False Compass

The first creature slid out of the surf—muscle and light—dragging itself toward the sand. Others followed, slick shapes laced with faint arcs of energy as they passed the half-deflated husk Bob had left behind.

Nathan steadied his stance, breath quick. His mind was still catching up—beach, monsters, people yelling—and now this. The sand shifted under his boots.

“Augments!” Kieran’s voice cut through the chaos.

Light rippled as weapons flared—mana coating steel until every edge burned a different color.

Farther down, Taron moved—efficient, fast, arrogant even here. He didn’t waste words. When Kieran barked a command, Taron was already shifting the formation, answering movement with movement. A few clipped gestures sent two soldiers back into position. The air tasted sharp, metallic, charged.

Nathan’s sword stayed dark.

Shit. I stand out.

The nearest creature lunged. Reflex took over—blade up, pivot, strike. Clean contact. The jolt ran through his arm like live wire. Salty water sprayed his face; the thing shrieked and stumbled back into the foam. Beside him, Dane slid forward with both swords lit, carving two quick arcs.

Then Bob shot past his leg—still glowing, body shivering into something leaner and quicker for a heartbeat.

“Bob!”

Nathan’s brain stuttered. The little menace wasn’t retreating. He darted straight for the monster’s neck, teeth flashing as he latched on. The tentacle hit him an instant later, sending him skidding down the beach like a dropped lantern.

“Dammit—”

Nathan sprinted, sand dragging at his boots. Bob rolled to a stop, light surging inside him like something barely contained.

He dropped to one knee, scooping him up before he could launch again. Even through the gloves, heat bled through—steady, alive, wild.

“Hey, easy,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the surf. “You already got one. Hold tight.”

Bob quivered, gave a wet, offended noise, and settled against his chest. Nathan adjusted his grip, sliding him higher toward his shoulder without taking his eyes off the waterline.

More were already crawling onto the sand. Farther down the line, soldiers shouted orders over the crash of waves.
The creatures’ skin shifted from black to silver as the water peeled away, their bodies flexing with a wet pop. Every movement was too controlled to be mindless.

“Dane,” Nathan called, “give them space. Let them crawl out—see if they’re clumsy on dry land.”

“Yes, Boss.” Dane eased back into formation, blades angled and ready.

The creatures didn’t hesitate. They advanced—steady, deliberate, unbothered by the change in terrain.

“Guess they can handle it,” Nathan muttered. “Damn.”

Dane snorted, finally glancing over when he felt the stare. He caught Nathan’s look and mistook it for annoyance. “Still the right call, Boss.”

A sharp cry split the din—a younger man in a crimson Calvesset cloak. A tentacle had wrapped his leg, yanking him toward the surf while his partner—a woman in the same red—shouted his name but couldn’t reach him, already locked with another creature on the sand.

Nathan didn’t think. He was already moving.

Three strides across wet sand. Blade flashed, bit deep, severed slick muscle. A mix of seawater and blood sprayed across the beach.

“Watch out!”

The man just stared, probably stunned that Draegor—the rumored tyrant—had come to his aid.

The creature shrieked, the sound crackling through the air like static. Nathan turned, drove his sword through its midsection, then kicked the twitching body off the blade.

Dane appeared at his flank, blades ready, but paused when he saw the carnage. He gave a curt nod, realizing Nathan didn’t need help this time.

Nathan was already pivoting toward the next.

He moved when the enemy did—mirroring their rhythm, anticipation born from instinct and the training he’d had in the manaborn dungeon with Sera and the others.

Every strike from the others landed with the crack of mana-charged light; his landed with the raw, physical sound of his blade slicing through flesh. To anyone watching, he might have looked calm, methodical, in control—like he was holding back mana on purpose.
That was the story he’d let them believe.

A tentacle cracked past his face, humming with static as it split the air. Nathan ducked, swung low, and sliced clean through the thing’s midline. The blade met resistance, then parted it with a wet rip—slick, gelatinous, faintly smoking at the edges. It smelled like brine and burnt copper.

He grimaced. God, I’m never eating calamari again.

“Draegor!” Kieran’s voice cut through the surf. “Are you trying to get someone killed?”

Nathan blinked sweat from his eyes, still catching his breath.
He’d just saved someone—apparently that didn’t count. “What?”

Kieran’s shout cut through surf and static—“Stop disobeying my command and use mana!”

