The wraith jumped down to the lower ledge where Pirin hung, snarling in breathy tones. When it landed, it crawled towards him, balancing expertly on the thin strip of stone. He pulled the rest of his body up to the ledge and drew his hand back.

Any moment, guards could appear up at the top of the pit. He had to deal with the wraith quickly.

Before he could convince himself not to, he blasted a Shattered Palm into the center of the wraith, scattering its pebbles down into the pit.

Someone would have seen the flash of Essence and heard the boom. He needed to get moving. However, he had pushed himself off-course, and he hadn’t planned his route to accommodate this specific angle. He started climbing only by feel.

He doubted it was the first time he had ever climbed a cliff. The island of Kerstel had cliffs all around it, and likewise, Northvel perched on a steep shelf of rock.

Placing his foot up into a crag, he pushed himself up. A network of smaller, uneven bricks helped him up a few feet, until he reached a larger stone jutting out of the wall. From there, he jumped back to the last ledge before the top.

As soon as he made it up to the last ledge, a pair of Saltspray warriors appeared at the top of the pit—standing on the central causeway ten feet above Pirin. Their silhouettes were unmistakable. They leaned over the edge, using their spears to support themselves.

Pirin froze. It was dark, and he was far away from the bottom of the pit, where the torches were. If he didn’t move, and the guards weren’t looking too closely, they might not see him.

A mote of blue Essence blew past his nose, leftover from the Shattered Palm, but he lifted one hand from his grip on the wall and snatched it out of the air.

“Everything alright down there?” one of the guards at the top hollered, his voice straining to reach the bottom.

At the bottom of the pit, six of the prisoners had donned the Saltspray robes, and were now holding the stolen spears and torches. They must have dragged the bodies of the fallen into the cells while Pirin was climbing.

“Everything’s alright!” a prisoner yelled back. They were too far away and it was too dark to make out any facial features.

“Did you hear that boom? Sounded like the elf’s magic, just a lot closer!”

Pirin’s heart sped up and pounded even faster than it already was.

“We didn’t see anything down here!” the prisoner called back. “Must have been something in the other pit across the way!”

“Just keep an eye out!” the guard called, then backed away from the edge of the pit.

Pirin let go of his breath. He waited until he couldn’t hear the guards’ footsteps anymore, then he continued to climb. From here, he could follow the last slivers of his plan, and he scaled the last segment of the cliff wall as fast as he could. His muscles felt warm, like they were melting from the inside out, and his joints ached.

One last push.

He pulled himself up the last three handholds in a matter of seconds, then peered up onto the walkway between the two pits. There was now only one guard standing by the entrance to the labyrinth.

Pirin pushed himself all the way up and swung his legs onto the walkway, then sprung to his feet. He kicked the rope ladder down to the prisoners, letting it unspool on its own, then he sprinted towards the lone guard.

The guard perked up too late. Pirin was already closing the distance, and the man only wore salt-knuckles. Pirin slammed the man’s head back against the wall once—hard enough that the man slumped down to the ground, unmoving.

Pirin pulled the salt-knuckles off the man’s fists, then attached him to his own. It was better than nothing.

Now he just had to get his equipment and find Gray.

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]

For the past four days, Lord Clase—the nephew—had spent his evenings down at the sandy beach along the lower shore of Dulfer’s Reach. Of course, that meant his servants had to come with him.

The entourage of servants—prisoners deemed too scrawny and weak to venture into labyrinth, and Myraden as well—now sat in a circle around him on the island’s sandy shores, watching the last slivers of the sun dip below the horizon and the moons rise.

Lord Clase sat at the center of the entourage, his sheets of parchment and hastily drawn maps spread out on the sand. Up here on the beach, the sand was dry, and no waves would reach them. He ran his fingers along them, mumbling to himself quietly. Supposedly, he had his best thoughts down on the beach—and that was why they had to travel all the way down every day—but Myraden saw no evidence of it.

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She had been waiting patiently for a breakthrough. Every day, they entered the upper level of the labyrinth, plotting out its square walls and mapping it. They placed the equipment down, hoping for some sort of sign, and very little had turned up. She still couldn’t figure out how the equipment worked, and she was starting to worry it didn’t work at all.

Or, worse, maybe there just was no special, direct tunnel to the depths of the labyrinth.

She kept those thoughts inside. For now, the best she could do was wait and relax, and hope that Kythen was doing alright.

If anything bad had happened, she would have felt it. If he was dead, she would also die. At any moment, she might just drop dead. But it hadn’t happened yet. The worst was a few phantom bruises on her bicep and just below her ribcage—mirroring where Kythen had received minor wounds of his own.

