A jet-black mat spread across the floor, leaving only a thin border of stone exposed. White line work marked the battle ring, a circle bisected cleanly in half. Centered in each half sat a small white box, and within each box stood a stout rodent in black robes trimmed in white with red accents. Around them, smaller cross-legged versions of the two combatants watched in matching uniforms. Young marmots and prairie dogs, still and intent.

  One figure broke the symmetry. A larger marmot, graying at the muzzle, wore inverted robes, white with black trim.

  Above, glowing rock traced arched columns that met at the dome’s apex. Opposing doors waited in the stone walls. Along the perimeter, incense braziers burned, steeping the room in cedar and honeysuckle. Smoke climbed, pooled near the crown, and bled away through hidden vents.

  In the ring, the combatants faced each other and bowed.

  The elder marmot stepped onto the mat. His robes flowed with each careful stride, revealing a mechanical leg of tiny gears and pistons working with fluid precision, though it did little to smooth the rough hobble. Age bent him forward, kyphotic, the hump beneath his robes rounding his upper back.

  “Young masters,” he said, smile quivering. His voice wavered, yet projected well in the diffuse acoustics. “This is the final round of the sixty-seventh Psy Trial. Master Jake and Master Greg will demonstrate the full martial prowess of a burrowing rodent trained in the Way of the Earthshaker.”

  “The rocks remember!” shouted the youthful warriors lining the ring in unison. The elder marmot’s grin widened, yellowed teeth showing.

  He eyed each of the combatants, then turned toward them shakily. “Masters, are you ready?”

  They nodded.

  “Take form!”

  Jake and Greg assumed different starting positions. Jake took a staggered stance, arms forward, paws open. Greg spread his feet wide, paws clenched into fists and tucked tight to his waist.

  The gym went dead silent. Embers crackled in the braziers.

  “Initiate,” the old marmot commanded, firm but hushed. He took three quick steps back, smooth and calculated, a stark contrast to his earlier hobble.

  Jake burst forward.

  Greg shifted a fraction to the side, letting the strike skim past, then countered. Jake read it. Their forearms collided and locked. They pushed, neither giving an inch.

  Something else met between them.

  Two immovable wills, not quite thoughts laid open, more like pressure where their minds pressed together. Bodies braced. Breath held. At the edges of mindspace, a shallow contact strained, searching.

  And Jake found the seam.

  Not a memory taken, just an echo that slipped loose in the struggle. Greg’s father. A long line of Gregs. Disappointment set like stone. The fear of never living up to the name.

  Jake hooked it and pulled.

  Inadequacy surged to the surface. Greg faltered, eyes narrowing, face twisting. The lock broke at once, physical and mental, and the emotion snapped outward as a shockwave that shoved them apart.

  Jake didn’t waste the gap. He joined his paws at the wrist, palms out, and drove a concentrated burst at Greg.

  Around the ring, the novices moved together. Open-pawed—shielding. A translucent dome snapped into place.

  Greg threw up his own shield, smaller but sharp. The impact drove him back, paws skidding along the mat. His barrier deflected most of the force upward, where it splashed against the larger dome and scattered into a prismatic shimmer.

  Greg refocused, angry at his weakness, furious that Jake had seen it.

  Not quick enough.

  Jake smirked and closed the distance, snapping a perfectly formed Earthshaker Pawstrike that sent Greg reeling into the force field.

  Jake stayed on him. He had the fight, and they both knew it. Doubt flooded Greg’s mind as Jake moved for the submission. Greg defended, but he was hurt. His maneuvers slowed. Jake read every choice before it happened.

  Jake’s grin widened, eyes glinting, as he wrestled Greg down and cinched in a chokehold.

  Greg bucked and strained, nose pressed into Jake’s stubby forearm. He tried to wedge a finger into the gap, but Jake’s arm bulged tighter, like a predator pinning prey under its weight.

  Greg tapped the mat, rapid and desperate.

  The old marmot ended it. Jake, victor. Greg, defeated.

  As Greg stood and straightened his robes, he felt the room before he saw it. The circle of novices leaned toward each other, murmuring in hushed whispers. For over a century, the line of Greg had held the title of Archpsy.