Another creature lunged. Nathan pivoted with its lunge, caught the strike on his bracer, twisted, and sliced straight through the slick mass before the tentacles could ensnare him.

The blade came free with a wet pull, dragging a tangle of bloody innards along with it.

Ew. Nathan shook the sword sharply.

He looked back, half-expecting another shout. “How’s that?” he snapped. Didn’t even need mana.

Kieran was already re-engaged—shield up, driving his blade through another creature like it had never been a question. On Kieran’s left, Taron’s blade moved like punctuation—sharp, precise, annoyed at the need for emphasis.

Figures.

The next one came from the side—too fast.
Nathan twisted, barely avoiding it, and the world jolted as Dane appeared at his shoulder, twin blades flashing.
The air around Dane’s right sword shimmered—pressure folding, light bending—and then the strike landed, clean and absolute.
The creature split at the center, its glittering chunks hitting the sand with two solid, wet thuds.

Nathan stared, half awe, half disbelief. “Nice move.”

Dane flicked the blade, eyes still on the surf. “Thanks?” He sounded genuinely unsure whether to be confused or proud that the boss had just complimented him—mid-fight.

Another surge from the water; Kieran slammed forward, shield first, aura bright as lightning. Sand turned to glass beneath his feet. Nathan saw the motion, mimicked it without the light, and somehow kept pace.

He caught the next swing on raw momentum, pivoted, drove the blade through a soft place that pulsed wrong under his hands. The creature convulsed and folded into the tide.

Then silence—thin, trembling, like glass about to crack.

Nathan exhaled, shoulders shaking, sword tip sinking into the sand.
“That’s it? Please tell me that’s it.”

For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then, as if the world decided to answer him, the sea finally exhaled.
The suspended waves broke all at once, crashing back to life with a rush of sound and salt. Foam raced up the shore, washing over scattered bodies and tugging the half-deflated husk Bob had left drifting in the shallows.
The others’ weapons dimmed one by one, leaving only the sound of the sea reclaiming itself.

Kieran stalked toward him, every step measured, fury disguised as discipline.
“Do you think this is a game?”

Nathan’s mouth opened—something sarcastic queued and ready—but he stopped himself. He always acted too much like himself around Kieran. Too much like himself.

Be Mason, he told himself. Mason doesn’t sweat; he glistens authority.

He straightened, finding that practiced calm Ronan had drilled into him.
“I had no need to waste mana or rely on an augment,” he said, hoping that was what had Kieran so pissed off. The grin came anyway—too fast, too sharp. “Not on creatures that weak.”

Kieran’s eyes flashed. “You could have amplified your strikes. You endangered the group.”

Nathan held his ground. When he answered, his voice was steady, almost bored.
“If they felt endangered, they should work on their footing.”
A beat. Then, softer, with a hint of smugness:
“Everything that tried to kill me’s already in pieces.”

The words sounded smoother than he felt. Inside, his pulse was a drumline. Smile. Stay sharp. Mason Draegor would never explain himself; he’d let them stew.

Dane stepped between them, casual, deflecting tension the way he’d deflected blades. “We’re still standing, Field Marshal. Maybe let him breathe before the next critique?”

Kieran’s gaze flicked to Dane, then back to Nathan, unreadable. The wind had started again—soft, suspiciously gentle. He sheathed his sword with deliberate precision. “Set perimeter. I’ll debrief after we’ve confirmed stability.”

He turned away before Nathan could answer.

Nathan watched him go, chest tight with everything he couldn’t say.
Kieran’s silhouette cut through the fading surf light—commanding, precise, a man who believed in duty and decency like they were sacred things.
It hurt, how easy it was to admire him.

Nathan looked down at his own blade—dull, sand-scored, ordinary—and laughed under his breath.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Totally holding back.”

The sound died fast. He wiped the sword clean, jaw tight.
He still believes I’m him for now. That’s safer.

He glanced toward the sea, letting the wind hide his voice.
“Can’t be swayed by wanting to get on Kieran’s good side,” he muttered. “Not if I want to survive this.”

He slid the blade home, spine straightening until the mask fit again.
Mason Draegor doesn’t care about approval. He doesn’t need to be liked. That’s how he survives.

***

He spotted Bob’s pouch half-buried in the sand where he’d dropped it when Bob had decided to launch himself into attack mode.

Nathan crouched to pick it up, shaking sand from the sides. Bob was still glowing—faint, but steady—like a lantern turned low.

