Aaron had so many questions about this so-called hidden borough — not least of which was, “What the hell is up with that name?” — but he trusted he’d get answers soon enough. For now, he waited for Griffin and Kiara to join them in the hidden tunnel. It took another couple minutes for both to traverse the tracks to the secret door, but they arrived soon enough.

When the door closed behind them, Kiara gently placed a hand on Aaron’s arm.

“Put it away,” she said. “You don’t want the gatekeepers any more on edge than they already will be.”

It took a second for Aaron to register what she was talking about, until he realized he was holding his elemental wand.

I must have drawn it without even thinking about it, he realized.

Even with how he had struggled using the wand, having a weapon in hand when faced with a threat provided a kind of comfort. It was a false, dangerous kind of comfort, more likely to lull him into making bad decisions than be of any actual use, but a comfort nonetheless.

The wand went back into his pocket and they continued on.

Griffin took the lead as they started down the sloping tunnel. It was so narrow they had to move single file, with Kiara and Albert taking positions behind Aaron.

“So this hidden borough — Akwinky kwink, I think you called it — what, uh, what is it?” Aaron asked.

“Ekwiyakink,” Albert laughed. “It’s a Lenape phrase; it means under the ground.”

Griffin snorted. “It’s a heavily anglicized version of a Lenape phrase. The original is pronounced something like èkwii hakink.”

“Ekwiyakink is a series of underground settlements connected by an elaborate warren of tunnels. It’s mostly goblins and orcs down here, but there’s a fair number of dwarves, gnomes, and other eidolons,” Kiara explained.

“Some settlements won’t even interact with topsiders, let alone allow them in, but those are usually on the deeper levels or out near the fringes,” Griffin added.

“What do they do down here?”

Griffin shrugged. “They live, like anyone else. There’s a lot of mining and an academy that mostly caters to the locals, but a majority of the industry is based around farming.”

“Farming?” Aaron repeated. “Like mushroom farming? Or something more like hydroponics?”

Griffin chuckled. “No, no. Although they do keep themselves fed, when I say farming I mean dungeon farming.”

Aaron knew what it sounded like Griffin was saying but didn’t know if he believed what he was hearing. It fit all of his preconceptions and the hints he’d pieced together from things the trio had said, but he had struggled to bring himself to believe it.

“When you say dungeon…” he said, the question implied.

“‘Dungeon’ is a catch-all term for the many abandoned, ruined, or forgotten places in the world,” Kiara explained. “They’re usually full of monsters and shit, but they often hold treasures, as well..”

“That’s what we usually do — explore and loot dungeons,” Albert added.

If someone had forced Aaron to make a list of things he thought were least likely to exist in the secret world of mythical beings, actual dungeons would have been right at the top. Time travel would probably be higher, but even that was in jeopardy with the new knowledge that there was an industry based on dungeon crawling, of all things.

It was a popular trope in video games and fantasy novels, an exaggerated form of colonialism’s plundering of other culture’s ancient monuments. Dungeons presented an easy, amoral source of drama, growth, and treasure, so no wonder it had become a staple of the genre. But in the real world? Come on…

“Assuming you’re not screwing with me — who built these dungeons? How the hell do normal people not know about them? Why aren’t there historical documents and all that?”

“History is longer and more complicated than you think,” Griffin said with a shrug.

“And they do know about them; some of them, at least,” Kiara added. “Stonehenge, a lot of pyramids all over, and many others. Think about it like this: if you read an eyewitness account of a unicorn from the 3rd century, would you assume the person who wrote it — a homo sapien, like everyone you’ve ever known — had the same capacity for observation and reason as we do? Or would you assume they were a superstitious rube whose eyes and brain were somehow less developed than our own?”

Aaron didn’t answer as they walked, giving Kiara’s question serious consideration.

Neurologically speaking, the human brain had stopped evolving somewhere between twenty and a hundred millennia before the development of agriculture. In theory, the human being who sowed the first field had roughly the same capacity for reason and learning as anyone in the time since.

But do I believe that? he asked himself.

The answer was a resounding no; or it would have been, until a few days ago. Now, his perspective was much less certain. Aaron wondered how mankind had devolved to be so ignorant of the world around them. His credulity might not encompass the truly outlandish — Aliens building the pyramids comes to mind, he thought — but other phenomena? Sure.

