At dawn, a guard checked their permits. Amara, Davos, Bran, and Lysander, roused from sleep, presented their tags. The guard grunted and moved on. They returned to the mine.
Deep within the mine, as they worked, Bran let out a resounding fart. “Apologies, brothers,” he said. “Too much breakfast.”
“Bran!” Lysander shouted. “This place is cramped enough!”
Bran muttered a prayer under his breath. “Gods, grant me strength… and a valuable find…” He hefted his pickaxe, but Amara grabbed his wrist, stopping him.
“Stop!” she exclaimed. “Wait.” She brushed away loose rock to reveal a pulsating crimson vein. “Firestone,” she breathed. “Careful. Stand back.”
“Firestone?” Lysander asked.
“Highly volatile,” Amara explained. “I’ll strike it. It takes a few seconds to detonate, so we need to move quickly.” With a swift blow, she struck the Firestone. "Run!"
They retreated towards the mine entrance. A powerful explosion rocked the mountain, sending a plume of dust and debris billowing from the opening.
Once the dust settled, they cautiously re-entered. Amara examined the exposed rock. "Fortunate," she said, smiling. "It cleared a path.”
They began clearing debris. Suddenly, Bran shouted, “I found something! A Sacred Crystal!”
Energized, they worked with renewed vigor, uncovering smaller gemstones. Davos unearthed a black stone pulsing with violet light.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“A Sacred Stone,” Amara breathed. “That’s what they’re really after. It’s worth a fortune! But one isn’t enough. There must be more. We’ll gather what we can, sell it, resupply, and return.”
They agreed and headed back to camp. They passed a cart overflowing with ore and gemstones from the larger mine’s team.
“Did you see that?” Lysander asked Bran. “Spread the word when we get back.”
“Stir things up?” Bran grinned.
“Just plant the seed,” Lysander said. “Let them decide.”
“Consider it done,” Bran said, his eyes gleaming.
Back at the camp, Bran approached a group of Aslilian miners. “Did you see who just came down?”
"No. Who?"
"The big mine team. Their cart was overflowing with Sacred Materials. We've been working for days, barely enough to feed ourselves, while those lucky bastards are practically swimming in the stuff! It’s not right. We chose last, so we got the scraps. It’s not fair.”
“Really?” a miner asked. “They found that much?”
“They’re selling their finds now,” Bran said, nodding towards the trading post. “Still unloading.”
“No way,” another miner muttered. “How can they be so lucky?”
“It's not luck,” another miner said bitterly. “It’s because they chose first. It’s unfair.”
“Unfair indeed.” Bran agreed, feigning sympathy. “Unfair indeed.” He clapped the miner on the shoulder. “Well, I should get back. Good luck, brothers.” He turned and walked away, smiling slyly.
The next day, Davos worked tirelessly, widening the narrow passage that led westward.
“Hold, Davos,” Amara said. “Let me check our position.”
Davos stepped back as Amara knelt, pressing her ear to the rough stone floor. She listened intently for a moment. “Yes,” she whispered, a smile playing on her lips. “We’re here. They’re directly below us.”
Lysander approached, his voice hushed. “From now on, we must be silent. No noise, no unnecessary movements. We don’t want to alert them.”
“Agreed,” Amara whispered back.
“Listen carefully, Amara,” Lysander instructed. “Try to pinpoint their location. Where they are working, where they store their finds. Everything. We’ll need a detailed plan.”
“I can do that,” Amara replied. “But it will take time.”
“Take all the time you need,” Lysander said. “Better to plan carefully than to rush in blindly.”
Amara settled in, her ear pressed against the stone, listening to the faint sounds of activity emanating from the larger mine below. For hours she remained there, motionless, her concentration absolute. Her companions brought her food and water, careful not to disturb her.
Later that evening, they gathered around the fire, their faces lit by the flickering flames. Amara, her voice low and precise, described what she had heard.
“Three work areas,” she began. “Three separate teams. One to the north, one northwest, and one northeast.” She paused. “Directly below us… I heard the sounds of heavy sacks being moved. Ore, most likely. And… I’m certain I heard the distinct clinking of Sacred Crystals.” Her eyes gleamed. “It appears… we’ve found their storage area. But… there’s a single guard. Pacing back and forth. Protecting their hoard.”