“I’m gonna put you back in for a bit,” he murmured, holding the pouch open. He glanced toward Kieran. “Maybe out of sight, out of mind will work for a while, huh?”

Bob gave a quiet glorp—half protest, half sulk.

“Yeah, me too.”

Nathan slipped him inside and fastened the string. The pouch gave a faint wiggle before settling.

He straightened. Dane had stopped beside him, silent, watching the aftermath unfold.

Kieran was already moving down the line, checking for injuries and barking clipped orders. Most of the group was upright, shaken but whole—some gathering dropped packs, others kicking the nearest carcass to be sure it stayed dead. Taron moved a few paces behind him, quiet but everywhere at once—steadying one soldier, cuffing another for hesitation, reading the unspoken rhythm of Kieran’s commands and filling the gaps before anyone else could.

Nathan’s gaze found Envoy Doss crouched beside one of the fallen creatures.
He lingered, still catching his breath. The memory came unbidden—the way the stag’s light had flared when she’d passed near it, a reflex that hadn’t made sense then or now.
What was that about?

Doss drew a short blade and cut a clean line through one of the corpses. The sound was soft but unpleasant—the texture of something that shouldn’t exist outside deep water. She peeled a section back just enough to look inside.

“These are… unusual,” she said finally, voice level but sharp at the edges.

Kieran slowed near her. “Meaning?”

“Meaning they look like several species tied together.” She stood, brushing her gloves clean. “It’s not decay. More like fusion. Or feeding on each other until the structure blends.”

Nathan grimaced. Cannibalizing. That’s comforting.

Kieran was quiet for a moment, gaze on the bodies. “Why would they do that?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea—at the moment.” Doss gestured to one of her aides. “Take a sample.”

A scrawny man stepped forward, hair disheveled but movements steady, practiced.

Kieran’s expression tightened, unreadable. “We’re not staying here. We move inland. Away from the water.”

He didn’t wait for her reply.

Nathan looked back over the stretch of pale sand rising into soft slopes—dunes or the start of something worse. Not another desert.

He exhaled through his nose. I’d like to get off this beach too, though.

Dane shifted beside him.

Nathan noticed. Right. Mason mode. He straightened, voice steady. “Let’s get ready to move.”

Dane nodded.

Kieran was already taking stock of the group, issuing quick orders as they gathered their gear and fell back into formation. The others moved with practiced focus, tired but efficient.

They started toward the dunes. The climb wasn’t far, but the sand gave under every step, dragging at their boots. When they finally reached the top, Nathan stopped short.

The slope on the other side didn’t lead to level ground or more dunes or a desert. It dropped straight into green.

Or rather, a dense sprawl of jungle.

Nathan frowned. “That doesn’t even make sense. Ocean, dunes, then jungle?” He glanced at Dane, waving toward the valley. “Aren’t there supposed to be cliffs or something before all that?”

Dane followed his gaze, brow furrowed. “Dungeon.” He shrugged.

Nathan almost laughed. “Ah, yes. Dungeon. That explains it all.”

They gathered at the crest while the last stragglers climbed up from the beach.

Taron folded his arms, eyes tracing the valley below. “That center looks bad. Too much cover—could be nests, could be traps. We could cut in along the thinner edges instead, but it’ll slow the line.” His tone was measured, confident — the kind that came from experience. Then his gaze flicked toward Kieran. “Orders?”

Envoy Doss stepped forward before he could answer. “Can’t we send a recon team first? If we walk in blind, we could lose our bearings entirely. The whole biome feels unstable—like a fold that hasn’t settled. Or we could look for a way around altogether.”

Kieran didn’t look at her. “We’re not circling the valley or splitting up.”

“That isn’t what I said.” Her voice sharpened. “This sector is unstable—”

He turned then, slow and lethal. “You’re free to return to the beach and wait. Anyone else?”

Silence.

Doss’s jaw flexed, but she stepped back.

Kieran’s gaze lingered on her a moment, then cut through the group’s murmur. “Draegor. Thoughts?”

Nathan froze. Great. Perfect.
Ah yes, Draegor, the all-powerful mage reputation.

“Thoughts,” he echoed, buying seconds.

He looked down at the valley, pretending to analyze. Mist rolled like a low tide, thinning where the canopy dipped. “There,” he said finally, pointing. “That patch looks clearer—like a break in the trees. If we head that way as a group, it might be faster. Looks like the terrain rises again past it—maybe a ridge or foothills beyond.”

