greenish-brown. And it was slightly higher-grade—purer.

That had to be her wraith core doing its job.

He had been hoping the Essence would turn gray, just a little. But most gnatsnappers were brown, and that was how their aspect-bent Essence manifested.

The cycling technique made him sweat, at first. It took all his concentration not to pant, to keep his breaths in time with Gray’s. He shut his eyes, thankful that his Reyad was active. If it wasn’t, he doubted his body would have tolerated such exertion.

More and more ethereal feathers began to form in his body, lingering in his Essence system but starting to leak out into his physical flesh. The Timbers would be somewhere in-between the arcane and reality, tethering him firmly to his Essence system. He couldn’t truly see it, but he could visualize it inside his mind.

As the feathers formed, he used the cycling technique to guide their position. He stacked them and wound them until they began to form up into a log-shaped construct of greenish-brown Essence.

It was working.

For the next few hours, he worked on the Timber, breathing heavily and trying to keep himself grounded. Gray said very little, and he couldn’t find the spare energy or concentration to reply to her.

And then he had one Timber stretching horizontally across the bottom of his core—the start of a bonfire.

He just had to set it in place.

He poured a wave of Essence through the channels around it, baking it and locking it in place like it was a clay cup in a kiln. This would be a part of him. It would travel with him for the rest of his life, wherever he went.

It had to be perfect.

He pushed one last pulse of Essence through the Timber, and a subtle wave of pure force blasted away from his stomach. It felt like he’d just been punched in the gut, and in the otherwise silence of the hallway, it sounded like an explosion.

Myraden bolted upright—which was alright; her watch was nearly over.

Sparks of Essence lingered in the air around Pirin, but they dimmed and stopped manifesting.

The Path manual provided a visual depiction of the quality of the Timbers. First-tier Timbers were perfect. Second-tier Timbers were slightly-cracked, and third-tier timbers were splintered and cracked all the way through.

“What grade is it?” Myraden asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Pirin gulped. She must have realized exactly what he’d done.

He pushed his awareness down to his core, where, just beneath, the first Timber sat—confirmed and locked into his body. The feather texture had disappeared, and it had turned from the awkward shade of brown-green Essence to the ember-y, charcoal-y texture look of his core itself. A thin crack ran down one side, and a few small cracks were notched into the other end. But in all, it wasn’t splintering or threatening to break apart.

“It’s…second-tier,” he told her. He slumped back against the wall. The only light left in the tunnel came from the sparks of Essence floating in the air.

I don’t know about you, Gray said, but I’m exhausted.

Pirin didn’t get out another word before he fell asleep.