> In the hush of dusk, the mountains cast long shadows across Valdrheim, as if stretching claws to snatch the settlement from the last rays of daylight. A foreboding chill settled over the cobbled streets, and every door seemed locked against a night brimming with fear. Yet two figures approached from the slopes with determined strides—one with a bow slung across his back, the other carrying nothing but a quiet resolve.
---
Arngrim's heart pounded in time with his footsteps. The path leading back into Valdrheim twisted around boulders and low scrub, then opened onto a narrow road well-worn by carts and travelers. Even from this distance, he could see an unusual number of torchlights flickering at the perimeter—a sign the church knights were out in force.
He glanced over at Varren, the lean man who'd volunteered to accompany him on this rescue mission. Varren's dark hair was tied back, and his sharp eyes scanned the terrain. Despite the tension, his expression remained calm.
"They've increased patrols already," Varren murmured, nodding toward a pair of knights stationed by a rickety wooden gate that marked one of the side entrances to Valdrheim. The main gates were larger, more fortified, but this lesser-used entrance led to the old farmland. "We'll have to be careful."
Arngrim took a steadying breath. "I can try to talk our way in. I live here—maybe they won't suspect anything if I say I'm returning from gathering ore samples."
Varren's brow furrowed. "That might work for you, but I'm a stranger. They'll question me."
"Then let's see if there's another path," Arngrim suggested, scanning the perimeter. The mountainside pressed close to the settlement here, creating natural choke points. A stone wall, barely waist-high, skirted the edge of the farmland to deter wild animals and petty thieves. But beyond that wall lay a narrow drainage ditch that Arngrim remembered from childhood explorations.
He pointed. "We might slip through the ditch if we time it right. It's rarely guarded. They consider it too small for anyone to use."
Varren followed his gaze. "Worth a try." He crouched low, motioning for Arngrim to lead.
They crept along the hillside, using the dusk and the boulders as cover. Every so often, Arngrim paused to check the knights' positions. The two guards by the gate seemed more concerned with gossiping than diligently watching their surroundings. Their torches flickered, illuminating a small circle in the encroaching darkness.
After a tense five minutes of inching forward, they reached the low wall. On the other side, a shallow trench wound around Valdrheim's outer edge, fed by runoff from the melting snow in the mountains. It was damp and slick with mud, but only ankle-deep with water.
Varren eyed it. "We'll leave footprints."
Arngrim nodded. "We can try to keep to the grass on the sides. Let's go."
One by one, they swung over the wall and lowered themselves into the ditch. The cold water soaked through Arngrim's boots, making him shiver. The smell of wet earth filled his nostrils. He crouched, using the fading light to pick out a path that avoided the thickest mud. Varren followed, bow held aloft to keep it dry.
They moved slowly, careful not to splash. Overhead, the sky darkened from lavender to a deep indigo, stars beginning to wink into existence. Occasionally, the wind carried voices or the clank of armor from the nearby gate, but the knights didn't seem to notice them. At one point, Arngrim heard a shout—his heart nearly seized—but it was just one guard calling out to another, complaining about the cold.
After a few tense minutes, they reached a spot where the ditch curved closer to Valdrheim's outer houses. Here, the stone wall rose a little higher, but Arngrim knew of a place where loose stones formed a gap. He ran his hands over the rough surface until he found it—a waist-wide opening partially hidden by a collapsed section of mortar.
He gestured to Varren, and together they squeezed through. On the other side, they found themselves in a narrow alley behind a row of abandoned sheds. The smell of damp wood and old straw lingered in the air.
Arngrim exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "We're in."
Varren scanned the alley, eyes narrowed. "Good. Let's move before someone spots us."
They crept past the sheds, sticking to the shadows. Once or twice, Arngrim peered around corners to see if any knights patrolled the backstreets. So far, they seemed to focus on the main roads. Lantern light flickered on the distant street, accompanied by the low murmur of voices. The rest of this area was dark and silent, the residents likely shuttered inside their homes.
At the end of the alley, they paused. Arngrim recognized the blacksmith forge's roofline in the distance—his place of employment and lodging. It wasn't far. "We'll go to the storehouse first," he whispered. "Mari's hiding there. We can't attempt the chapel rescue without her knowing."
Varren nodded. "Lead on."