He tried to sound like he’d thought about it for more than four seconds.

Taron gave a low snort. “Or it’s a loop trap. Some chambers bait you with open ground—pull you in, then twist the path until you’re walking in circles.”

Nathan tensed. A loop? That’s a thing?
He shrugged, careful, nonchalant. “If it’s a loop, guess we’ll find out faster down there than standing here arguing about it.”

Kieran studied him a moment longer than was comfortable.

Taron nodded once. Kieran’s gaze flicked sideways—toward Dane, of all people. Dane inclined his head, small and sure.

Nathan caught it, confusion sparking. Seriously? He’s checking with one of Mason’s grunts now? No offense, Dane.

Kieran gave a short nod. “We'll head that way.”

He turned to the others. “Keep visual. No unnecessary mana use—we don’t need to attract attention; we just need to get through.”

The command rippled through the assembled group: “Yes, Field Marshal.”

They started the descent.

Sand turned into hard-packed soil and roots. The air changed—heavier, damp, alive. Somewhere ahead, something growled just to remind them who owned the terrain.

Nathan groaned inwardly. Fantastic. Into the scary jungle we go.

***

The ground changed under their boots, sand giving way to spongy soil that exhaled damp air when you stepped on it. Every footfall sank with a soft chff and sent tiny ripples through the mat of roots and undergrowth. Vines draped from the canopy, broad-leaf plants crowded the path, and the trees wore skins slick with lichen and old wounds. It was the kind of place where everything either wanted to eat you—or wanted to watch you panic first.

They moved in a staggered line, quiet by habit. No one talked much. Even the usual post-fight chatter had thinned. Nathan kept the pace beside Dane, just off Kieran’s right shoulder. He tried to look like a man who chose this exact route for reasons that had nothing to do with sheer terror of every shadow.

They still hadn’t seen any motes. Not even a stray one drifting high in the canopy. That thought kept needling Nathan—the absence louder than noise. Dungeon-born things needed to eat those; dungeons themselves ran on them.

And yet this place looked healthy. Too healthy. The jungle was lush and stubbornly normal, same as the beach had been. No veins pulsing light through roots, no shimmering fractures where motes should’ve spilled out. Just ordinary green pretending everything was fine.

A dry, vibrating hum rolled across the undergrowth. It was soft, almost polite, but it cut straight through Nathan’s spine.

The whole line stopped.

Kieran lifted a hand. No one breathed. Leaves made a tiny paper sound as the wind shifted somewhere far above.

Between two trees, something gleamed. A stretch of silk the size of a tent wall was strung across a narrow gap in the trunks. The webbing quivered. Threads as thick as cables caught the filtered light and turned it glassy. The hum deepened for a moment, then faded. Nathan squinted and saw the faintest ripple of tension crawl across the strands. Not just a trap, a tuned thing. He did not need to feel mana to know that was bad.

Envoy Doss whispered something sharp he couldn’t catch.

“Stay clear of that sector,” Kieran said, voice low and flat.

“Webs,” Nathan muttered. Giant spiders. Always wanted those on the vacation itinerary.

Bob gave a subdued, sympathetic glorp from the pouch against Nathan’s hip.

They redirected left, skirting the web so wide that the treeline swallowed it from sight. For a long minute no one spoke. Even the usual clink of buckles seemed to hold itself back. The deeper they went, the more the jungle felt like a place that listened. Shouts echoed too long. Falls of loose vine made a theatrical noise and then went perfectly quiet, like a stagehand had tugged the rope offstage.

A crunch of weight to the right froze them again. It was not quick. It was deliberate. Something big moved its bulk through brush with a slow, patient drag that felt like confidence.

Nathan saw it first. A creature waited along the half-fallen trunk of an old tree, blending with the slashed shadows. It had the long body of a cat, but the shoulders bulged wrong, and its forelimbs ended in something that was neither paw nor talon. Patches of armored hide had been fused over fur like someone had stapled beetle shells to a panther and told it to pretend. Teeth curved up and then back, a shape that had never belonged in a mammal’s mouth.

It turned its head. Its eyes did not glow. They only reflected light like oil.

Kieran lifted a hand again. Hold.

The thing watched them watch it. It did not crouch or bluff or breathe loudly. It shifted once, so the armor plates along its spine clicked softly together, then flowed down the trunk and into the brush. Leaves parted, then drifted back into place. No sound of retreat. It had simply chosen not to eat them right now.

