Chapter 1:
Those Who Favor Fire
> From below the Roots, he rose in flame,
> A son of stone and cursed by name.
> With fire, he climbed where shadows creep,
> To strike the gods who guard their keep.
> Their works he shattered, their thrones laid low,
> With hate he stormed the halls aglow.
> Beware the one from depths untamed,
> Whose rage and fire no crown has claimed."
>
> — From Root to Crown, a Ballad
Drums echoed in the deep.
Jericho jolted awake, iron chains clinking against his chest as he wrenched at his bindings in a panic. A searing, corruscating pain bloomed from the center of his chest, and a cry tore from his throat as he fought to contain the heat surging within him.
Deep breath in. Hold. Deep breath out. Hold.
He repeated the process, clinging to it as a drowning man might to flotsam. Slowly, the heat subsided. His white-knuckled grip on the chains slackened, and most of them clattered to the filth-caked floor of his cell.
Snake-hide drums pounded outside, signaling the beginning of the end.
Shouts echoed down the black-bricked hall beyond his cell as Jericho surveyed the space he had been confined to for the last eight cycles. Lichen-light filtered in through iron bars, illuminating the corroded rings that held the absurd heap of chains and locks meant to restrain him. His so-called bed, a heap of splintered wood pallets and rotting snakehide, was as wretched as the grimy floor. The stench, potent and suffocating at first, had long ceased to bother him. Like any other prisoner, he had given up trying to keep his cell in order. It didn’t matter—he would never return.
Two hulking silhouettes filled the doorframe as keys clinked in their hands.
“The Lord’s got somethin’ nice for ya today, Stain. So why don’t ya sit pretty when we open you up, eh?”
Jericho raised his hands in a show of surrender, silent. The name 'Stain' no longer stirred his blood.
The men laughed. A black key scraped the lock, and the door groaned as it swung inward. Rough hands seized his arms, unlocking manacle after manacle from his limbs, the process slow and irritable. When their patience wore thin, they struck him to speed things up.
“There… all trussed up,” one grunted. “Lord’s comin’ down for a chat. So don’t even think about tryin’ nothin’, ya hear?”
A shiver crawled down Jericho’s spine, and in the corner of the cell, a mass of black and white smoke began to coalesce. From the swirling cloud, a black hound with glowing, spectral eyes took form, sitting primly. It shimmered, flickering like a failing flame, as though struggling to maintain its shape.
Ar’Kaen... The lord... when the sentence is read... ask if he will accept the god’s price...
The apparition dissipated before Jericho could respond, unnoticed by the guards.
Footsteps echoed down the hall. The two thugs yanked Jericho to his feet, shoving him into an upright position, their glares wordless threats. A figure appeared at the door—a man draped in a dark snakeskin coat and stone armor, his scraggly beard half-hidden by the dim light. His toxic smile slithered across his face, eyes brimming with contempt.
“I have so enjoyed our time together, Stain,” the clan lord sneered. “You truly inspire me with your flailing in the ring. But alas, our time together ends today. It was... bold of you to presume you had a place in my clan. And now, even if by some miracle you survive tonight, you’ll be cast out. Farewell.”
The voice from the smoke whispered in Jericho's mind.
“Of course, lord,” Jericho said evenly. “But... pray tell, do you still keep to the old ways? Will you accept the god’s price?”
The clan lord froze mid-step. The two thugs exchanged confused glances, tension thick in the air.
Without turning, the lord growled, “You question my honor, Stain? You flirt with death. The Clan of the Seal will keep to the old ways long after your pitiful carcass has rotted back into the Roots. I accept your god’s price. Name your terms.”
“If I succeed tonight, you will grant me a pilgrimage to the Seal before casting me out.”
The clan lord turned, bewilderment creasing his face before it dissolved into cruel laughter. The sound was thin and brittle, like broken glass rattling in his throat.
“A pilgrimage... to the Seal?” he wheezed, his laughter growing shriller. “As your god’s price? Oh, I’ll allow it, Stain. By all means.” His mad giggling continued as he strode away, his thugs moving to prepare Jericho, chuckling without grasping the joke.
But Jericho understood.