They slunk through the dimly lit side streets, keeping close to buildings. Arngrim's pulse raced with every footstep, the tension of potential discovery gnawing at him. But fortune was on their side; they didn't encounter a single knight. The presence of so many out on the perimeter might have left the inner lanes oddly under-guarded.
When they finally reached the forge, Arngrim felt a wave of relief. The shop stood silent, its doors bolted for the night. No glow of fire from within—Jorn must have already turned in. Arngrim made his way around back to the storehouse, glancing around to ensure no one watched.
He found the door locked from the outside, just as he'd left it. Fishing a small key from his pocket, he slid it into the lock, and the latch clicked open. He pushed the door inward, and the darkness inside seemed to breathe, as though it had been waiting for him.
"Mari?" he called softly.
No response at first. He stepped in, Varren at his heels. The interior was as cramped and cluttered as ever—crates, broken ploughs, and piles of scrap metal. A lantern hung on a peg, unlit. Arngrim reached for his tinderbox, intending to spark a small flame.
Before he could, a faint rustle sounded from behind a stack of barrels. Then Mari emerged, blinking in the half-light that spilled in from the open door. She clutched a makeshift wooden cudgel, her bandaged arm trembling.
"Arngrim!" she gasped, lowering the cudgel. Relief washed across her features. "I—I thought you might not come back."
He managed a reassuring smile. "I promised I would." He glanced at her bandage. "How's your arm?"
She swallowed. "Hurts, but it's better. No fever, I think."
Varren stepped forward. "You must be Mari. I'm Varren."
Her eyes flicked to him warily. "He's... with you?"
Arngrim nodded. "He's part of the group in the hills that helped the child escape. They're going to help us rescue your brother."
Hope ignited in Mari's eyes, quickly tempered by caution. "You found a way in?"
Arngrim exhaled. "Possibly. We have a contact in the chapel—someone who can open a side passage to the dungeons. But we'll need to move quickly. The church is planning a mass purge soon."
Mari's face paled. "So soon...? My brother—"
Varren gently placed a hand on her good shoulder. "We don't know his exact condition, but if he's alive, we have a chance. We'll get him out."
She nodded, tears brimming. "Thank you."
Arngrim lit the lantern with a quick strike of his tinderbox. A soft glow spread, revealing Mari's tired features. She'd clearly been on edge, likely sleeping little. "We can't stay here," he said, turning down the lantern's wick so it wouldn't be too bright. "We'll head to the chapel soon. But first, let's see if we can gather anything useful."
He rummaged through the storehouse, pulling out a small sack of provisions—bread, dried meat, a water flask. He handed it to Mari. "In case we need to run."
Varren paced near the door. "The contact—how do we reach them?"
Arngrim recalled Evara's instructions. "We're supposed to find a small side door on the chapel's north side. It leads into a supply corridor. The contact will be waiting, but only for a short time. If we're late, they'll leave."
Mari's hand shook. "And if the knights catch us in the corridor...?"
"We'll have to rely on stealth," Varren said grimly. "We can't fight them head-on. Not with the numbers they have."
Arngrim closed the sack, slinging it over his shoulder. "Let's go then. The longer we wait, the more dangerous it becomes."
---
They slipped out of the storehouse and into the moonlit yard behind the forge. The air had grown colder, and a thin veil of clouds drifted across the sky, obscuring some of the stars. Valdrheim's streets were quieter now, though the tension felt sharper—like the calm before a storm.
Arngrim led the way, taking a circuitous route to avoid the main square. Every so often, they heard the distant clang of a knight's armor or the murmur of voices, and they ducked into alleys or behind fences until the threat passed.
At one point, they nearly collided with a pair of patrolling knights rounding a corner. Varren yanked Arngrim and Mari behind a stack of crates, and they held their breath. The knights paused only a few paces away, their torches casting flickering shadows.
"Not a soul in these backstreets," one knight muttered. "Waste of time. If there were heretics, they'd be at the tavern or near the chapel."
The other knight grunted. "The High Priest wants thoroughness. Don't question it."
They moved on, and Arngrim let out a silent breath of relief. Mari's face was pale in the torchlight's afterglow, her free hand clenched around the strap of the provisions sack. Varren nodded to Arngrim, signaling they should continue.