People had been writing about supernatural creatures and other occurrences for as long as writing existed. Much of it was written as history or a record of oral traditions. Mythology and religious texts were probably the best known form of records like that, but there were plenty of writings describing similar concepts that would have been contemporaneously treated as secular or academic.

Until a few centuries ago, descriptions and accounts of magic or monsters had been written about by scholars and historians as if they were indisputably real. From what Aaron remembered, such works were based on second- and thirdhand accounts more often than not, but that wasn’t universal.

Griffin’s comment — that history was longer than Aaron thought — presented even more troubling possibilities.

How can time be longer than time? he wondered.

Before Aaron could think of what he wanted to ask about first, however, their group arrived at a dead end. The tunnel was taller there, fifteen or twenty feet high, and the stone was engraved with an elaborate arch.

It’s like the Doors of Durin outside of Moria, except it’s not glowing, Aaron thought.

“Fuck off, humies,” a disembodied voice said, echoing in the tunnel.

Kiara held up a gold coin, turning it so the star engraved on it was facing the arch. “We want to bargain for passage. We’re delvers and are known to the Council.”

“Passage’ll cost more’n that,” the rough, sourceless voice said.

“This is just to get in the door,” Kiara replied.

There was a long pause, then a small square in the center of the stone arch — about three feet off the floor and barely six inches across — vanished. A green hand was thrust through the opening, palm up. It had long fingers with too many knuckles and dark nails. Kiara dropped the coin in the open palm, which closed around it, then disappeared back through the opening.

A moment later, the stone within the arch ceased to exist, just like the smaller square opening had moments before. Behind it stood a person, though they were unlike any person Aaron had ever seen.

Short, green, and with a large, bat-like head, the person in front of them was well under five feet tall, had pale green skin, and solid red eyes.

That’s got to be a goblin, right? Aaron thought. Too short for an orc, too bestial — and green — for a dwarf or gnome.

He — Aaron guessed the goblin was male based on voice and general appearance, but had no way to be sure and it would have been inappropriate to ask — was wearing thick leather armor and holding a spear with a metal hook at the base of the pointed blade.

“I’ll take you to the town hall,” the gatekeeper said. “But I can’t make no promises about a pass.”

The goblin took a step back and Aaron got his first good look behind the arch; it didn’t offer much in the way of subterranean architectural grandeur. Rather than opening onto a settlement, the stone door admitted them into a long, narrow antechamber — one obviously built for defensive purposes.

There were three other guards in the room, all goblins, one by the arch near them and two on either side of a similar portal at the far end of the room. Tall, thin embrasures in the walls would allow defenders to fire or stab intruders trying to cross the passage with little risk to themselves.

The door at the other end of the gatehouse opened onto an avenue carved right into the bedrock. The street had high, gracefully-curving ceilings with elaborate arches crisscrossing above. The street was broad enough that two cars could have driven down it with room to spare on either side.

The buildings were unlike anything Aaron had ever heard of. Rather than being distinct structures, each had been carved right into the same stone as the street and roof. It was as if the tunnel that served as a road had been bored into the earth first, then warrens and dens had been burrowed into the stone walls. The structures weren’t distinguished by different materials or separated by space, but by another unorthodox — to Aaron’s sensibilities — method.

The façades weren’t unadorned, uniform stone surfaces; they had been carved, engraved, embossed, embellished, enhanced, and otherwise decorated in so many ways Aaron didn’t have words for all of them. The designs weren’t limited to stonework, either; many of the surfaces were brightly colored with paints or mosaic tilework.

Without vertical separation, the structures were not limited to the same width on each level. As a result, the walls looked like a complicated Tetris game where almost all the pieces were straight. A variety of ladders, lifts, ramps, and stairways granted access to each unit and these, too, were often incorporated into the exterior decorations.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Their goblin escort led them down this broad, chaotic street. They passed a number of lesser streets branching off the main avenue but they stayed on the wider road. Soon, their group arrived at a crossroads with another major boulevard, where a large plaza sat as the hub.

Along three sides of the square, the ground floors were recessed about fifteen feet into the stone to make space for arcades supported by colonnades of intricately-worked columns. Along the fourth side, where their road would have continued, a single building spanned the entire width of the square. The design of that broad building was stark and dull compared to the others.

It was fronted by a row of pillars and columns, but the only other decoration was a uniform coat of pale red paint. What it lacked in flamboyance, the structure made up in grandeur — it was the only building Aaron had seen so far that had a discernible roof. In this case, a broad dome that covered a third of the building’s width. The stone had been cut away until there was a hundred feet of empty space above the building to create this unique feature.