The Clan of the Seal claimed great prowess for their proximity to the legendary Seal, but truly the clan benefitted from a large source of springwater and a highly defensible series of caverns. The proximity to the Seal was anything but a benefit to the clan, as the monster population increased dramatically around the Seal. There were stories, even, of ranked monsters which guarded the Seal; legendary creatures who had spent time on the Surface, basking in the aether which flowed down from the Tree of Avalon before being stationed as guards to the Underroots.
And to the clan lord, Jericho had just solved his problem. The pits would deliver their entertainment, and afterward, the Seal would take care of the upstart ‘Stain.’ It was, after all, how Jericho had ended up in chains—caught sneaking toward the Seal, defiant of the clan’s rule.
XXX
The sound of the drums pounded louder as Jericho was dragged through the dim, narrow halls of the slave cells. Each beat seemed to pulse through the very stone beneath his feet, a rhythmic, relentless reminder of the fate awaiting him. The walls around him were damp, slick with condensation and the stench of rot. The air was heavy, suffocating in the deep underroots, and the fetid smell of mildew and decay hung thick in every breath.
Chains clinked faintly as his wrists tugged against the cuffs still shackled to him, but the worst of the bindings had been left behind in his cell. What remained were the bruises, raw patches of skin where the iron had bitten into his flesh, and the unmistakable taste of blood from where one of the thugs had struck him. The cloying scent of filth, sweat, and desperation was overwhelming, making his head swim as they led him deeper into the stone labyrinth.
Mossfire torch sconces lined the walls, but their flames were nearly smothered by the ever-present lichen, which gave off a pale greenish glow. It bathed everything in an eerie, sickly light that made the stone walls appear almost organic, like skin stretched too tight over bone. The dungeon corridors twisted and turned, each step taking him closer to the unmistakable sound of the crowd.
Shouts, jeers, and the drumming grew louder, resounding through the halls like the voice of a hungry beast. The drums, steady at first, were now joined by the mournful wail of horns, their low notes reverberating off the cavern walls, building in a steady crescendo that sent a shiver down Jericho’s spine. The oppressive sound, coupled with the humid air, pressed in from all sides as if the dungeon itself were alive and squeezing the breath from his lungs.
The hall opened up into a larger passage, the ceiling rising higher, crisscrossed by roots that had long broken through the stone above. Some hung down like tendrils, black and twisted, creeping toward the floor. The two thugs yanked him along roughly, their impatience palpable, until they reached a pair of large wooden doors. The heavy iron studs embedded in the doors were rusted, and the wood had long since started to rot, giving off a faint, earthy smell of decay. Beyond the doors, the sound of the crowd was unmistakable—a fevered roar of voices, like the low hum of a swarm.
One of the thugs grinned at Jericho, a toothless smile that sent a sour taste into his mouth.
“Yer gonna be a crowd pleaser tonight, Stain.”
They pushed the doors open with a groaning creak, and the sound of the drums swelled, the horns now blasting in discordant harmony as Jericho was forced into the open.
He squinted against the sudden assault of light. The lichen-light, much more concentrated here, filled the cavern in an oppressive green hue. The space was massive—an underground arena with rotting wooden seating stacked in crude tiers around the edges, filled to the brim with the dirty, ragged population of the clan. The clan folk wore little more than tattered loincloths and ragged snakehide, much like the grimy garb Jericho had been forced to wear for so long. Their faces were gaunt, skin taut over bone, eyes wild with hunger for the spectacle about to unfold.
The wooden stands groaned beneath the weight of bodies, many of them patched together with crude repairs, the wood long since rotted but barely holding. The seats were carved into the stone walls, uneven and jagged, with moss and mold growing in thick patches between the beams. The stench of the crowd—sweat, blood, and filth—filled the cavern, a fetid mix of desperation and decay that seemed to cling to everything.
At the far end of the pit, the ground sloped down toward the center, where a jagged ring of stone had been carved into the earth—a crude circle for battle. The sand at its center was stained a dark reddish-brown, littered with the bones of those who had fought and died before. Flies buzzed in thick clouds around the periphery, drawn to the decaying remnants of past combatants. The ground was uneven, scarred by gouges and pits where weapons had struck stone or flesh.