Nathan realized his hand had gone slick on his sword hilt. He took a slow breath and made himself let go. His heart did a drum solo under his ribs. Keep the mask on. Mason would look bored.

He felt Dane’s eyes on him. Dane was tracking the line and the blind spots and Nathan’s face, all at once. Keeping up the boss act for both of them was exhausting.

Nathan found the hint of a smirk and pointed the line away from the brush where the creature had gone. He tried to look like he had always meant to head there.

They resumed moving, slower now. No one said it, but they all felt the shift. The jungle wanted to choose the terms.

From somewhere to the north, deeper in the trees, came a distant crashing roar. Not a voice. Something heavy broke timber and did not bother to hide how much it enjoyed that.

Kieran turned his head slightly toward the sound.

“Not that way,” Nathan said at once, clear and flat. He put on his best authoritative Mason voice. He hoped it didn’t sound like please.

Kieran glanced at him, then gave a single nod. “Agreed. Adjust heading south and a little west.”

Dane’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a small grin. Nathan pretended not to notice. Yes, thank you, I am very brave.

A few minutes later, metal screamed somewhere to the left. It sounded like a bridge flexing, but wrong, followed by a low rumble that ran under their feet.

Nathan pointed without thinking. “Also not that way.”

Kieran’s look this time was sharper. “Any particular reason?”

“Strategic instinct,” Nathan said, deadpan. Apparently that counted.

The formation angled away again. Nathan caught himself before he smiled. If bluffing counted as leadership, he was a genius.

I'm just trying to keep us all alive here. Away from the dangerous sounds and hopefully find the next chamber and more people.

They stopped near a tangle of broad roots to rest. The air hung heavy and still, the kind of quiet that made you hear your own pulse. Nathan sank onto a fallen trunk and rolled his shoulders, then blew out a breath he had been holding for three hours. Bob peeked from his pouch, glow faint but stubborn, tendrils tasting the damp.

“Stay put,” Nathan said. “And no eating anything unless it tries to eat us first.”

Bob made an inquisitive glorp that translated to does trying count if I make it try.

“That is the problem,” Nathan said. “You like when they try.”

He went for his pack to find water and his fingers brushed something cool and smooth in the side pocket. He froze. Then he pulled it free.

The relic piece. Right. You.

He turned it over in his palm. The etched marks along its curve were dull. Bob leaned over and tapped it with one careful tendril.

Light raced across the piece, tracing its surface like cracks forming in ice.

Nathan stopped breathing. “Did you just charge it?” he whispered.

Bob gave a small, surprised glorp, and his glow dipped a fraction—like someone had turned down a dimmer switch.

Wait.
Did Bob drain that thing on the beach?

“Bob?” Nathan whispered. “The shiny wall, the biting, the—” he lowered his voice further, “—were you hungry?”

Bob stared at him with those unblinking black eyes.

Nathan sighed under his breath. “Not sure, but that feels like a yes.”

For half a second, he wondered if that meant he could borrow mana from Bob. Did he need permission? Like Nyx and the stag?

The relic pulsed again.

We’ll figure out the mana later.

Not bright, but steady—a slow heartbeat he could feel more than see. Nathan tilted it left; the light dimmed. Tilted it toward the thicker jungle ahead; the pulse brightened.

“Huh.”

He sat very still and tried to keep his face blank. If he said something, Kieran would bite off his head and possibly wear it as a helmet. If he didn’t say something—and the relic could actually do a thing—that would be worse.

He chose the middle. He kept his tone casual. “Field Marshal.”

Kieran turned his head just enough to show he had heard. “What.”

Nathan lifted the shard slightly, careful to keep it angled like a tool instead of a confession.
“Getting a reaction from this,” he said. “Brighter when I point it toward the valley’s center. Could be a heading or a field gradient—something giving us direction.”

Doss straightened like a wire had snapped. “That’s a Guild device,” she said, voice going bright and flat in a way that usually meant trouble. “Since when have you been carrying restricted equipment?”

Nathan ignored her. “If it helps us find our people, I’m not complaining.”

Hah. Sure. Guild device.
Thanks for backing my lie, lady. It’s a relic, but we’ll go with your version.

Kieran’s eyes narrowed. Suspicion looked good on him. Sharp. “Convenient timing.”

“Yeah,” Nathan said. “I get that a lot.”

For a long second nobody moved. Then Dane said, quiet and even, “If it’s giving a signal, we can check it against our current heading.” He wasn’t siding with Nathan—just giving Kieran something to measure.