Usually, Lord Clase let the servants venture down to the water and rest in the waves, and a few times, Myraden had tried to join them. Today should have been no different. But she didn’t want to take her eyes off the work Lord Clase was doing for even a moment. They were running out of time, and if Clase was going to have a breakthrough, she didn’t want to miss it.

Finally, after a few minutes of scrawling notes on parchment with a scratchy quill, he raised his hand and proclaimed, “I’ve found it!”

Myraden first gloated to herself. This was why she listened to her instincts.

But then Clase added, “Or, at least, I’ve found the section of wall it’s supposed to be on. From here, we can narrow down our search, and we’ll have the secret doorway in no time!” He jumped to his feet and grabbed his cane, raising it to the sky as if he was an explorer discovering a new continent.

Myraden stepped over, her boots crunching in the sand. She tried to be subtle, but she needed to know what he knew.

Lord Clase had drawn a small map of the top layer of the labyrinth, which was almost entirely covered in ink markings. But, overtop of it all, he had circled the east wing of the map.

“Give me one more week, and I can have a precise location!” Lord Clase proclaimed. “Isn’t that impressive, servant? Sprite-filth?”

“A…week?” Myraden asked.

If he took another week, the Red Hand would surely catch up. He’d be leaving the labyrinth any moment now.

But her comment had been a little…rude. She was about to adjust her statement to something more sycophantic, however she was too slow. Lord Clase struck her on the back of the head with his cane.

“Yes, sir, that is wonderful,” Myraden said softly. Her throat constricted. Grovelling like this was getting old, and all the strikes that she hadn’t anticipated had already knocked one of her antlers out for the year.

The other wobbled precariously, then fell off into the sand right then and there.

“Very good,” Lord Clase said, bending down to pick up the antler. “Oh, this’ll make a wonderful souvenir! I’ll keep a pair of them every year you’re with us—and that’ll be a great trophy in of itself, seeing how few of your kind there are left…”

Myraden clamped her hands together to stop herself from ripping his head off. Just put up with it a little longer… she told herself. Just a little longer. At least he’s not a Dominion soldier or marshal. At least you don’t have to put up with one of them.

She opened her mouth, ready to offer a new comment of ingratiating nothingness, when the trees at the edge of the shore burst apart. A Saltspray warrior on the back of a horse burst through. He raced down to the shore, holding a spear in his hand. He was panting.

“Lord Clase!” the warrior called. “Your aunt requires your presence immediately!”

“What is it?” Lord Clase asked.

The warrior hesitated. “...In front of the servants?”

Clase spread his arms and smirked. “They aren’t going anywhere, and they can’t do anything. So what if they hear some secrets?”

“The black-haired elf has escaped…”

Myraden’s eyes widened. Pirin had gotten out already.

“How long ago?” Lord Clase demanded.

“I departed as soon as we noticed—about a quarter-hour ago. The rest of the prisoners have escaped as well, and they’re rioting around the camp! We need the assistance of another wizard!”

“I’m on my way,” Lord Clase grumbled, turning his back on Myraden.

She needed to go, now. No more waiting around for Clase to find the solution—she would tell Pirin all she knew, and she’d hope it was enough.

As soon as Clase took a step away from her, she ripped the cloth off her wrist, freeing the Umberstone rune. The guard shouted something, and Clase tried to turn, but Myraden was already pressing the rune against the side of his neck. It lit up as he tried to cycle Essence, stopping whatever technique he was about to use right as it formed. He threw a regular punch at her face, then swung his cane at her, but she ducked out of the way of both, maintaining constant contact with the Umberstone rune.

As soon as the cane swished over her head, she snatched her fallen antler out of his hand, then struck him on the back of the head with it.

She wouldn’t have tried this if they had been in the camp or in the tunnels, surrounded by other warriors, but here? She could get away with it if she moved fast.

With his enhanced body deactivated, that sort of blow was enough to knock him unconscious. She left the rune resting on the back of his neck to keep his wizard’s body from helping him recover, then turned to face the warrior.

He was charging. The other servants scattered, yelping and trying to clear the maps out of the way. Myraden picked up Clase’s cane.

When the warrior drew within striking distance, she swatted the tip of his spear aside. Then, with the little dregs of bloodhorn Essence she had left in her body, she activated her Tundra Veins technique. She grabbed the warrior’s leg and pulled him off the horse, then with a shout of exertion, flung him into the trees.

She fell to a crouch. The technique guttered then dispersed without her commanding it—she was out of Essence.

“Go!” she yelled to the rest of the servants. “Get out of here! Run! Free yourselves!”

Then she climbed up onto the back of the horse and slipped into its saddle. She turned it back towards the Saltspray camp and snapped its reins.

The horse sprinted off into the woods.