“Amara,” Lysander said, “did you notice if the guard was pacing near their storage area ever… leaves his post?”
“Yes,” she replied, after a moment’s thought. “He was gone for a time. Someone else returned, but their footsteps were different. It was the longest absence I observed.”
“A shift change, then,” Lysander mused. “Makes sense. I saw two guards at their entrance as well. What about at night?”
“More guards inside at night,” Amara confirmed. “Patrolling.”
“I’ve seen that too,” Lysander agreed. “They prioritize guarding over mining after dark. I’d guess six miners and the rest on rotating guard duty. It’s what I would do.”
“So, heavily guarded, day and night,” Bran observed. “What’s the plan?”
"We strike during the day, at shift change," Lysander explained, his voice low and deliberate. "That's our best opportunity. Most of them will be inside, transitioning between work crews. If we were to hit them at night, suspicion would likely fall on the workers from the other mines nearby. That kind of attention could easily be directed at us, and we'd be caught in the crossfire. But a daytime raid, right when one shift is leaving and another is arriving, and everyone's coming and going? That points the finger inward, at the other teams working this same mine. They'll be looking at miners from the other shifts, wondering who among them is a thief." He paused, letting his words sink in.
"We hit them hard," he continued, emphasizing the word. "One swift, decisive strike. We take everything we can carry – crystals, stones, ore – and then vanish. They'll be on high alert after that, of course. We won't be able to repeat this with the same target so quickly." A sly smile touched his lips. "But there are other mines. Medium-sized ones. We'll use the same tactic, scout them out, find the most productive ones, and hit them too. Create some... widespread chaos. Let the rumors fly."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Once enough suspicion and mistrust have built up, particularly directed at the large mine and their perceived hoarding – when the different teams within that mine are already at each other's throats – that's when we move in again. We'll use the confusion and infighting to our advantage. While their teams are busy accusing each other, we'll exploit the disruption and target their central storage."
On the day of the raid, deep inside their own mine, Lysander laid out the plan one last time. Then, it was Amara's cue. She moved to the designated spot, pressing her ear against the cold, rough stone floor. Her task was crucial: to listen, to wait for precisely the right moment, the peak of the shift change chaos below. The cacophony from the larger mine – shouts, the clang of tools, the rumble of carts – was a muffled roar through the rock. She needed to filter through it all, to pinpoint the sounds of confusion, distraction, and the guard's temporary absence.
Finally, she heard it – a momentary lull, a brief respite in the usual rhythmic sounds of work, overlaid with the chaotic clamor of miners coming and going. Now. With a sharp nod, she signaled Davos.
He'd been poised, pickaxe in hand, muscles tense. He didn't need a second command. With a mighty heave, he brought the pickaxe crashing down on the designated spot, directly below where Amara had listened. The stone shattered, but the specially-chosen section, weakened by days of Amara’s sound listening. held – for a precious few seconds. Another two, fast swings, as Amra had tought. More cracks spiderwebbed across the rock. And another three hard blows. One final, shattering blow, and a gaping hole opened up, revealing the bustling activity of the large mine's storage area directly below.
Dust and debris rained down, momentarily obscuring the view, but not masking the shouts of surprise and alarm that erupted below. This was not perfection, it's almost perfect. But before anyone below could clearly see up at what happend or had the presence of mind to react. Amara has no time.,
The rope, already pre-positioned and weighted, snaked down through the opening. Amara, moving with the speed and agility of a mountain cat, was the first down. She landed lightly on the dusty floor of the storage area. Her focus was laser-sharp: the sacks. Sacks heavy with ore and – hopefully – the prize, the Sacred Stones.
She spotted a stack of sacks piled near a wall. A fast move., a fast check. Yes, those were the ones. A quick test to open it… black stones. This is it!
She didn't waste a moment. Snatching an empty sack nearby, she quickly filled it with as many of the black stones, and pulled the drawstrings tight. Looping the rope around the neck of the sack, she tugged sharply – the pre-arranged signal.
Above, Davos, feeling the tug, hauled with all his might. The heavy sack shot upwards, disappearing into the darkness of their own mine. Bran was ready. He snatched the sack, swiftly undoing the rope and passing the heavy load off to Lysander, who had the larger cart-bag in position, already taking a huge share of it. Then, with no communication required, they executed it back, down to Amara again. Davos tossed the rope back down to Amara with incredible speed.