Jericho was shoved toward the ring, his bare feet sliding in the dirt, the weight of the crowd’s gaze pressing in on him from every angle. Above, on a raised stone platform, the clan lord stood, watching with that same sneer of contempt that had marked their earlier conversation. His stone armor gleamed in the sickly light, and the snakeskin cloak he wore trailed down his back, giving him the appearance of some grotesque predator, waiting to savor the kill.
The crowd’s roar swelled as Jericho was forced toward the center of the ring, the drums and horns reaching a deafening crescendo. The sound was everywhere—echoing off the walls, shaking the floor beneath his feet. His heartbeat matched the rhythm of the drums, a steady thrum in his chest as he clenched his fists, feeling the familiar surge of heat beginning to rise within him once more.
The clan lord’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and venomous.
“Tonight, Stain will fight for his place—or his death. The gods themselves will decide his fate.”
The crowd roared in approval, the din rising to a fever pitch, and Jericho felt the weight of their bloodlust settle heavily upon him. But through it all, the voice from before whispered in the back of his mind, a dark promise carried on the wind.
The Seal awaits.
The crowd’s fevered roar drowned out almost everything else as Jericho stepped into the center of the pit. His bare feet dug into the gritty sand, sticky with old blood. His breath came in steady but shallow bursts, his muscles tensed, ready. The heat inside him simmered, not yet at a boil, as he waited for the first sign of his opponent.
Then he felt it—a tremor in the ground, faint at first but unmistakable. The sound of the crowd seemed to warp, bending as something massive slithered its way into the pit. A tunnel-runner. Jericho’s blood ran cold.
The creature slid out from a dark tunnel carved into the stone, its elongated limbs scraping along the ground with bone-rattling sharpness. It was all sinew and exoskeleton, its pale, sightless face twisting toward the noise of the arena. Long, jagged arms extended out like insect legs, its head dipping low as if sniffing for prey. The crowd’s noise was confusing it, making it twitch and shudder in place, its head swinging from side to side.
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It was deafening, the sound of the crowd and drums, and for a fleeting moment, Jericho had a chance. His eyes flicked around the arena, searching for something—anything—that might help. The sand underfoot wasn’t much use, but there. Half-buried near the edge of the pit, he spotted two rocks, each about the size of his palm. Not much, but better than nothing.
He darted forward, snatching both up just as the tunnel-runner froze. It must have heard something—a shift in the crowd’s noise, the faint scrape of Jericho’s feet. In an instant, the creature lunged, its long limbs sweeping across the sand in a vicious arc. Jericho barely had time to react. He rolled to the side, his body moving purely on instinct. He tried to stay as quiet as possible, but the sound of his movement wasn’t masked entirely by the roar of the crowd.
The tunnel-runner’s head snapped in his direction, drawn to the noise. Jericho’s heart thundered in his chest, the familiar burn of fear creeping up his spine. Without thinking, he flung the smaller of the two rocks at the same time as he hit the ground. The rock sailed through the air and hit the sand a few feet to his left. The creature paused, its head jerking toward the sound, confused by the sudden dual noise.
It began to sweep its long, spindly limbs around, feeling for Jericho with terrifying precision. Each swipe of its legs sent chills down his spine, the sharp tips cutting through the air mere inches from where he crouched. It was searching blindly, but it wouldn’t take long for it to close in. Jericho’s breath hitched. He clenched the larger rock in his hand, staying deathly still, watching the creature as it moved in slow, deliberate motions.
His heart raced, pounding louder than the drums. The tunnel-runner twitched, its long limbs grazing the ground, seeking him out. He had to time this perfectly. Too soon, and it would sense him. Too late, and it would tear him apart.
The creature’s head jerked suddenly, its attention shifting. For a moment, it hesitated, and Jericho knew this was it.
Without a sound, he lunged forward, his legs coiled like springs as he leaped toward the tunnel-runner’s head. The rock in his hand swung down with all his strength, crashing into the top of the creature’s skull with a sickening crack.