---
By the time they reached the chapel's north side, midnight had draped the town in near-total darkness. The chapel loomed above them—a grand structure of stone and stained glass, dedicated to Aurakiel. Moonlight glinted off the carved reliefs of scales and the stern visage of the god, a reminder of the law that weighed on every soul in Valdrheim.
Arngrim pointed to a narrow alley that ran between the chapel and an adjacent building used for storing church archives. "The side door should be down there."
They crept into the alley, footsteps muffled on the damp cobblestones. The building walls rose on either side, making the space feel claustrophobic. At the far end, a small wooden door was set into the chapel's stone. No guards were visible here—likely because the main entrances were more obvious points of entry.
As they neared, Arngrim's pulse thundered. Please let the contact be there... If the contact had already left, or if the knights had discovered them, all hope might be lost.
He gently tried the door's handle—it was locked. He tapped lightly on the wood in the pattern Evara had taught him: two short raps, a pause, then one longer knock. For a moment, nothing happened. Mari clutched his sleeve, anxiety radiating from her.
Then a soft click sounded, and the door inched open. A faint sliver of candlelight spilled out. A figure stood there—a middle-aged woman with streaks of gray in her dark hair, dressed in a simple chapel servant's robe.
She eyed them warily. "Are you... the ones Evara sent?"
Varren nodded. "Yes. You must be the contact."
She stepped aside to let them in, glancing behind them to ensure they weren't followed. "My name is Thalia. Quickly now, before anyone sees."
They slipped through the door, and Thalia shut it behind them, sliding a small bolt into place. The corridor they entered was narrow and lined with shelves holding cleaning supplies, spare candles, and religious texts. The air smelled of wax and incense.
Thalia lowered her voice to a whisper. "The dungeons are two floors below. I only have access to the first level, but I can show you a way to bypass the guard station if we're lucky."
Arngrim's heart pounded. "Mari's brother was taken. We think he's in one of the cells."
Thalia's gaze flicked to Mari, sympathy in her eyes. "I've heard rumors of new prisoners. Let's hope he's among them." She paused, a tremor in her voice. "But be warned—sometimes the High Priest conducts... interrogations in the deeper chambers. If he's there, it might be more complicated."
Varren exhaled softly. "We'll handle it."
Thalia led them down the corridor. Their footsteps seemed loud despite their attempts at stealth, every slight scuff echoing off the stone walls. At the end, a spiral staircase descended into the chapel's lower levels. Thalia took a candle from a sconce and led the way, the flame dancing in the cool draft that wafted up from below.
As they descended, the architecture shifted from the polished stone of the chapel's main floors to rougher, older masonry. The walls glistened with damp in places, and a faint drip-drip echoed in the distance. Mari clung to Arngrim's side, breathing unevenly.
At the bottom of the first staircase, they emerged into a small antechamber. Torches flickered in brackets on the walls, revealing a heavy wooden door banded with iron. Thalia raised a hand, signaling them to wait. She pressed an ear to the door, listening.
Satisfied no one was immediately beyond, she eased it open. On the other side lay a dimly lit hallway lined with cells—this was the first level of the dungeons. The smell of stale air and fear lingered, a reminder that people had been locked away here, possibly for years.
"Most of these cells are for minor offenses," Thalia whispered. "I don't see a guard right now, which is odd. He might be on a patrol round."
Mari's eyes darted around, searching the faces of any prisoners who might be visible through the cell bars. A few forms huddled in the shadows, but none called out. Perhaps fear or despair had robbed them of any will to beg for help.
Varren touched her shoulder gently. "We'll check them quickly, but if he's not here, we'll have to go deeper."
They moved down the row, peering through the cell bars. The torchlight revealed ragged figures, some asleep or lost in silent misery. Mari whispered her brother's name—"Reynar..."—but no one stirred in recognition.
When they reached the end of the hall, Thalia pointed to another door. "That leads to the lower dungeons. Usually, only the knights and the High Priest have keys."
Arngrim's stomach twisted. *This is where it gets dangerous.* "Is there another way around?"
Thalia hesitated. "I've heard rumors of a disused passage that connects to the old crypts beneath the chapel. But I've never used it. It might be collapsed, or worse, guarded by wards."
Varren looked at Arngrim. "We're short on time. The main door will have knights. The crypt passage might be our best bet if it exists."