This process repeated, a blur of coordinated motion. Amara grabbed the sack after the sack, looping, tugging. Davos hauled, Bran unhooked and relayed, Lysander stashed. They were a machine, fueled by adrenaline and the thrill of the heist. They’ve taken much more.
But then, Amara heard it. Footsteps. Heavy, approaching footsteps. The guard. Returning. Too soon.
Without hesitation, she leaped for the rope, signaling frantically. Davos understood instantly. He heaved, putting every ounce of his strength into the pull. Amara shot upwards, her ascent a dizzying rush.
Just as she cleared the hole, Bran slammed a pre-selected large rock into the opening, effectively sealing it. It wouldn't hold forever, but it would buy them precious time. They couldn't have done better.
Back in the relative safety of their own mine, they were all breathing heavily, hearts pounding, but a triumphant grin spread across each of their faces. They had done it. They had actually pulled it off. The exhilaration was intoxicating.
Later that evening, as they were loading their rickety cart with their haul, the giddy excitement hadn't faded, but Lysander, brought them back to reality.
"We need to be smart about this," he said, his voice low but firm. "We can't just parade this cart around loaded with stolen goods. We need camouflage. We'll layer the bottom with the less valuable ore and a few gemstones – just enough to make it look like a legitimate haul from our own pitiful claim. Then, we'll pile rocks, dirt, and some old cloth over the real prize. Anything worthless, cheap, and inconspicuous. We need to look like we barely scraped by, not like we struck it rich. We become high value targets. We are easy to pick.”
As they finished loading the cart, everyone was in agreement with Lysander's camouflage plan. With their illicit gains safely hidden beneath a deceptive layer of ordinary rocks and dirt, they set off for the city, intent on selling their (less valuable) surface-level ore and replenishing their supplies.
"Bran," Lysander said, his voice low as the cart rattled along the track, "Don't forget. Stir up more talk. Focus everyone's eyes on the big mine. Their greed, their supposed 'luck'. The more envy and resentment we breed, the better for us."
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Bran grinned. "Consider it done. I'll make sure every miner in Eryndor is talking about those 'lucky bastards' and their overflowing carts."
Arriving at the trading post, they sold the ore and gemstones they had deliberately left exposed – a meager haul, but enough to appear legitimate. Bran, true to his word, made a point of engaging other miners in conversation. He casually mentioned the unbelievable quantities of precious materials he’d heard were coming out of the large mine, emphasizing –with a tone that shows his surprise- how astonishingly fortunate those workers were, while he and the other hard-working guys in the smaller claims get nothenig, barely able to scrape by. These comments, delivered with a carefully crafted mixture of awe and subtle resentment, did his magic, like usual.
The sale brought them a surprisingly substantial sum of gold. It was far more than they'd ever earned honestly, and the weight of the coins in their pouches was both exhilarating and terrifying.
Back in the cart, heading out of the city, Lysander addressed the issue. "We can't carry this much gold around," he said, his voice serious. "It's too risky. We need to bury it. Separate caches. That's the only way to keep ourselves, and our coins, truly safe."
His companions readily agreed. This wasn't a time for shared secrets. Each found their own secluded spot, far from prying eyes, and buried their share of the loot, marking the location in their minds with meticulous care. Reunited, they climbed back into the cart, the silence between them thick with a mixture of satisfaction and nervous anticipation.
The following day, their target was a medium-sized mine, scouted earlier by Amara. The process was now chillingly familiar: the careful listening, the perfectly timed breach, the frantic grab-and-dash, the adrenaline-fueled escape. They were becoming experts, a well-oiled machine of theft and deception.
The third day followed the same pattern. Another medium-sized mine, another successful heist, another substantial increase in their hidden wealth. The risks remained, but so did the rewards. They were growing bolder, more confident, and significantly richer. And, just as Lysander had predicted, their actions were having a ripple effect. The mines, once places of grueling but predictable labor, were descending into chaos. Small claims fought against medium, small fought against small. It was a frenzy of theft, violence, and murder, fueled by greed and suspicion. Each miner seemed ready to kill the next one.