  Not today.

  Today it returned to the line of Jake.

  Greg’s body moved as if running a routine program. He returned to his starting block, bowed out with Jake, and exited the ring. Behind him, commotion and celebration swelled as he left the chamber.

  “Yeah. I am a disappointment,” Greg muttered, slipping into the dingy gear room.

  He grabbed his bag from an earthen cubby and changed into civilian attire with quick, solemn movements. Fabric and buckles whispered. His locker thudded shut. Every so often, cheers seeped through the walls like mockery.

  Greg paused at the door and looked back into the familiar space. His brow furrowed, then he dropped his gaze and turned away.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The hall to the main entrance was lined with portraits, each titled Greg. His father. His grandfather. His great-grandfather. Names that weren’t names so much as expectations. He walked until there were no more.

  He left the Earthshaker Gym, the first major expansion of The Burrow, carved nearly two thousand cycles ago. A colossal stone carving of a proud prairie dog towered over the entrance. Greg approached the monument and read the placard.

  THE FIRST ARCHPSY AND THE LAST IN THE LINE OF CHUCK.

  SEED OF A NEW ERA.

  MAY THE MEMORY OF HIS SACRIFICE NEVER BE BURIED.

  Greg placed a paw on the plaque and looked up at the looming statue. His eyes glazed as his stare tunneled through the carved face as though staring hard enough could change what had already happened. He lingered on the word sacrifice, tracing the groove of the cut letters.

  He drifted through The Spine on his way home. The world narrowed to a smear of stone and motion.

  “Greg!”

  A voice called again and again, pulling his mind back into place. Emergency tones echoed through the chasm. The damp chill of wet earth rose through his fur.

  Greg glanced over his shoulder—uncertain that the call was meant for him at all.

  He blinked and saw her. Mari mounted on Phlip’s back. Her father rode behind, arms locked tight. The pup was wedged safely between them.

  “What are you doing here?” Mari asked.

  Like he had just arrived, Greg took in the scene around him.

  Hundreds of drenched and displaced rodents slogged through debris-laden streets, gathering into small groups. A baby mouse sat in the mud crying out until a family of moles stopped, the mother scooping it up tight and quelling the tears. Nearby, a corpulent rat dug through sludge with frantic paws, sending chunks flying. It pulled free a footlocker caked in wet soil and scurried off.

  “Mari… what’s happening?” Greg’s voice barely cleared his throat. He stared at the soggy inhabitants and washed-out passages leading to various digs.

  “There was a breach at Deepworks,” Mari said, scanning the diminished flows trickling down the digs and spilling in small waterfalls into the pit. At its center, The Spine’s crystal structure rose vertically, catching the runoff in pale glints. “But the water’s slowing. For now, at least.”

  The crystal shuddered. Its light faded.

  Gasps filled The Spine, echoing upward. The crystal flickered, then steadied into its daybreak yellow.

  Mari and Greg looked at each other again. Mari’s brow furrowed above deep brown eyes. “Have you seen Jerro?”

  “He was on shift this lune,” Greg said, half question, half statement.

  “Go check on your friend,” Mari’s dad said, sliding off Phlip. “I’ll stay here and help.”

  Greg stepped closer and wrapped Mari’s dad in a hug, bending down to meet the smaller gopher. “Seriously, you’re the best, Mr. Stonepaw.”

  “For the thousandth time, call me by my first name,” Mari’s dad groaned, patting his back.

  Greg caught Mari’s eyes and mouthed a question. She couldn’t make it out, but produced an agreeable shrug anyway, playing along.

  “You got it, Jupi,” Greg said, grinning from far above Jupi’s head.

  Mari hopped off Phlip and hugged her dad tight. He kissed the top of her head. “You did great, kiddo. Now go find Jerro and make sure he’s okay.”

  They split paths.

  Jupi set off to aid his fellow denizens, guiding the Graslow pup by the paw. Greg, Mari, and Phlip pushed up the main dig that led toward Deepworks.