Mari clutched her bandaged arm. "If he's down there... we can't just leave him."
Arngrim set his jaw. "Show us where the crypt entrance might be, Thalia."
She nodded, swallowing hard. "All right. Follow me."
They backtracked to the antechamber and took a side corridor that sloped even further downward. The walls here were older still, etched with faint carvings of religious symbols Arngrim didn't recognize. The air grew colder, and the faint smell of decay tinged the stale atmosphere.
At a bend in the corridor, Thalia paused before a rusted iron gate set into the wall. A heavy padlock secured it. Through the bars, Arngrim could make out a descending staircase that vanished into darkness.
"That's the entrance to the crypts," Thalia whispered. "I've never gone down there. The lock is old, but I don't have a key."
Varren knelt by the padlock, pulling a small set of picks from his belt. "Let me try."
Thalia's eyes widened. "You can pick locks?"
He offered a tight smile. "We do what we must."
Arngrim and Mari kept watch while Varren worked. The picks made soft scraping sounds against metal, echoing in the corridor. Each second felt like an eternity. Arngrim's thoughts churned with possibilities—what if a knight came? What if the crypt was sealed by some holy ward?
At last, a soft click signaled success. Varren carefully eased the padlock open and swung the gate aside. Thalia held the candle higher, revealing stone steps spiraling down. A cold draft wafted up, carrying a musty odor of ancient tombs.
"We'll be quick," Arngrim told Thalia. "Thank you for guiding us."
She nodded, face tight with worry. "Be careful. The High Priest sometimes performs... rituals in the deeper levels. If you see him, hide."
Mari's eyes flashed with determination. "We will. Thank you, Thalia."
With that, they descended. Thalia stayed behind, locking the gate after them from the outside so no passing guard would suspect anything amiss. Arngrim felt a pang of guilt—if they were caught, Thalia could face terrible consequences. But there was no other way.
---
The crypt stairs were worn by centuries of footsteps, and the walls dripped with moisture. Cobwebs clung to the corners, and the smell of mold grew stronger. The only light came from a single torch Varren had taken from the antechamber. Its flickering glow danced on the rough-hewn walls, revealing faint carvings—angelic figures, eyes closed in prayer, wings folded as if in mourning.
When they reached the bottom, they emerged into a vaulted chamber lined with stone sarcophagi. Each was adorned with the carved likeness of a robed figure, hands folded over a symbol of Aurakiel's scales. Dust coated everything, and the silence felt absolute, broken only by the echo of their own breathing.
Mari shuddered. "I never knew this was down here."
Arngrim nodded, scanning the chamber. "I doubt many do."
Varren lifted the torch, revealing a series of archways leading to adjoining rooms. "We need to find a passage that might connect to the dungeons. Let's split up—carefully."
They moved in pairs—Arngrim and Mari through one archway, Varren through another. Each step kicked up small puffs of dust. The crypt's oppressive stillness weighed on Arngrim's mind, and a strange sense of déjà vu tugged at him, as if he'd walked in places like this before... but that was impossible. Unless...
Unless it's tied to the dreams, he thought, a chill prickling his spine. He'd dreamt of ancient corridors, hearing a pulse that wasn't his own. He shook the notion away, focusing on the present.
Mari's breath hitched. "Look." She pointed to a corner where a faint glow emanated from behind a broken section of wall. It was so subtle that without the torchlight, they might have missed it entirely.
Arngrim approached cautiously. The wall had crumbled, leaving a jagged hole about three feet wide. Beyond it lay a narrow passage. He knelt, holding the torch to peer inside. The glow was bluish, almost phosphorescent, like faintly luminescent moss or fungus clinging to the stone.
"Could be our path," he murmured. He glanced at Mari. "Stay behind me."
She nodded, clutching the small provisions sack. Her face was set in grim determination, despite the fear in her eyes.
Arngrim slipped through the hole, ducking his head to avoid loose stones. On the other side, the passage angled downward, the walls slick with patches of glowing lichen. The air felt heavier, laced with an almost electrical charge that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
They crept forward, the torchlight mingling with the eerie blue glow. A few yards in, the tunnel opened into a cramped chamber. The floor was uneven, strewn with rubble, and the ceiling hung low enough that Arngrim had to hunch.