Kieran studied Dane, then the shard in Nathan’s hand, then Nathan himself. “We test it,” he said at last. “Nothing more.”

Doss’s mouth opened, but Kieran’s tone cut her off before she could speak. “We’re not debating authority while we’re still exposed. Save it.”

Taron exhaled through his nose, a sound halfway between agreement and warning. “You heard the Field Marshal,” he said quietly, eyes on the rest of the team. “Stay close and keep pace.”

***

They moved out. Kieran set a near-silent pace, Taron floating a step off his left, calling small course corrections with fingers instead of words. The trees closed in until the line felt like a snake threading a tunnel. The light went green and close. Even their boots sounded cautious.

They passed another web, this one ragged and old. The strands trembled without wind and hummed for half a breath, then went still. They circled it like a stain on a floor. Nathan didn't look up. He didn't want to see what made that kind of silk.

A little farther on, something not jungle at all rose between the trunks. It was a low, jagged shelf of stone with the wrong color and the wrong texture—like a piece of mountain had crashed down from somewhere that wasn’t this valley and hardened here crooked. Tiny shards of it glittered faintly in the moss like ground glass.

Taron muttered, “Fleshmoth. What’s that doing here? It shouldn’t even form in a chamber like this.”

Doss’s head snapped toward it. “Do not touch that,” she said, clipped. “It can absorb mana even while dormant—and multiply. As I said earlier, something’s wrong with this sector. Creatures on the beach, monsters fused out of their habitats… this fits the pattern.”

No one touched it. They gave it a wide berth, and Nathan pretended that had been his idea, too.

The jungle deepened, then opened, then bent sideways. Three times, Kieran raised a hand and had the line halt while he reoriented. Each time, Nathan held the relic in his palm and watched the pulse brighten and fade—always pointing toward the same slice of valley.

He told himself that was good. He told himself he was not imagining it.

Half an hour later they dropped into a pocket of shadow where an enormous tree had fallen and left a half-oval clearing behind. The trunk lay like a wall, split and hollowed by things that ate wood. The group took the moment to breathe and adjust straps. Doss’s aides murmured quietly nearby, their movements tight, deliberate. The pair from Calvesset shared a canteen and the kind of look travelers give each other when they know they’ll be telling someone about this for the rest of their lives.

Doss was still talking. Not loud, but steady—her voice threading through the clearing in clipped, relentless observation. “The mana flow here is wrong. The whole gradient’s unstable. You can feel it in the air—pressure shifting every few steps.”

Kieran stood a few paces away with Taron, posture all restraint and tension. He hadn’t told her to stop yet, but every muscle in his shoulders looked ready to.

Nathan set his pack down on the trunk and let Bob sit half out of his pouch. For once, Bob looked calm. Tendrils traced slow shapes in the air, like he was writing invisible notes—nothing magical, just bored.

“Stay put,” Nathan said, wiping sweat from his neck. “If you go exploring, I’m not playing hide-and-seek in this jungle.”

Bob made a single glorp that promised nothing.

Nathan ran a thumb over the relic again. The etched lines had gone from dull to a steady ember. He kept his voice low. “You going to do anything useful besides pulse, or is this your entire personality?”

He tilted it. The light brightened toward deeper green. He tilted it back. It dimmed. He was not imagining it.

He looked up to call for Kieran, then froze. Doss and Kieran weren't just disagreeing anymore. Their voices were low, but the edges were knives.

“You will not dictate field orders,” Kieran said. The words were calm. The weight behind them was not.

“Authority vested by Guild High Command doesn’t vanish because you dislike my assessment,” Doss said. “You’re pushing into an unstable biome with a mixed unit and no proper fallback.”

“I don’t need assessments,” Kieran said, the air around the words going cold. “We all feel it. The biome’s unstable, not impassable. I need focus, not panic.”

From his spot by the trunk, Nathan winced. Oof. Bad word choice.

Doss’s eyes flashed. “Panicking? Who’s panicking?”

Kieran’s jaw tightened. He exhaled once—sharp, controlled, exasperated.

Taron’s hand had drifted near his weapon without him thinking about it. He watched Doss’s aides like they might forget themselves.

Nathan rubbed the back of his neck. “And here I thought the jungle was uncomfortable,” he muttered.