“Administrative hub, library, barracks, and more, all rolled into one,” their guide said with a hint of pride. “Nothing as chaotic and disorganized as you humies have topside.”

They were led through a pair of large, bronze doors in the center of the building. Although the doors must have weighed hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds, they swung open with quiet ease. From there, they were shown to a small office not far from the entrance.

A gleaming brass plaque affixed to the door announced the office’s purpose, but it was in a foreign script Aaron didn’t recognize. The alphabet — if it was an alphabet — was made up of slashing lines and diacritical marks, which made Aaron think of a mixture of Korean hangul and the Norse futhark.

Inside, a row of teller windows straight out of the 1940s lined one wall. A small chair sat in front of each window and more lined the wall. Of the half-dozen teller windows, three were staffed, two by goblins and one by (Aaron assumed) an orc. Other than the staff and Aaron’s group, there was no one else in the office.

Three pairs of eyes turned to the quartet of humans and the guard with them, then two smaller pairs turned to the orc. The orc — who had long, dark hair in thick braids, thick, stubby tusks, and a powerful build that didn’t match a setting of such bureaucratic banality — let out a long-suffering sigh at the look from his coworkers that clearly said it was his turn.

The orc raised a meaty hand to gesture them over. “Looks like I can take you over here,” the orc said in a surprisingly soft voice.

Kiara took the seat in front of the window and the other three milled around behind her, trying not to loom awkwardly but also not wanting to be excluded. Their guide leaned against the wall by the door.

“We’d like to acquire passage to the northern end of the Theatre District,” she said.

The orc grunted. “That’s less than three miles… You do know we don’t charge by distance, right? Are you running from trouble topside?”

“Some jerks were tailing us and tried to start shit on the train,” Kiara said.

“Is that trouble going to follow you down here?”

Kiara shrugged. “The troublemakers probably will, but not the trouble. They gave me the impression they didn’t want to draw attention or mess with anyone but us.”

“What’s to say you won’t decide to start trouble on your own somewhere in the borough and bust up the place?” the orc asked.

“We’re delvers, dude,” Kiara replied. “We pass through Ekwiyakink often enough that causing trouble wouldn’t be in our best interest.”

The orc sighed and lifted a flat leather panel off the desk until it was standing upright, then set a small, round crystal on the desk in front of Kiara. Without prompting, she placed a hand on the crystal. It glowed softly in response.

There had to be a screen of some sort on the other side of the panel because the orc appeared to be reading from it. After a moment, the teller’s eyes widened slightly and his mouth opened the tiniest bit. It was a jaw drop’s baby brother — not quite as large, but the resemblance was there.

“You’re a drakus?” the orc asked. “All of you?”

The two goblin tellers turned to their coworker, their interest hiking from casual office eavesdropping, but other than some whispering between themselves offered no comment. The guard at the door didn’t make any obvious movements, but Aaron saw his grip on the spear tighten.

Kiara rolled her eyes. “We’re drakus, but we’re not drakus drakus, y’know? Like I said, we’re delvers; we don’t go in for all that intrigue bullshit.”

The orc cleared his throat. “My records show that your crew has three members, not four.”

“This guy’s a fresh fish and wants to try something more exciting than accounting,” Albert said with a snort, jerking a thumb at Aaron. “We were at the Goblin Market getting his gear sorted for his first delve. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why these jerks are on our asses — they’re hoping to jack all the shit we just bought.”

The orc frowned — a rather menacing and fearsome sight given his facial features — but didn’t comment on Albert’s theory.

“If your new associate would touch the crystal, we can make sure he’s not a criminal or previously banned from the borough.”

Aaron leaned forward and touched the crystal like Kiara had, again causing it to emanate a soft glow.

“No record,” the orc said. “Is this your first time in Ekwiyakink?”

Aaron nodded. “I’m more of a homebody, but I’m trying to get out of my comfort zone and try new things.”

“Your name? And are you also a drakus?”

“Aaron, and I am.”

The orc tapped the back of the leather panel a few times, then laid it flat on the desk again. There was a long pause where he exchanged a nervous glance with the goblins in the room.

“A day pass will cost you one aethril,” he finally said. “Each.”

That was quite a bit more than any of Aaron’s companions expected to pay, apparently, because it provoked an immediate commotion, the other three drakus talking over each other in a torrent of consumer outrage.

“An aethril?”

“That’s nine times the usual cost?”

