Linked Parties

The wagon groaned with every rut in the road, and Nathan’s tailbone had officially filed for divorce. Half a day on rough planks with nothing but a burlap sack, and he was convinced medieval travel was a scam.

The horses up front snorted and tossed their manes like they were enjoying themselves.

Hours earlier, the mercenaries had been stiff with nerves at his presence. Now, with miles behind them, the edge was gone—laughs, off-key humming, even a man dozing with his chin on his chest.

Nathan glared at them through the next spine-rattling rut. Glad someone’s enjoying the medieval torture device. What did that glare look like on Mason’s face—exasperated or homicidal? He almost wanted someone to notice.

The lurch of stillness was almost worse than the bumps. The driver hauled the team to a halt, wheels biting into the dirt. Nathan grabbed for a crate to steady himself, pulse stuttering at the sudden quiet.

Around him the mercenaries moved instantly, no orders needed—packs hoisted, straps checked, gear passed down the line with the ease of men who’d done this a hundred times. The rhythm shifted from riding to marching, and only then did it click in Nathan’s head. Oh. We’re walking now.

Ahead, Ronan swung down from the saddle in one smooth motion, boots thudding in the dust. He passed off his reins without looking and strode toward the bend in the road.

Nathan blinked, then froze. Five adventurers waited ahead—gear dusted with travel, weapons resting easy at their sides.

All women?

Ronan didn’t hesitate. “Captain Garrick,” he said, like the name had always been his. A beat, smooth as stone. Then he lifted a hand, gesturing toward Nathan still stuck on the wagon.

“My second, Corin.”

Nathan nearly missed his cue. Corin? Every thought in his head crashed at once. Was that supposed to be him? For a wild second he just sat there, heart thudding. Then he felt the eyes on him, the silence stretching too long. He scrambled down, nodding like he’d rehearsed it. Oh sure. Just throw me on stage without a script. Thanks, Ronan.

A heavy pack slammed into his chest. Ronan had shoved it there without breaking stride. Nathan clutched it against his ribs, muttering under his breath, Guess I’m carrying this now.

The women’s eyes slid over him once, then returned to Ronan without comment.

The mercs didn’t blink either—quick looks, measuring, but not familiar. They knew the reputation, not the man: stories of Mason the brute, not the face behind them. Maybe Ronan had chosen them for exactly that.

Maybe that was why neither Dane nor Caldris was here. Too close. Too familiar. Or maybe Nathan was just imagining patterns where there weren’t any. Either way, the thought steadied his breathing.

Mason’s mask stayed on his face, but the question lingered. Ronan always seemed to have a plan—but whether that plan was protection, strategy, or just expedience, Nathan couldn’t be sure.

The woman at the front inclined her head, a weathered captain’s sash faded at her hip. “Captain Sera.”

“Your link.” She tugged her sleeve back.

Link?

Faint lines shimmered along her forearm—thin as veins, glowing red.

Ronan mirrored the motion. For a breath, both marks pulsed in unison before fading.

“Link confirmed.” Sera’s smile was brief, businesslike.

Nathan stared. Okay… the fuck? Some kind of blood-pact Wi-Fi? He glanced around, but no one else so much as blinked. Just another Tuesday for them, apparently. He kept his mouth shut and let it go.

Sera lifted a hand in a curt wave toward the women behind her.

The mage was the first to break the silence. “Nyx.” She tilted her head at Nathan and let a grin flicker across her face, hoisting a pack higher onto her shoulder. “Don’t look so stiff, second-in-command. You’ll scare the birds.”

He managed, “Corin,” and it landed awkwardly on his tongue. It had been so long since anyone had smiled at him. He almost didn’t know how to take it.

The others didn’t offer names. Just glances—measuring, unreadable. Sera’s word was enough for now.

Later, as the road narrowed, Nyx drifted closer, talking like she’d known him for weeks. “That’s Bren with the shield. Stubborn as bedrock. Tamsin’s our scout—don’t blink or she’s gone. And Alia—she’ll wrap you up before you even notice you’re bleeding.”

Nathan found himself listening harder than he meant to. Nyx’s chatter was like oxygen—easy, unthreatening, full of the kind of details he craved. And as she talked, the others began to loosen, throwing in small comments that gave shape to their edges. For once, he didn’t feel like an intruder.