The tunnel-runner reared back, shrieking, its limbs thrashing wildly as the impact reverberated through its body. Jericho scrambled back, gasping for air, but not daring to move further. He watched as the creature flailed, disoriented by the blow.
The drums pounded, louder than ever, matching the frantic rhythm of his heart.
Jericho’s breath came in ragged, shallow bursts as he stared down the tunnel-runner, watching it flail in confusion after his strike. Its pale, eyeless head twitched violently, the creature attempting to reorient itself, its sharp legs scraping across the ground in blind rage. The drums still pounded, the crowd’s roar blending into a single, chaotic hum in the background.
This was his chance.
He feinted a lunge, shifting his weight just enough to send the faintest hint of sound rippling through the sand. The tunnel-runner snapped to attention, its head jerking toward the noise. With a shriek, it lashed out, sweeping both of its sharp legs in a vicious arc toward where it thought Jericho had moved.
But he hadn’t.
Jericho remained perfectly still, muscles coiled in silence. The creature’s legs missed him entirely, cutting through the empty space with a force that nearly sent the thing tumbling forward. It stumbled, its already-disoriented body now off-balance, flailing as it struggled to regain its footing.
That was the moment Jericho had been waiting for.
Without hesitation, he surged forward, the larger rock still gripped in his hand, and brought it crashing down onto the creature’s head again. The impact was jarring, a sharp crack as the stone collided with its chitinous skull. The creature screeched, its body convulsing violently as globs of dark ichor sprayed into the air. Jericho didn’t stop.
He struck again, the rock smashing into the tunnel-runner’s head with a sickening thud, the tough chitin cracking and splintering under the force. More ichor spattered the sand around him, the air thick with the stench of the creature’s blood.
One more strike.
Jericho lifted the rock and slammed it down for a third time, the blow sending a shower of shattered chitin and sticky ichor into the air. The tunnel-runner’s movements slowed, its limbs twitching erratically as it let out one last pitiful screech. Its body collapsed into the sand, twitching as the life drained from it, the cavern going deathly still.
Jericho staggered back, his chest heaving, the crowd’s roar now deafening in his ears. He dropped the rock, his hands slick with sweat and ichor, his legs trembling from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
Jericho stood over the fallen creature, his chest heaving, the acrid stench of its ichor thick in the air. His hands trembled, still gripping the bloodied rock. For a moment, everything was still, the tunnel-runner's mangled body twitching faintly at his feet. But then, the drums—the relentless drums—pounded louder, their rhythm infectious, driving through his bones.
With a surge of raw emotion, Jericho raised his ichor-soaked arm, the rock still clenched in his fist, and bellowed into the cavern. His voice ripped through the chaos like a storm, primal and full of defiance, a challenge to the world and everything in it. His roar reverberated off the stone walls, shaking the lichen-light itself.
The crowd erupted in response.
Screams of delight and bloodlust filled the air, the pit transforming into a cacophony of frenzied cheers. Clan folk, dirty and ragged in their worn hide and loincloths, rose from their seats, fists pounding the rotting wooden stands in unison with the drums. Their eyes gleamed with fevered excitement, the sight of Jericho—bloodied and victorious—fueling their wild exultation.
The roar of the crowd surged, drowning out everything else, and for a brief moment, Jericho felt something dangerous rise within him. The heat in his chest swirled, fed by the noise, the violence, and the raw power of the moment. He stood tall, soaked in ichor and sweat, his senses alive, sharp as the tension in the air.
But beneath it all, he knew—this was only the beginning.
The Seal awaits, Ar’Kaen…
Jericho, still riding the surge of adrenaline coursing through him, slowly turned his gaze toward the raised platform where the clan lord stood, watching from his perch above the pit. His arm, slick with ichor, lifted, and with a deliberate motion, Jericho pointed the bloodied rock directly at the clan lord. It was a challenge, a silent message—a reminder that even in chains, he was not broken, and he remembered the bargain.
The crowd roared louder, a wave of chaotic energy rippling through the cavern. Their cheers echoed off the stone walls, a storm of sound that shook the very ground beneath his feet. But as the noise swelled, Jericho bowed low in supplication, lowering the rock until it rested at his side. He dropped to one knee, his head bowed, submitting—if only for this moment.