One evening, they returned to the city, their cart laden with a fresh haul, the Sacred Crystals and Stones concealed, or so they thought, beneath a layer of ordinary ore. As they approached the trading area, one of the miners, his eyes sharper than most, caught a glint of something unusual. A stray beam of the setting sun, perhaps, had found a gap in their hastily-applied camouflage. He nudged his companions, his voice a low, urgent hiss.
"Look there! Look at that cart! It's those youngsters – the ones with the girl. Working that tiny, worthless claim high up on the mountain. I'll wager they're hiding something very valuable under that pile of rubble."
The next day, back in their own mine, Amara once again pressed her ear to the stone floor, listening to the activity in the large mine below. But this time, her usual calm focus shattered. Her eyes flew open, wide with shock and disbelief.
Lysander, noticing her sudden change in demeanor, was instantly alarmed. "What is it, Amara? What's wrong? What did you hear? Why do you look so shocked?"
Her voice was a trembling whisper, barely audible above the sounds of their own breathing. "It's... it's here."
Lysander frowned, confusion mixing with growing unease. "What's here? What are you talking about?"
"A Demons," she breathed, the word heavy with dread. "A creature called a… Skittermaw. At least, that's what we called them, back in my homeland. And they used to call them Demon. "
Lysander's confusion morphed into disbelief. A…what?"
Amara rushed on, her voice frantic and shaking. , desperate to make him understand. "It's... a monster. Big head, almost all mouth and teeth. Skinny, long limbs, but broad in the body. It moves on all fours – hands and feet – but those skinny limbs... they give it incredible strength. It can leap – incredibly far, incredibly fast. Terrifyingly fast."
Lysander struggled to process this. "Why... why would a Demons be here?"
"They're drawn to places like this," Amara explained, her voice still shaky. "Darkwood forests, mainly. And... sacred mines. Mines with Sacred Materials. That's... that's their natural habitat. That's where the Valdrin used them… to guard, to… hunt."
"Is it close?" Lysander asked, a cold dread creeping into his voice.
"Yes," Amara whispered. "Very close. And I think… I think it's going to attack them."
And then, a section of the large mine's wall burst inwards. A group of miners, clearly not from the main operation, surged through the breach, swords and makeshift weapons drawn.
The large mine's guard bellowed, "Attack! We're under attack!" He bravely tried to fight them off, but the intruders were too many and too fierce. He fell quickly, cut down before he could even raise a proper defense. The sounds of the struggle – the clash of steel, the shouts of anger and pain – reached the other workers within the large mine. They scrambled for their own tools, turning picks and shovels into weapons of desperate defense.
"They're under attack!" Amara exclaimed, her voice tight with a mix of disbelief and alarm.
Lysander was momentarily stunned. "What? From what? Is it the creature?"
"No! Other miners! They're raiding the mine!"
The main chamber of the large mine erupted into a chaotic melee. Miners fought against miners, a brutal struggle for survival and dominance. Then, without warning, it appeared. The Skittermaw, drawn by the commotion or perhaps the scent of blood, launched itself into the fray. It moved with terrifying speed, a blur of limbs and teeth. One moment it was on the far side of the cavern; the next, it had slammed into a group of miners, its powerful jaws snapping, its claws tearing. Bodies were flung aside like rag dolls, limbs severed, blood splattering the rock walls.
Amara, her face pale with horror, cried out, "It's attacking everyone! It attacked them while they were fighting!"
Meanwhile, outside their own mine, Bran was emerging into the daylight. He was about to walk around the cliff edge. Suddenly, reaching the mine entrance, his plans vanished with a startled cry and. strong hands seized his ankles. He looked down to see an outsider, a raider, clinging to the cliff face, using Bran's legs as a ladder.
The attacker scrambled upwards, shifting his grip from Bran's ankles to his waist, then, reaching, he snagged on a chain, the permit, a chocking hazard now., his fingers closing around Bran's mining permit, yanking it to help pulling himself upward. Bran, panicked and off-balance, kicked out wildly, trying to dislodge the man. The attacker lost his grip, plunging downwards with a scream… but he took Bran's permit with him.
Bran, shaken but unharmed, scrambled back from the edge and shouted into the mine, his voice echoing with urgency. "Davos! Lysander! Amara! We're under attack up here too!"
Lysander's reaction was immediate. "Grab what you can! We're leaving! We'll escape through the big mine!"
