Betrayal in the Depths

The streets narrowed as she entered the workshop district.

Copper vapors escaped from exposed ducts, blowing humid heat into the alleys and leaving a trail of rust in her nose and throat. Lais removed the heavy travel cloak — worn to disguise herself as a priestess — easing the oppressive warmth, and let the coffin float a little higher, sustained by the runes she traced with subtle movements upon the wood.

The metallic reflection of one of the vast structures of the Middle Ring revealed her own face: aristocratic features, sharp green eyes, and red hair tied in a bun, with a few loose strands falling over her shoulders to frame her face. Her fair skin showed the faint bronze of the past weeks of travel.

She wore a sleeveless blue dress of light fabric, with a deep side slit that revealed her right thigh, cinched at the waist with a golden sash that served as a belt. On her left arm gleamed a broad golden bracelet — the thaumaturgic Focus she used to shape the Aether — catching the soft light radiating from the runes on the bier.

The smell shifted just before she reached the staircase.

From oil and smoke to stagnant rot, the sour reek of something that had never seen the sun. At a motion of her fingers, the coffin obeyed, gliding down toward the foundations of Gran-Devana.

The stones, slick with moss, slid beneath the red heels of her shoes, and each step echoed, mingling with the constant dripping of the dim vault. Inside the coffin, the man she had hunted for two weeks groaned faintly; his shallow, irregular breaths leaked through the seams of the wood.

She followed the tunnels until she came to an antechamber lit by torches. The air was heavy and damp; the pressure in her chest told her the oxygen no longer flowed freely here. On the floor were recent scratches, and the wall bore the soot of heavy burning.

Then she heard it — a rasping, sibilant breath that was not human.

From the darkness, two figures emerged. Scales of copper and sand tones, light mantles draped over their torsos, turbans concealing parts of their elongated snouts. Taller than her by more than a head.

Zahal’arif. The Knowers of the Sands.

One bore a long arquebus, already loaded — the muzzle still gleaming with oil, a thin wisp of black smoke betraying fresh powder. The other carried at his waist a curved bone dagger.

“Lahm’rafeeh” said the first, his forked tongue slipping between short teeth. “Soft flesh for the Fire Dunes.”

Lais lifted her chin, never ceasing the movement of the runes that held the bier aloft.

“I came for the gold of the Swords” she told them, measuring the lizard-men as opponents. “I am a bounty hunter. What I was sent for is in here: a wanted criminal, someone no one will miss.”

No reply.

The arquebusier raised his weapon, braced the stock against his scaly shoulder, and fired. The blast thundered in the corridor, and a flash lit the walls.

The bullet ricocheted off the stone, sending shards flying, as Lais flung herself aside. Her blue dress clung to her skin when it struck the mossy floor.

She rose at once, hands already tracing circular gestures. Runes of red light formed before her. A short beam shot toward the lizard’s arm, but he swerved aside with unnatural agility for so heavy a body.

Already he was reloading.

The ramrod tamped the shot into the barrel, its dry sound echoing far too loud in the confined space.

The other charged with the dagger, aiming for her abdomen. Lais flicked her left hand, and the golden sash at her waist flared. The air between them condensed for a moment, skewing the blade’s path in a warped distortion. Even so, the edge scraped her skin below the ribs, leaving a line of blood.

A second flash followed — the next shot.

It grazed her shoulder, and pain spread through her like molten iron. The impact hurled her against the cold wall.

Lais staggered, vision freckled with spots of brightness. The taste of soot filled her mouth. With a steady hand, she summoned another circle of runes before her.

“That was not the bargain!” She spat, her voice hoarse.

“Silence!” The dagger-bearer snarled. “You shout too much.”

“There’s a buyer” she countered, stalling for time. “Someone who pays for names. And I brought one such name in this coffin. Do you want to see?”

“We will open it later” hissed the arquebusier, slotting another metal sphere. “First, you.”

Lais lunged. The wet floor demanded caution, yet her body, spurred by pain and adrenaline, moved light. She sketched quick runes in the air, and a burst of sparks leapt at the dagger-wielder. He raised his forearm to shield himself.

The spell slid past the scales and nipped his flesh. His reptilian blood had a strangely sweet odor as it dripped down his arm.

He gave a short cry and dropped the curved blade.

The arquebusier turned sideways and struck Lais across the temple with the stock. The blow rattled her teeth. She collapsed to her knees, her hands groping the uneven ground.
The echo of the strike pounded in her skull like a drum.

She tried to rise; her legs failed. The stench of gunpowder mingled with sewage grew overpowering. Her stomach convulsed, and she vomited onto the stones.

“Lahm’rafeeh” they repeated together.

“Sell me, and I’ll tear out your tongues” she muttered, more to test her mouth than from bravado.

“Flesh that speaks” said the Sand-Knower, retrieving his fallen blade. “It will speak less.”

Their hands seized her arms, dragging her by the wounded shoulder. Agony burst open anew, hot and raw, and her sight narrowed into a black tunnel.

Before the darkness closed fully, Lais noticed one detail: they were taking the coffin too.

Around her, the world throbbed in a slow rhythm. Ahead, the feet of one Zahal’arif: cracked scales, claws caked with dried mud.

“The Fire Dunes are far. We need an intermediary” one voice said, muffled and distant.

Consciousness flickered once. A few more steps. A whispered question in a harsh tongue she did not understand.

And then… nothing.