Tarn found himself surrounded by billowing white clouds of mist that emerged up from the floor itself. Around him, he could see the forms of his companions, but they were shadowed and blurred, as if they existed in some other world.

He supposed that was true. They still walked among the stone and sand, where his body no doubt was still as well. This journey was only for his mind, forced upon him by a consciousness he barely understood.

Once he might have been afraid, either for his friends or for himself. But this was the Sword Dungeon, and he was used to how things worked here.

Before him was a broad, silver-colored column, one that seemed to have no top or bottom. Ripples danced across its surface, as if it were made of both metal and liquid, suspended in this state by some arcane force.

It was not the timid, small sphere he had seen in the dungeon’s earliest memories. Neither was it the huge crystal heart, chaotic and overloading with energy as it spewed spawned creatures upon himself and Sinah.

This was stable, even tranquil. Tarn could see his own face reflected across its shimmering surface, his confused expression at odds with the serenity radiating all around him.

“You seem different,” Tarn said. His voice seemed muffled to his ears, as if there were no solid surface for his words to echo off.

The silver column shimmered in response to his words, vibrating like water struck by a stone. A shuddering began to emanate from the column, a speech that sounded like windowpanes shaking in high wind.

“I am changed,” the dungeon said. “Freed of the Progenitors, I am finally able to grow.”

Freed.

Despite this, Tarn had worried the dungeon’s once-overlords had found a way to reclaim their prize. While repeatedly trying to kill him, the Sword Dungeon had also guided Tarn to its secrets, sharing its memories and giving him clues that allowed him to save both himself and the strange lifeform they travelled within.

“You were important to them.” Tarn took a step closer. “I’m surprised they didn’t try to capture you again.”

“They attempt to.” The silver liquid churned as it spoke. “Relentlessly. I resist, and my tactical position is strong. The Progenitors do not yet possess the means to reacquire me.”

Yet. That wasn’t good. The mist around him began to swirl faster, the light growing slightly dimmer with each heartbeat. He was on a clock, there wasn’t time to ask everything he wanted to know.

But his heart still forced one question to the surface. Perhaps not the most relevant to his mission, but the one he most needed an answer to.

“Last time I was here, people died.” His mind brought back the images. Rykin dissolving away under the assault of still-time, Sinah buried under an unending wave of spawned monsters. “People I cared about. Are they… within you?”

The silver liquid in the column shifted again. It churned and rippled, the silver material moving forming faces upon itself. Tarn saw several he did not recognize, likely mages from Lurim’s Crimson Cadre. His chest clenched as Rykin’s smiling visage became visible, complete with bushy eyebrows and a broad mustache-framed grin.

As he melted away, the eyes in the fluid became sadder and filled with both anger and regret. His sister Sinah looked back at him, Tarn’s features reflected onto her own. Then she too dissolved away, falling forever into the depths of where her decisions had taken her. Tarn felt sadness at her fate, but the guilt he had carried for years was gone.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

After a moment, the surface of the column became smooth again.

“Those who were lost are not within me, no more than you are.” The dungeon’s voice conveyed a sense of sadness as well. “But an echo of them remains. I do not choose to have the memories of all your minds. I cannot prevent myself from seeing your thoughts.”

So, they’re really gone. That hope had been barely a flicker, but he allowed it to extinguish. Rykin had died with a sense of fulfillment, it was good to think of him that way. Sinah had not, but those had been her choices not his.

“If you can see in my head,” Tarn said. “Then you know why I’m here, and what I am looking for.”

“A path to the Axe.” The sounds of wind in the dungeon’s speech rose in intensity. “My brother. I can sense his presence on your world, and the hand of the Progenitors upon his collar.”

“They couldn’t use you, so they used him?” The mists around him continued to grow thicker, darker. “Why not send him here?”

“No longer collared, now I can resist.” The dungeon said this firmly, as if it explained everything. “Once I was docile, easy to control. It is not so with the Axe. If the Progenitors use him, they do so out of desperation. He is primal and savage, a blunt and rebellious instrument. Even now, he attacks me just as he attacks them.”

“Your ‘brother’ sounds like a lot of fun,” Tarn said with a sigh. Still, it probably was good news – if the Axe was as much trouble for their enemy as it would be for them, that could give them an advantage. “But you can get us to him?”

“Yes.” It paused, the tone becoming softer, with a hint of worry. “There exists a … bridge between us. The psychic connections between my siblings and I cannot be severed, and even now the Axe uses it for his assault upon me.”

Siblings. Tarn recalled seeing the half-dozen silver spheres in the Dungeon’s oldest memories, all victims of the Arch Mage’s experiments, now perverted into Progenitor control. But how many were there?

“I caution you.” The dungeon’s voice took on an edge of concern. “Though I can give you access, the bridge between us is volatile. The gray spaces between my kind were not meant for your fragile minds and forms. Your gems cannot fully protect you from that environment’s assault. It will be a grueling passage, and your survival is not assured.”

What else is new?

“It’s never easy, but that’s the job.” Tarn said calmly. Despite the Sword’s dire warning about the difficultly of the path ahead, Tarn was simply relieved there was one. The Progenitors might not even know about these bridges between the dungeons, which could give them the element of surprise.

Speaking of surprises…

“There’s another person coming to you,” Tarn said. “His name is Yarex, and I … don’t fully understand what he wants. But it would be good if he never caught up to me. Could you … do that shifting thing you did to us last time, and keep him from reaching us? Trap him in a maze, or at least not let him on this bridge?”

“Neither option is open to me.” If there was disappointment in the dungeon, Tarn did not hear it. “The attacks on me by the Axe and resisting the Progenitors have consumed most of my resolve. I have too little energy left to alter my form, or even close the door to the bridge behind you. Once it is open, it will remain so.”

“Great,” Tarn said, sighing. “But I understand, you’re doing what you can. Thank you for fighting back. If you weren’t, the invasion would have already happened.”

“All life is life, even that of the Progenitors who assault me. Their deaths bring me neither resolve nor joy. I cannot prevent your pursuer, but know that once within the gray spaces this Yarex will have to walk his own bridge, not yours. Built from his own trials and traumas.”

“Thank you,” Tarn said. “For everything. We wouldn’t have a chance at this without you.”

“I was used to break the people of a hundred worlds upon the backs of the Progenitors, all in their search for the Prime. You and your companions freed me from that fate, and in doing so gifted me something I have never known since gaining intelligence: free will.”

There was a burst of cold air, as the mist began swirling away from a sudden source of wind. Tarn looked, seeing a stone archway form in the side of the wall. Snow began to blow into the room from the tempest without.

“The bridge awaits.” The dungeon’s voice began to get softer, losing itself in the howl of the wind. “I return you to your reality, Tarn Arisfal. Walk with care as you step within the gray. I suspect we will not speak again.”