“What the hell?”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“What kind of racist bullshit is this?”

His companions didn’t seem to notice — or didn’t care — but the guard who had escorted them now had both hands on the haft of his spear. Aaron might have been imagining it, but he thought the guard looked nervous, even a little scared.

“Listen, listen, listen,” the orc cried, raising his own voice to be heard over the din. “I know it’s a major bump in price, but you’re talking about bringing trouble into the borough!”

“It’s extortion!” Kiara fumed. “You’re ripping us off when you know damned well the only way there’s going to be trouble in the borough is if you hold us up and fast track the assholes trying to jack us.”

“We don’t — and can’t — know that for sure,” the orc replied, though he didn’t exactly project confidence. “This is just an… an insurance policy.”

“Oh, I’ll give you insurance-” Kiara began.

Albert cut her off by quietly putting a hand on her shoulder. He set a glittering blue gemstone down on the desk, holding it in place with one finger.

“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s a contingency… just in case, right?”

The residents of Ekwiyakink in the room let out a collective sigh of relief. Aaron didn’t understand why they were so on edge; it wasn’t like they were about to start brawling over a toll or gate fee.

“Yes, just in case,” the orc said. “I’m glad you understand our position.”

Albert smiled at the orc in a way that wasn’t particularly friendly. “And — just in case nothing happens — I hope Ewkiyakink would show their appreciation for our efforts to keep the borough safe and apply the difference in cost as credit for future visits.”

Their gatekeeper escort barked a hoarse laugh from near the door. “A dragon and his gold are sorely parted,” the goblin said.

The gatekeeper’s mirth didn’t match the energy of the rest of the people in the room. Albert was giving the orc clerk a long, hard stare — still smiling his non-smile — and Griffin and Kiara were both still pissed, too. The clerks, for their part, were carrying out a silent conversation consisting entirely of loaded glances among themselves.

“We could treat the payment as a deposit,” the orc clerk said slowly. “It could be held in abeyance until you leave Ekwiyakink. If there’s no incident, the difference could be applied as a credit for future visits.”

“No incident caused as a result of anyone who might be pursuing us, right?” Albert clarified.

“Yes, of course,” all of the clerks quickly agreed.

Aaron cleared his throat. “You said ‘could.’ I’m sure you could do all those things, but is that what you’re going to do?”

The clerks exchanged another glance while the gatekeeper began to snicker again in the background.

“Of course,” the orc replied, clearly unhappy with his own answer.

“Great!” Albert said, taking his finger off the aether-infused sapphire.

There were no contracts to sign, no drops of blood used to bind them in a mystic covenant, not even a handshake to seal the deal. Terms had been offered, negotiated, agreed on, and payment had been rendered. It was real informal, fairy tale shit. Each of the drakus had to touch the small crystal, but that was only so other checkpoints could identify them and confirm their passage, but that was it.

With the bureaucracy, or lack thereof, out of the way, the gatekeeper showed them back out to the town square.

“Thanks for making those desk jockeys sweat. I’ll be telling that story for months,” the goblin said, then left them with one last chuckle to return to his post.

Kiara wasted no time and began to lead them to one of the avenues leading away from the square. Aaron followed, but he had questions. Again. It seemed like all he had lately were questions.

“What was that back there? I get that they were price-gouging, but that was… tense.”

“Remember that whole thing about drakus not messing around when it comes to gold?” Griffin asked. “Well, it’s like this — drakus will spend money, give money, even risk money, and be okay with it. But we’re rarely okay with losing money.”

“He means we’re greedy shits and hold grudges if we think someone took our gold,” Albert clarified.

“What? Like a racial trait? I don’t really buy into that kind of stuff.”

Kiara shook her head. “It’s more like a deeply-ingrained perspective we get from our inherited memories; even for those who can’t access them consciously.”

“So we’re actual gold-hoarding Smaugs?” Aaron asked. “Lame. Super lame.”

“It’s not pathological or anything, but it’s a common enough theme with drakus that everyone else is aware of it,” Griffin said.

As much as Aaron would have liked to discuss this tendency towards selfishness — and its implications — there were more pressing matters to attend to.

They still needed to cover miles of distance in Ekwiyakink, get back to their car, then make their way to the apartment, all with a cadre of potential assassins of unknown origin and capability on their trail.

The first problem — covering the distance back to the car — had a relatively easy solution since they were already in the hidden borough and Kiara led them to it at a brisk walk.