They kept on that way for the better part of half an hour, the rhythm of boots and quiet voices carrying them south. Scrub gave way to bare stone, the land sloping down until the wagon path was far behind.

The trail bent around a rise where the hillside split open, forming a jagged doorway into the earth. Stone edges flexed like the mouth of something waiting to swallow them whole.

Nyx had been mid-story about Bren breaking a shield strap last winter when her eyes narrowed. The chatter slipped from her face, her whole presence sharpening as she tapped what looked like a pen—no, a wand? Nathan’s best guess—against the bracer strapped to her wrist.

“Fresh seed,” she said. “Mana-born, probably sprung up in the spring storms. They grow fast—containment’s overdue.”

Mana-born? Nathan turned the phrase over, unease prickling at the back of his neck.

It wasn’t just her. Sera adjusted the fall of her sash, Bren tugged once more at her shield straps, Tamsin tested the balance of her knives, and Alia uncorked and recorked a vial, checking the seal. Even the mercenaries—men who had joked and dozed half the ride—fell into a quiet rhythm of last-minute checks. Ronan, at the front, rolled his shoulders once like a man slipping into armor that wasn’t made of steel.

Nathan looked down at himself: lopsided pack, practice sword thumping his thigh, breath fogging too quick. He had no rhythm to fall into. No ritual. Just the sense that he was the only one here who hadn’t gotten the memo.

The way Nyx could drop into pro mode in half a breath—yeah, that was impressive. The way they all could? Terrifying. And it left him stranded, obvious, completely out of place.

The others slipped into the maw one by one with practiced movements. Nathan froze at the threshold. Everything in him screamed not to go. His chest cinched tight, breath catching against the weight of it. Ah, shit.

He forced one step forward—just one—and the world changed. The air dropped colder, carrying a sour tang of stone sealed too long. Torchlight licked the walls and revealed movement where there shouldn’t have been any.

Shapes drifted in the gloom, pale and translucent, pulsing faintly like jellyfish tumbling through water. One bobbed closer, tendrils swaying.

Immediately? Why? His gut lurched. Nope. Nope. Nope.

It slapped onto a mercenary’s arm with a wet, sucking noise, tendrils wrapping tight around the leather bracer strapped there. The man grunted, jerking hard until Bren strode over and crushed the thing flat, smoke bursting from the metal gauntlet on her wrist.

Nathan flinched as another drifted near, tendrils brushing his sleeve. He yelped, flailing back against the wall. “Nope. No thank you! Somebody smash it—burn—”

The blob pulsed once… and drifted past. Totally disinterested.

“…Did I just get rejected by a fucking slug?”

The women didn’t even blink—until Tamsin slowed, frowning.

“What was that word?”

Nathan blinked. “What word?”

She wrinkled her nose, trying to shape the sound. “Fuhh…kin? Is that your dialect?”

His stomach dropped. Wait. I’m sure I’ve heard swear words… so not all of them. Maybe it’s just… fucking? That one doesn’t translate?

“Yes,” he blurted. “It’s an expletive. Just—don’t worry about it.”

Too late. Nyx’s grin went wicked. She said it back in a sing-song. “Fuhh-king.” Almost nailed it.

Tamsin snorted and joined in. Then Alia, soft but curious, echoing the sound.

Bren rumbled it under her breath, like testing steel on her tongue.

Even the mercenaries in earshot started muttering it back and forth like kids daring each other.
And suddenly half the party was trudging through a dungeon, chanting fuhh-king, fuhh-king like it was a marching song.
Nathan nearly doubled over, laughter choking out of him. What the actual hell was his life?

Nyx leaned in, grinning like she’d just won a bet. “So? Did I say it right?”

Nathan wheezed, still half-laughing. “Close enough.”

For a heartbeat, they sounded like a tavern chorus two kegs deep. Then the chant unraveled into chuckles, boots scuffing back into rhythm. For a few steps, it almost felt like they were just travelers making noise to hold the dark at bay.

His brows crept up. Wait. Am I the origin story of fucking? The thought lingered only a moment before the dungeon swallowed the last of their laughter.

“By the way,” Nyx said, her tone sharpening, “they’re mana leeches. They drain mana. You don’t have any, so it ignored you.”

Nathan straightened, bristling. “I do too. I’m just—concealing it.”

Nyx snorted. “Please. You’re void.”