  The route was ruined. Flood debris and mud coated everything, smothering the bioluminescent roots. Only the higher stretches still shone. They picked their way through the slop, paws suctioning, balance never quite certain.

  From Phlip’s back, Mari watched Greg. He moved like a machine, head down, driving through it. When a circular door wedged in the mud blocked their path, he tore it free with a shout, cracked it over his head, and hurled the pieces down the dig.

  Mari pulled Phlip’s reins to stop. “Greg, what’s going on with you?”

  “Just living up to my father’s disappointment,” Greg said flatly. “So, nothing new.”

  Mari swung down into the mud and slogged to him. She put a paw on his arm, as high as she could reach. “You’re an amazing marmot. You’re one of the strongest, most dedicated rodents in this Burrow.”

  “Thanks, Mari.” His eyes stayed down. “I wish my father felt the same. Doesn’t matter now.”

  “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?”

  “I lost the title. Jake crushed me. My father will never forgive me for failing the lineage.” Greg shook his head, pulled away, and kept moving.

  Mari hopped back onto Phlip and caught up. “Greg, your father is a fool if he doesn’t believe in you.”

  “I’ve given him every reason in the world not to.”

  They walked on in silence, broken only by the suction of their feet pulling free. Every so often, a faint tremor shivered through the packed earth, loosening mud from the roots.

  “Greg, something strange happened to me—”

  “Stop,” Greg said, cutting her off.

  Mari shot him a glare.

  Then Greg’s face shifted. “Wait,” he breathed. “Do you feel that?”

  Mari pressed a paw to Phlip’s ear. Phlip sank low to the ground without a sound. Mari slid off the saddle, taking care not to make a sound.

  A low rumble began and steadily built.

  “It’s coming at us,” Mari muttered.

  Down the dig, it came into view. A huge pulsating mass filled the passage, hurtling toward them, crushing debris and extinguishing the last of the bioluminescence as it wriggled forward. The head, if you could call it that, emerged. Enormous spikes protruded around a beak-like mouth lined with razor-sharp teeth.

  Mari yanked the petrified watermelon helmet from her bag. “I’ve got a plan. We’ve only got one shot. Get on my tail and direct a blast at me!” she yelled over the rising roar.

  Greg stumbled behind her as the ground quaked underfoot.

  The creature closed in. One hundred tails. Eighty. Sixty.

  It was moving impossibly fast.

  “Now!” Mari shouted.

  No response.

  “Greg. Now!” She looked back over her shoulder.

  He was frozen.

  Mari took two quick steps back, grabbed a tuft of his chest fur, and jumped to smack his face. “Greg, I need you.” Her voice went hard. “Focus on me.”

  The daze broke.

  Greg lifted his paws and formed the open-pawed gesture around his body, finishing with a flourish toward Mari. Mari was already moving. She harnessed the momentum of Greg’s blast and rotated it around herself in perfect form as the beast’s gaping maw bore down.

  Darkness engulfed everything.

  Then warmth.

  The air filled with a musky bouquet of damp earth and decaying foliage, followed by a sharp fishy note.

  Mari flicked on her lantern and turned toward Greg.

  Greg stood perfectly still, completely covered in chunks of flesh and unknown goop. He stared at Mari. Then they both turned toward Phlip.

  Phlip’s tongue smacked into Mari like a wet towel. His eyes widened. He started hacking and sneezing, then sat back on his hind legs and tried to scrub the taste from his mouth with muddy paws. It only made things worse.

  “Aw gross,” Mari said to Phlip. “Why would you do that?”

  Greg let out a laugh, the sound cracking his dour mood. Mari joined in, and for a moment they reveled in the near-death triumph.

  “We did it,” Greg shouted. “No one is going to believe we just defeated a worm!”

  “It doesn’t matter what anyone believes,” Mari said, smiling. “We know it.”

  Greg held his paws up, then down low. Mari jumped and smacked both. He scooped her up and swung her in a circle, then plopped her down beside Phlip, who hopped in place, matching their energy.

  After a few moments, they gathered themselves and wiped off the worst of it. Greg led the way, blasting a path through the worm’s soft lining.

  They pushed on through the slick tunnel toward Deepworks.