"But... the big mine is being attacked!" Amara protested.
"We have no other choice!" Lysander snapped. "It's our only way out!"
They frantically gathered the remaining ore and gemstones, stuffing them into sacks. One by one, they descended the rope into the chaotic hellscape of the large mine, right at the very entrance to their own now.. The raiders – the outsiders – had followed them, swarming through the breach and into their tunnel, shouting in an angry way.
"Follow me!" Amara yelled, her voice barely audible above the din. "I know a way out!"
She led them on a desperate dash through the labyrinthine tunnels, the sounds of fighting and the monstrous roars of the Skittermaw echoing behind them. Finally, miraculously, they emerged from a side passage, blinking in the unexpected daylight.
As they stumbled out of the mine, panting and exhausted, Bran cried out, "They took my permit! I have nothing! I'm ruined!"
Amara, without hesitation, thrust the heavy sack she was carrying into his hands. "Take this. I'll be back."
"You're insane!" Bran shouted, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You can't go back there! It's suicide!"
"I'll be fine," Amara said, her voice surprisingly calm. "I will be back."
Before anyone could stop her, she vanished back into the mine. Inside, she moved like a shadow, clinging to the edges of the tunnels, avoiding the main areas of conflict. The Skittermaw was still rampaging, its roars and the screams of its victims a terrifying symphony of death. She pressed herself against a wall, trying to make herself invisible.
Suddenly, a group of the outsider raiders – the same group that had pursued Bran at their mine entrance – came running along a higher tunnel, above the Skittermaw's current rampage. They were likely trying to escape the creature, or perhaps find another way down. As they ran, one of them dislodged a large stone, which crashed down, striking the Skittermaw squarely on the back of its skull. The impact, however, seemed only to enrage the beast further. It spun around, its huge, slavering maw twisting upwards, and with a terrifying leap, launched itself at the raiders on the ledge above.
Seizing her chance, while the Skittermaw was momentarily distracted, Amara darted forward. She spotted a dead miner lying near the wall – the same outsider who had attacked Bran and stolen his permit. She swiftly snatched the permit from his lifeless hand.
As she turned to flee, the mine itself seemed to groan in protest. The Skittermaw's furious assault, the impacts from the earlier Firestone detonations, and now the creature’s leaps against the upper levels had fatally weakened the structure. running with Firestone's path, across the ceiling above the Skittermaw, another one, above where Amara were.,. then, with a deafening roar, the ceiling began to collapse, a cascade of rock and dust engulfing the tunnel, as a chain of explosions goes by the large tunnel...
Amara ran. She sprinted with every ounce of strength she possessed, dodging falling debris, leaping over obstacles, the roar of the collapsing mine and the furious howls of the Skittermaw ringing in her ears. It was a desperate race against death.
She burst out of the mine entrance just as another section of the tunnel collapsed behind her, sending a cloud of dust billowing outwards. She was breathless, covered in dust and grime, but alive. And she had the permit.
Bran rushed towards her, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief and gratitude. "Amara! You saved me! Thank you!" Tears streamed down his face.
She handed him the permit, her own chest heaving.
Lysander, ever practical, cut through the emotional reunion. "We need to go! Now! Get to the cart! Any cart!"
They scrambled towards the nearest available cart, a slightly larger one, but unmanned. Luckily abandoned. piling in without a word, and urged the horse to a gallop, leaving the chaos and carnage of the mines behind them.
As they raced towards the trading city, their last planned destination to sell all of their loots, Lysander's voice was grim. "That's it. We're done. We're never going back there. We've gathered enough. We've seen enough. We'll find something else, something far away from this cursed place."
When they finally reached the trading post, the four of them sat in stunned silence inside the merchant's tent, their faces pale and drawn, their bodies still trembling from the ordeal. They looked as though they had emerged from a long and brutal battle – which, in a way, they had.
The foreman, flanked by a contingent of guards, confronted the four as they tried to blend in with the merchants and miners, closing around in an almost, but casual looking. “You four. The Ruler Valerius wishes to speak with you. Now.”