The clan lord’s face twisted with a mix of emotions, his amusement barely hiding the flicker of annoyance that passed across his features. He didn’t like the display, Jericho could tell, but the reaction from the crowd seemed to mollify him. They loved it—the blood, the challenge, the submission. It was all part of the spectacle.
The lord’s lips curled into a thin smile as he gave a subtle nod of approval.
In an instant, the two guards from earlier appeared, stepping into the ring with heavy, purposeful strides. Their rough hands clamped down on Jericho’s shoulders, lifting him to his feet. He didn’t resist. They shoved him forward, leading him out of the arena, away from the cheering masses and the suffocating lichen-light.
As the crowd’s noise began to fade into the distance, Jericho allowed himself a single, fleeting thought: he had survived—for now.
But the Seal awaited.
XXX
Jericho stumbled forward, his legs heavy, muscles burning with the aftermath of the fight. The two guards pushed him roughly through a chamber at the very edge of the clan’s settlement, their grimy hands shoving him toward the closed maw of the passage ahead. The air here was colder, staler, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of decay and neglect. Reddish-brown paint surrounded the doorway ahead, marking danger. This was no place for the living.
The guards approached the door—a massive slab of stone shaped like a wheel—set into the wall. They strained as they rotated it, the grinding of stone against stone echoing through the chamber. The wheel shifted slowly, revealing a narrow opening, beyond which lay a cavern cloaked in total blackness, like the mouth of some ancient beast waiting to devour him.
Jericho could hear their uneasy breaths, quick and shallow, and see the way their eyes flicked nervously down the midnight-black passage beyond. Even they, hardened and cruel as they were, feared what lurked in the depths.
One of the guards barked a nervous laugh, though the sound came out strained, brittle. “Go on then, Stain. Yer pilgrimage awaits,” he sneered, but the edge in his voice betrayed him.
The other guard joined in with a half-hearted chuckle before gesturing urgently toward the passage. “Off ya go, then. Ain’t no place for the likes of us.”
Jericho glanced back at them, but there was no point in resisting. He stepped through the opening, the air growing colder as the pitch-black tunnel swallowed him. The moment his feet crossed the threshold, the two guards let out another bark of laughter—more forced this time, strained and shrill.
“Farewell, Stain,” one of them jeered, his voice trembling, though he tried to hide it. “Enjoy the darkness.”
Before Jericho could respond, they rolled the stone door shut behind him with an ear-splitting groan. As it slammed into place, their nervous laughter turned manic, echoing eerily through the stone passage.
Jericho heard the sound of their hurried footsteps retreating, followed by the unmistakable click of their feet extinguishing the lichen-lights in the chamber behind the door. Darkness swallowed him whole, thicker and blacker than anything he had ever known. The sound of their taunting voices faded, leaving only silence.
For a moment, Jericho stood still, alone in the cold, suffocating blackness. He could hear his own breath, shallow and tense, but there was no sound beyond that. Nothing but the echo of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
A tingle ran down his spine as the hound spirit manifested once more. Jericho could see the spirit as if a living-cavern’s worth of lichen-light illuminated it, although there was no light in this passageway. As the apparition appeared, Jericho noticed a peculiar feeling inside his chest. It felt as if a trickle of some long-held energy was arcing out of his body and toward the hound.
We have come to an agreement. The expenditure is appropriate to maintain a full manifestation in the face of our task. The end of the beginning, Ar’Kaen. Are you ready?
He looked down the black passage. Long have the people of the Underroots—the Stone clans, hardened and unyielding—feared the dark. In the highest caverns nearest the fabled Tree, where no lichen-light grew and the oppressive blackness swallowed all, survival was a fragile thing. The monsters of the dark stalked, unseen but ever-present, and any normal Stone, lost in those shadowy depths, would find themselves quickly undone—torn apart by the terrors lurking in the pitch-black abyss.
But Jericho Ar'Kaen was no normal Stone.