He looked down at the relic again and thought of Ronan. Ronan would have stepped in already—quiet, no yelling, just that look that made you rethink your life. Nyx would have been naming the birds and the mold while giving him five reasons why the web hummed like that.

His chest hurt for a second.

The relic flickered.

Nathan turned it, careful. The surface shimmered like water and then the shimmer deepened. Not just reflection. Depth. A shape formed in the watery surface, blurred at first, then so sharp it made his stomach drop.

Nyx.

She knelt beside the Moonveil stag, brushing its muzzle with her fingers. The antlers cast a soft silver light that washed the edges of her hair. She looked tired, but alive. Her lips were moving in some soft reassurance he could not hear. The space behind her was an open slope and a line of pale stone that looked like an overgrown terrace. Not this jungle. Somewhere drier. Somewhere higher.

Nathan’s hand jerked and he almost dropped the relic. “No way,” he breathed.

The image held for a heartbeat longer. The stag lifted its head and for a foolish second it felt like its silver eyes found him. Then the picture melted back into rippling water. The relic went quiet. The glyphs were only marks again.

Bob made a chirp and pressed a little closer to his wrist.

“Yeah,” Nathan whispered. “Me too.” He eased Bob back toward the pouch before standing.

He kept the relic in his palm. Kieran barked for movement. Enough delays. Nathan shouldered his pack, and Bob’s pouch bumped lightly against his hip—a small, familiar weight.

They followed the relic’s hum. No one said that was why, but Nathan kept the thing in his hand and watched how the pulse brightened when he shifted left and faded when he veered right. Twice he stopped and called a small correction. Kieran did not argue. He did not agree either. He just moved the line and watched the trees.

Either Kieran’s too tired to argue, or he’s decided to let me walk in front so it’s easier to stab me later. Comforting thought.

The jungle thinned. Vines gave way to slabs of stone hidden under moss. Roots ran along the edges of straight lines like they could not help tracing them. The air felt heavier. Not a sense. Just the knowledge that the space had shape.

A few more steps and the valley opened.

The structure rose out of the hollow like it had been waiting. Half-buried, half-alive. A temple—or something pretending very hard. Weather-worn pillars leaned under the weight of moss and massive roots. What had once been a stair had collapsed into a crooked ramp that ran down into shadow.

Carved faces watched from the corners—creatures Nathan didn’t recognize. Their eyes were full of rainwater and small floating leaves. The air here was cooler, too still, as if the jungle itself was holding its breath.

Nathan stopped at the edge of the clearing. His heart ticked too fast. He didn’t move.

The relic brightened in his palm. The etched runes lit in a slow, deliberate pattern, then settled into a steady glow that pushed through his fingers.

Bob’s tendril poked out of the pouch and tapped his wrist. Once. Twice. More impatient.

“Not now,” Nathan said under his breath. The light did not dim. It sharpened, pressing back at his skin. “Seriously. You pick now to have opinions.”

Bob glorped in a tone that sounded very much like yes.

Nathan stared into the ruin. The opening at the base gaped like a throat. Shadows pulsed inside with the slow rhythm of breath. He couldn’t feel mana—not really—but the place carried weight. Like a drum someone hadn’t hit yet.

He shut his eyes for a second and set his jaw. “If you’re that insistent,” he said quietly, “it probably means there are monsters in there.”

Bob answered with a small, eager burble.

Nathan exhaled. “Figures.”

The runes pulsed once more—agreement or warning—then held a quiet glow.

He stared at the relic. “Fuuuck. Of course you agree. I think it’s a very bad idea to go in there.”

There was a pause. Then Dane, careful, testing the new word like a blade, said, “Fuhhh-ck.”

Nathan blinked at him. For a stupid beat he wanted to laugh. Then he tightened his grip on the relic and looked back at the dark mouth of the temple.

“Well, Draegor,” Kieran said as he came up beside him, “I suppose your device is telling us to go in there.”

“Yes.”

Kieran studied the glow a moment. “Not like we have many options. Perhaps it’ll lead us back to the rest.”

Nathan thought of the image he’d seen—Nyx and the stag—and hoped it was real. He hoped Ronan was safe.

“I believe it’s the best option,” he said at last.

Kieran studied him a moment longer, unreadable, then turned away to give orders.

Heat crept up Nathan’s neck. It wasn’t even his own face, and it was still hard to hold that gaze.

He exhaled, found his balance again, and glanced at Dane. “Ready to head into the murder temple?”

“Boss?…”

Bob burbled.