The command was undeniable, and their expressions showed their instant worry, mixed by the fake relief in their eyes. They were escorted, more like marched, by the guards to Valerius's presence. Brought before him, they were forced to kneel, a posture of submission before the Ruler seated regally in his chair. He looked down at them, his gaze piercing, and they, in turn, looked up at him, a mix of apprehension and defiance in their eyes.
“You have stolen from your brothers,” Valerius began, his voice smooth but laced with steel. “And, it is possible, you may have even killed some. You have betrayed your own kind. What justification do you offer for these acts? What prevents me from throwing you into the deepest dungeon?”
Lysander, despite his kneeling position, met Valerius's gaze unflinchingly. “I did not realize, brother Ruler, that morality was a concern of yours. I thought that, in the end, only the result mattered to you – that your resources reached you.”
Valerius chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Oh, you are a smooth talker, indeed. But you seem to have misjudged me.”
“No,” Lysander retorted, his voice rising slightly. “On the contrary, I haven’t misjudged you at all. I know that you know what would inevitably happen. Your laws, the ones you crafted, they are what created this chaos. Chaos you've benefited from!”
Valerius’s smile remained, but his eyes narrowed. "My laws remain laws, born of my own will and design. Did I force anyone to follow them? No. That was your choice – all of you. So don't blame the rules; blame yourselves for choosing to play by them."
“Very well, brother Ruler, but, ”Lysander said, even if you decide to imprison us, I promise you, we will find a way out.”
Valerius rose and stood directly in front of Lysander, his imposing figure looming over the young man. "I doubt that very much, my little brother." With a snap of his fingers, he signaled to the guards.
Two guards entered, carrying heavy sacks – the very sacks that Lysander, Bran, and Davos had so carefully buried. Lysander's face, previously filled with defiant confidence, now crumpled into a mask of shock and despair.
Valerius laughed, a booming, unrestrained sound that echoed through the chamber.
“Our coins!” Bran exclaimed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and outrage. “How did you get it?!”
Valerius returned to his seat, the laughter subsiding into a satisfied smirk.
Lysander lowered his head, his voice a hoarse whisper filled with self-recrimination. "How foolish I was… It was you, Amara…"
"What are you saying?" Bran cried, turning to Lysander.
"Amara?" Davos added to the question, shocked.
Bran spun around. "What madness is this, Lysander? She risked her life for us!" Then said: " Amara!, tell him he’s wrong, just say it wasn't you!"
A guard roughly released Amara's bonds. She stood, and slowly walked to Valerius’s side, remaining silent, her gaze fixed on the floor. She offered no defense, no explanation.
Valerius’s expression was smug. “I did not expect you to accomplish the task with such… proficiency. Really unexpected!”
Lysander said with the tone of someone just found the missing puzzle, completing a confusing riddle.: “You planned this from the beginning. You never intended to pay the miners their fair share. You were manipulating the situation… and us…”
Valerius laughed again. "All thanks to my beloved Amara." He reached out, pulling her onto his lap, a possessive gesture that made Lysander's stomach churn. "You were all so blinded by despair that you gave her your trust like a bunch of fools."
"And what were you planning to do with all that coins, anyway?" Valerius continued, his voice dripping with mock concern. "You're reckless. You would have spent it, or been robbed, or squandered it on fleeting pleasures. I, your elder brother, will safeguard it for you." He punctuated this with another burst of derisive laughter.
"And that is why I will not imprison you. Nor will I torture you. You three," he added, with a pointed look at Amara, completely dismissing her from his twisted calculus. "I will admit, I am… impressed. You chose the path of theft – a bold choice, and not without a certain cunning." He scoffed, a sound devoid of any real humor. "That, at least, proves something: you three are mere humans with actual brains—not, at least, those brainless sheeps. You… chose intellect over sentiment…" He turned abruptly to his aide, the movement sharp and dismissive. “Feed them well. Dress them. See their training – in all areas. I want them ready to serve.” He addressed the three young men directly, his voice regaining its steel. “Hear me, you lot. I will give you a purpose, a real purpose, where before you had only petty ambitions. You have proven yourselves… useful. And a very precious gift... a clear vision. Thus, you will work for me. I will train you. I have a need for resourceful minds in my service."
He paused, then added, with a smirk, "Go, now. And when I return from my journey, I will decide how best to utilize you.”
The three young men, shocked and defeated, obeyed without a word. They were escorted out, leaving Valerius and Amara alone.