For the first time in his life—fearful of wasting what so many had sacrificed so much for—Jericho closed his eyes and allowed himself to view his core. The first and only core born below the Roots, where no aether flowed. A core forged of life, of death, and of fire. As his newly awakened spiritual sight flickered to life, revealing the essence within him, his core came into view.
It was obsidian, streaked with vivid reds, oranges, and pinks. With a deep, instinctive understanding, Jericho realized that its form was unusual—thick walls encased it like a hollow sphere. And as he gazed deeper into its depths, he began to understand why. The Graven Empire had given everything for the aether that now pulsed within him—an entire civilization sacrificed to fuel the ocean of power swirling inside his core. Life, death, and fire aether churned within, pressing against the walls of his will.
The death aether sat still, cold and heavy, while the life and fire aether raged, eager to break free of his body and unleash their constructive and destructive force upon the world. Yet, Jericho had never let them. The weight of countless lives—each given in purpose—pressed upon him, demanding control. And so, through sheer force of will, Jericho had kept it sealed, forging a barrier around his core, thick and unyielding, shaped by nothing but his willpower. For he knew this aether was bought and paid for with the lives of his people, and set to one purpose.
Breaking the Seal.
Yet, to reach the Seal, he would have to go through the denizens of the deep—creatures twisted by the underroots, some of them ranked monsters of terrifying power. For that, Jericho knew he would need more. He would have to run up his own tab, so to speak.
As his will probed deeper into his core, the death aether felt foreign, untouched by his control. It resisted him, reforming into its heavy, cold shape whenever he tried to manipulate it. It was a force beyond his understanding, static and indifferent, as if it existed outside the bounds of reality itself. Curious, Jericho turned his focus to the life aether.
It responded instantly, leaping and buzzing with barely contained energy. It was eager—almost frantic—to be used, shimmering with potential. But as Jericho tried to guide it, he felt a strange disconnect. The aether pulsed with concepts alien to him: joy, love, growth, and creation. Jericho knew little of these things. His life in the deep had been brutal, his upbringing anything but pleasant, especially under the shadow of a sacrificed empire.
He had been born of fire and death, forged in darkness. The life aether felt... wrong. Frustration gnawed at him, and Jericho turned his attention to the fire aether. The moment his will touched it, a spark ignited—a deep resonance. The fire felt like home. It didn’t resist or hesitate. When he pressed into it, it was as if he and the fire aether were one, indistinguishable. The heat, the power—it flowed with him, through him, as him. A grin crept across his face as the connection solidified, and he opened his eyes.
At first, the walls of his core resisted the exfiltration of the fire aether, like a dam holding back a surge. But, slowly, reluctantly—like stretching a muscle unused his entire life—the fire aether began to seep through. It sparked, slipping from his core and filling his body loosely, wild and untamed.
Jericho felt it surge, winding through his flesh like molten tendrils, seeking out paths long dormant. The sensation was unmistakable—the aether was slipping between blocked channels, snaking around unseen barriers in his body. Instinctively, he understood: these were his meridians, sealed shut for now, limiting his control. But the power was there, thrumming just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.
Jericho breathed deeply, feeling the raw heat pulsing inside him. His meridians may be blocked, but the fire was awake.
The fire aether pulsed within Jericho, and as it spread, a warmth began to rise, slowly at first, like embers catching in the wind. Then, with each beat of his heart, it grew stronger, until the heat radiated through his skin. Flames flickered to life, small at first, licking at his forearms and shoulders, casting a warm, soft glow around him.
Unlike the acrid, unnatural glare of lichen-light or the harsh, smoky flicker of mosstorches, this light was pure—gentle, yet powerful. It bathed the midnight-black cavern in a soft, golden hue, warming the stone walls as if the very essence of life had returned to the deep. The flames curled and danced, flowing with his movements, a reflection of the power within him, no longer caged.
For the first time, Jericho felt alive in the dark. The fire, his fire, was finally free.
Well done, Ar’Kaen. We were concerned that our lack of collective knowledge regarding the cultivation of aether would prove instrumental in the defeat of our quest, yet we rejoice–your flame burns bright. The Seal awaits, Ar’Kaen.
With newfound power surging through his veins, Jericho strode purposefully down the passage, the flames clinging to him like a second skin.