Chapter 3

  Tivric and Skorvel were ascending the burrows.

  Both Grimtails had received formal orders from messengers and spent the day preparing for the journey to the Dawnborn capital. Each used the time differently, but both tried to sleep whenever they could.

  They were now on their fourth elevator ascent, nearing the upper reaches of the burrow. Here, the tunnels narrowed into what Grimtails called the Throat. These passages were cut deliberately tight—easy for a Grimtail to crawl through, nearly impossible for anything larger, and still difficult for creatures of similar size. The Throat was also a maze. Without knowledge of its routes, one could wander into dead ends, collapses, or vertical drops that made exploration a fatal mistake.

  Surface exits were hidden with equal care. From above, they appeared natural—root clusters, hollowed trunks, or broken stone. Invaders had never attempted to enter through them, though the occasional unlucky animal had disappeared below. The burrows did possess larger elevator shafts for moving supplies or entire units, but those were reserved for open operations. A mission like this required silence.

  Tivric and Skorvel made their final ascent through the narrow crawlways, climbing through a crevice that would have left a human panicked and wedged fast. Skorvel led the way, slipping upward into a hollowed tree trunk and pausing just below the opening. He peered out into the night, scanning for movement or light.

  Satisfied, he gave the signal.

  Together, they climbed out of the trunk and into the open air, the cool night settling over them like a held breath.

  Both Grimtails began stretching their claws, legs, and tails, loosening stiff joints from the long crawl.

  “Which town are we meeting the guide at again?” Skorval asked

  “Karr’s Bastion,” Tivric said.

  Skorval snorted. “Last time I stayed there, the innkeeper tried to charge me five gold for a single night.”

  Tivric glanced over. “Five?”

  “I told him his rooms must be exceptional,” Skorval said, irritation creeping into his voice, “because the king only charged me four when I stayed with him.”

  Tivric laughed quietly, and together they set off.

  The world was still, the night sky crowded with stars. Above it all hung Selenar, the fractured star—visible now only as a faint ring, a ghostly outline burned into the heavens. It never moved. By day it flickered with unstable light; by night it fell dark.

  Eight hundred years ago, Selenar had shattered—its orbit broken, its rhythm lost. Since that day, no one truly knew what had happened, only that Auralith had never been the same.

  Tivric and Skorval traveled off the roads, keeping to brush and shadow, hiding whenever Selenar’s glow returned and flooded the land with its pale light.

  They passed a single town along the way—Hearthrun—but both knew Grimtails were no longer welcome there. Neither suggested stopping. The decision was mutual, unspoken.

  On the second night, they continued forward, still avoiding the road but staying close enough to watch it. Tivric raised a claw, flat and still. Skorval halted instantly.

  “Skor,” Tivric whispered, “look”

  Skorval followed his gaze into a heavily wooded area.

  An old man walked there, hands clasped behind his back, escorted by six skeletons.

  “Those undead captured someone,” Skorval said. “I have never seen them take prisonsers before.”

  “We have to free him,” Tivric said.

  “That is not why we are out here,” Skorval snapped quietly. “This isn’t our mission. If we fall here, the Burrows might fall with us.”

  “If they take him to the Still Shadow,” Tivric said, “worse things than death await him.”

  The words stirred old memories—stories whispered in tunnels and passed between guards. Tales of the far side of Auralith, where Selenar’s light could never reach. Where only the strong survived, and survival itself was a curse.

  Tivric was silent for a moment.

  “Skorval,” he whispered, “what was your best day on a latchrun?”

  “That’s not important,” Skorval replied, though he failed to hide his pride.

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  “There are only six,” Tivric said. “This should be easy.”

  Tivric exhaled slowly. “You cleared out Twenty undead that latchrun.”

  “Twenty-three,” Skorval corrected.

  Tivric nodded. “Twenty-three, and I only count the six.”

  Skorval clicked his tongue. “Fine. But if the old man says anything bad about Grimtails, we kill him too.”

  Tivric shook his head in disapproval.

  They crept closer, crossbows leveled. The old man’s hands were cinched behind his back in heavy restraints. The skeletons, preoccupied with their march, hadn't noticed the intrusion.

  But the old man had.

  His gaze locked onto Tivric, sharp and knowing.

  The Grimtails fired.

  Two skeletons shattered instantly, bone fragments spraying the dirt. Tivric and Skorval tossed their crossbows aside, drawing steel as they charged the nearest guard.

  The old man suddenly wrenched his hands free, the "shackles" falling away like paper. "Wait!" he yelled in a panic.

  Tivric’s mind raced—he’d been bound just seconds ago. There was no time to process it. They dived into the blind spot of the next sentry, moving in a synchronized strike meant to decapitate.

  The old man blurred into motion, sprinting directly into their path.

  "Stop!"