Void. The word scraped wrong inside his chest. Heat rushed up his neck. “I’m not void. I’m perfectly… edible.”

Tamsin wheezed, nearly dropping her knife. “You just bragged about being food.”

Another leech floated lazily in and landed square on Nyx’s bracer with a sticky pop. Her composure shattered instantly. “Ugh—get it off—get it off!” She shook her arm like a cat with tape stuck to its paw.

Bren peeled it off and crushed it without ceremony.

Nathan’s grin slipped free before he could stop it. “Well. At least one slug thinks you’re tasty.”

Nyx’s glare promised murder. “Not. A. Word.”

For the first time since waking in Mason’s fortress, he didn’t feel like a tyrant or a fraud. Just Nathan—Corin, for now—clumsy, ridiculous, maybe even allowed to stay.

The air shivered. At first he thought it was another leech brushing past his ear—then the stone itself rumbled.

Dust rained as the walls ground sideways with a roar, slabs sliding like teeth gnashing shut.

“Shift!” Bren barked, shield snapping up.
Ronan moved faster. His hand clamped Nathan’s shoulder. “Move.”

And then Nathan was airborne.
Not gracefully. Not heroically. Just—flung.
Mason’s heavy frame betrayed him, boots tangling, balance gone. He sprawled across the stone in a graceless heap, palms scraping raw.

The wall slammed with a crack that shook the air. Solid.

Nathan stared at it, chest heaving. If Ronan hadn’t—he’d be pulp between stone teeth. No question.

A shaky laugh bubbled up. “Ha… almost died. Ronan… you really saved my ass.”

Silence pressed back. Dust drifted in the air.

No Ronan. No mercs.

His throat went dry. He saved me—and got cut off instead.

Sera’s voice cut through the haze like steel. “On your feet. We don’t stop because we’re short one captain.”

At her command, they moved with the ease of ritual—Bren bracing like a wall, Tamsin sliding ahead, Alia calm with her vials, Nyx’s restless energy sharp in every motion. At the front, Sera’s stride was clipped and certain, each step weighted with command.

Nathan’s chest hammered. No Ronan. No safety net. Just me.

Hope he’s okay.

The last grind of stone faded into silence.

They pressed deeper. The tunnel closed in, damp stone brushing shoulders. Torchlight warped across wet walls, shadows stretching long.

They knew what to do. All of them.

They moved like a unit, every gesture practiced, every step certain. Nathan had no anchor. No script. Just the weight of borrowed gear digging into him and a mask that felt thinner with each breath, fraying at the edges as the dark pressed closer.

The words slipped out before he could catch them. “I should probably tell you—I don’t actually have much dungeon experience.”

The echo cracked sharp off the stone. His gut plunged. Great. Smooth. May as well wear a fraud sign on your forehead.

For a breath, no one answered.

Then Bren’s voice came, steady as stone. “Better to admit it than get someone killed.” She adjusted her shield and kept walking. Nothing more.

Tamsin let out a low whistle. “Don’t worry,” she said with a grin, knife spinning lazily. “We’ll keep you breathing long enough to learn.”

Nathan’s ears burned. He opened his mouth, closed it again.

Nyx finally looked over, something small twirling between her fingers. “Ignorance is fine,” she said, sharp but not cruel. “Pretending isn’t.”

It pricked clean, but not like a knife—more like a stitch.

Alia’s voice came last, soft as cloth. “Then you’ll watch. You’ll learn. That’s how we all start.”

Nathan blinked. That was it? No sneers. No mocking. Just… understanding.

Something inside him eased, like untying a knot he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

For the first time, no one called him Boss. No one watched like his next breath decided theirs. Just himself.

And for the first time, the mask didn’t feel like a noose. It felt… almost bearable.

The tunnel widened into a chamber breathing with faint light. Veins glowed in the stone like it carried blood, and tiny gold flecks drifted through the air—like glowing dust caught in sunlight. They slipped into cracks that pulsed faintly, as if the walls themselves were drawing them in.

Nyx’s eyes tracked the drifting specks. “Motes,” she murmured. “Raw mana. Don’t touch them unless you want blisters.”

Nathan flinched back a half step. Great. Even the air’s trying to kill me.

“Hold,” Sera ordered.

The women obeyed instantly. Bren braced, Tamsin ghosted the edges, Alia drew a vial.

Nyx crouched low, slate in one hand and that wand-pen thing in the other. She sketched a spiral—quick, sharp. The lines burned alive, as if the stone itself remembered fire. A hum rolled out, deep enough to thud in Nathan’s ribs.

One of the flecks jerked sideways, yanked into the spiral like a fish on a line.

The glow swelled, stretching thin until it cracked. What had looked like a floating spark bulged wider, folding out into shape. A beetle’s carapace gleamed inside, jagged mandibles snapping as sparks hissed across its shell.

Nyx flicked the tool and the spiral shattered. Smoke burst where it had been.

Nathan gaped. She’d just… drawn a symbol. And it worked. The curve of that spiral—it looked like the same kinds of marks that had glared up at him from Mason’s tomes. The ones he couldn’t make heads or tails of. And here she was sketching them like it was second nature.

The words tumbled out. “You’re sketching spirals with your wand-pen thing and they actually work?”

“Stylus,” Nyx corrected, curt. “Augment. Practical. Not flashy.”

Nathan blinked. Wait. It’s actually called a stylus?

His jaw went slack. She’d erased it—like it had never been. Actual magic, deliberate and controlled. He wasn’t sure if he could ever get tired of seeing it… or if he should.

His laugh came out thin. “Not flashy? You just erased a bug made of sparks and nightmares.”

Her grin flickered—then vanished. Her head whipped toward him.

“You.”
Nathan froze.

Nyx’s nostrils flared, sharp as a wolf catching scent. “You smell like mana.”

Bren frowned. “Impossible. He’s void.”

“Void doesn’t flare,” Nyx snapped. “He did. And it’s already dissipating—you all felt it.”

Tamsin’s knives glinted. Alia’s grip tightened.

Nathan’s pulse pounded, static fizzing under his skin. “I—I felt… something.”

And then—

His own voice. Except it wasn’t him speaking.

Whispering in Korean.

Hello.

It slithered through his marrow, intimate as breath. Not thought. Not sound. A resonance using his voice like a mask.

Nathan’s breath hitched. No one else reacted. Of course they didn’t. It hadn’t touched the air.

A chill locked his spine. The echo rang on in his bones like a bell that refused to die, hollowing him out with every pulse. His breath hitched, caught—like the air itself wasn’t his anymore.

And then the darkness took him.

The stone slammed shut, the echo grinding through his teeth. Dust still hung in the air. Men shouted, fists striking uselessly at the sealed wall.

Ronan didn’t move. His hand still tingled from the shove he’d given the Boss—out of reach now, trapped on the other side with the women.

“Any wounded?” His voice cut through the noise.

A chorus of shaken no’s.

“We look for a passage. Keep tight.”

The men fell in around him, boots striking into the twisting dark. Ronan kept them moving, but his own thoughts spiraled.

A week ago he would have leapt without thought. He would have thrown himself into the gap gladly if it meant the Boss lived. That was the rhythm Mason had carved into them: the Boss at the front, the rest shields and fodder, and Ronan the anchor that held the line. No hesitation. No question.

But that rhythm faltered. Since the Boss had returned from the dungeon, something in him had started to shift. The fog he hadn’t known was there began to lift, leaving everything raw, unsettled. He found himself questioning orders that never came, traditions he still enforced out of habit. Even the men laughed, gambled, smiled in ways he hadn’t seen in years—and he found himself letting it run longer before shutting it down.

And when he thought of Mason—truly thought of him—what rose up wasn’t loyalty. It was hate. The old words he’d used to justify it—necessity, obedience, survival—slid away like rotted cloth. The man hadn’t been cruel when he had to be. He’d just been cruel. Selfish. Always.

The habits still tugged at him like chains, but something deeper, hotter, pressed against them. He was still chewing on that truth when it hit—an invisible hook driving into his chest, sharp enough to stagger his breath.

For a heartbeat he thought something unseen had dragged him down.

Then it was gone.

Ronan flexed his hands until the tremor eased. Around him, the others marched on, untouched, unaware. Whatever had brushed him hadn’t touched them. Its weight was familiar, though—a shadow trying to close back over him. The wrongness settled in his gut, heavier than the dungeon walls pressing close.

His throat worked once. Then, low enough no one else could hear, he whispered into the dark:
“Stay alive.” If you felt it too… I need answers.