  A concussive wave of invisible force erupted from his palms, slamming into Tivric and Skorval like a physical wall. They were hurled backward, skidding through the grit, though both managed to dig their heels in and stay upright.

  "Move, old man!" Skorval snarled, his knife hand shaking from the impact. "We’re trying to save you!"

  "I am not their captive," the old man said. His voice was unnervingly calm.

  He lifted his hands, which now hummed with a pale, rhythmic glow. As if their strings had been cut, the remaining skeletons collapsed simultaneously, clattering into heaps of silent marrow on the road.

  “What on Auraleth are you doing out here with a pack of undead?” Tivric said.

  “And why are two Grimtails scurrying so far from their burrow?” the man countered, his voice smooth and untroubled.

  Now that the immediate threat had vanished, Tivric truly looked at him. He realized the man wasn't as aged as he’d first appeared. His hair was long and ink-black, untouched by silver, yet his face was a map of deep-set furrows. It wasn't the weathering of years, but of profound, suffocating grief—a sorrow that pooled in his eyes and seemed to pull at the very air around him.

  “My name is Mordryn,” the man said. “I am a necromancer and man in flight. I travel under the veil of night and allow the world to believe I am a captive of my own creations. It keeps the curious—and the cruel—at a distance. You are the first to attempt a rescue in quite some time.”

  “A grim masquerade,” Tivric said, sheathing his knife. “But a clever one. The Still Shadow’s agents aren't likely to intercept a prize they think has already been claimed.”

  Mordryn let out a soft, dry chuckle.

  “I’m Tivric, and this is Skorval,” the messenger continued. “We hail from the Black Run Burrow.”

  “One rarely sees your kind above the soil,” Mordryn noted, his eyes tracking the twitch of their ears with clinical interest.

  “The Still Shadow has made the underground… complicated,” Tivric replied.

  “What exactly is troubling your burrows?” Mordryn asked, his eyes tracking the way the two Grimtails kept their weight shifted, ready to bolt.

  “Undead,” Tivric said, gesturing to the silent sentries now standing guard again. “Things much like yours have been clawing their way into our tunnels.

  Mordryn’s expression darkened, a flicker of recognition crossing his weathered features. “I have been… preoccupied with family matters. But once my debts are settled, perhaps we might find ourselves in a position of mutual benefit.”

  He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum.

  “My pursuer is close behind—perilously so. If you can intercept her, provide her with a trail of my 'whereabouts' and steer her toward a path of my choosing, I will pledge my services to your people. I am an expert in the mechanics of the non-living; what is plaguing your tunnels, I can dismantle.”

  “We’d welcome the hand,” Skorval said, though his hand remained near his belt. “Though your escort would cause a riot. You’d need to mark them somehow—let folks know they’re ‘friendly’ bones.”

  “A prudent suggestion,” Mordryn murmured. His gaze drifted downward, lingering for a moment on the polished clan rings at the base of Skorval’s tail.

  Raising his hands, Mordryn whispered a command that sounded like dry leaves skittering over stone. The scattered bones on the road stirred. They clicked and snapped, finding their sockets with unnerving precision. Mordryn stepped toward the nearest heap, plucked a crossbow bolt from a shattered cranium, and set the skull atop a waiting spine. With a sickening crunch, he twisted the head until it faced forward, staring blankly into the dark.

  “Tivric. Skorval. It was a pleasure meeting you,” Mordryn said, though his voice held the hollow resonance of a bell. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze intensifying. “We are in agreement, then?”

  “If it's within our power,” Tivric replied, his curiosity finally outweighing his caution.

  “If you encounter a woman of the Church—with dark hair, much like my own—tell her you saw me leading an undead assault on Hearthrun Village.”

  Tivric’s brow furrowed. “Are you certain? That’s an admission of a massacre. You’ll be a hunted man.”

  Mordryn nodded once, a grim finality in the gesture. “In exchange, once my business is concluded, I will pledge myself to your burrow—until the light returns.”

  “If you do not cross her path, do not trouble yourselves,” Mordryn added, his voice dropping an octave. “Perhaps it would be a blessing if you never met at all.”

  Without another word, he placed his hands behind his back. Spectral shackles flared into existence, glowing with a cold, ghostly light that bound his wrists despite the lack of physical chains. He bowed his head, resuming his role as a prisoner of his own making.

  The skeletons fell into a rhythmic, clattering formation around him, their empty sockets fixed on the path ahead. Together, the macabre procession marched forward, swallowed slowly by the encroaching darkness.

  Tivric and Skorval stood in the center of the road, watching until the last white glint of bone vanished.

  After a long silence, Tivric spoke, his voice barely a whisper. “Did you see his eyes?”

  “Yeah,” Skorval said, his hand finally dropping from the hilt of his blade. “It was the strangest thing. He looked like he was smiling—but the sadness never moved. It stayed right there, no matter what expression he tried to wear.”