Mari winced, stepping over a half-buried chunk of stone. "This place is ancient," she whispered. "Do you think it really leads to the dungeons?"
"We'll find out," Arngrim replied. "Let's see if we can—"
A sudden rush of movement behind them made him spin. Varren ducked through the hole, panting slightly. "I found nothing in the other chamber," he said, eyes scanning their surroundings. "This must be the only way."
Arngrim nodded. "Let's keep moving."
They pressed on, winding through the twisting passage. Now and then, they had to climb over fallen blocks of stone, remnants of cave-ins that had partially blocked the path. The glow of the lichen created shifting shadows that danced across the walls, giving the impression of serpentine shapes slithering just out of sight.
At one bend, Arngrim paused. A distant sound reached his ears—faint but distinct. It sounded like... chanting?
He held up a hand, and the group fell silent. Yes, there was definitely a low, rhythmic murmur echoing through the stone. Mari's eyes widened in alarm, and Varren's grip tightened on the torch.
Arngrim crept forward, each step measured. The chanting grew louder, though still muffled by the winding tunnels. Eventually, the passage opened onto a broad, uneven cavern lit by more of the eerie lichen. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, and the floor dipped into a shallow pool of water that reflected the bluish glow.
On the far side of the cavern, a rough-hewn archway led deeper. The chanting seemed to come from there, resonating like a heartbeat in the damp air. Arngrim's pulse raced. Could it be knights performing a ritual? Or the High Priest himself?
Varren set the torch down, extinguishing it with a quick motion of his hand. The lichen's glow was enough to see by, albeit dimly. "We can't let them spot the light," he whispered.
Mari's voice quivered. "But we have to keep going."
Arngrim nodded. "Stay low. We'll see what we're dealing with."
They crept around the pool, boots splashing softly in the water. The archway at the far side beckoned like a dark maw. Arngrim's heart thundered. With every step, the chanting became clearer—a guttural invocation, words in a language he didn't recognize.
Slipping through the archway, they found themselves on a ledge overlooking a lower chamber. The floor below was carved in a rough circle, ringed by ancient columns. In the center stood a robed figure holding a staff, chanting before an altar. Flickering torches—ordinary ones, not the ghostly lichen—illuminated the scene.
Arngrim's breath caught. The robed figure wore the insignia of the High Priest. Maelrik. His bald head gleamed in the torchlight, and his voice rose in a deep, resonant chant that made the air vibrate with power. A swirl of black smoke coiled around the altar, as if drawn by the priest's words.
At the edge of the chamber, two knights stood guard, their armor reflecting the torchlight. Between them lay a prone figure—bound, gagged, and barely conscious. A prisoner. Could it be Mari's brother?
Mari grabbed Arngrim's arm, her nails digging into his sleeve. He could see the horror in her eyes. Reynar. Even from this distance, the figure's build looked like it could be a young man.
Varren swallowed hard. "We can't fight all three of them, especially not Maelrik."
Arngrim's blood ran cold. *What is Maelrik doing down here?* The swirl of black smoke around the altar seemed unnatural, a manifestation of some forbidden ritual. He recalled rumors that the High Priest dabbled in dark arts to maintain his hold on the town.
Mari's breathing grew ragged. "We have to help him," she hissed.
Arngrim bit his lip. We do, but how? They had no chance of overpowering Maelrik in a head-on confrontation. Even if they surprised the knights, the High Priest's magic could obliterate them.
Varren pointed to a set of steps leading down to the circular chamber. "If we can lure the knights away, maybe we can free the prisoner while Maelrik is distracted."
Arngrim considered. Distraction... He recalled that Evara's group was supposed to cause a commotion near the eastern pass, but that wouldn't help them down here. They needed something immediate, something that would pull the guards away from Maelrik.
A wild idea formed in his mind. "What if we cause a cave-in? Or at least make them think one is happening? These tunnels are unstable. A loud enough noise might send them scrambling."
Varren's eyes flicked to the precarious stalactites overhead. "You might be right. If we strike the columns with enough force, it could create a rumble."
Mari looked torn between fear and determination. "But... what about the prisoner? If the ceiling collapses on him—"
Arngrim shook his head. "We'll have to be careful. Just enough to cause panic, not a full collapse." He glanced at Varren's bow. "Do you have any explosive arrows or something similar?"
Varren grimaced. "We're not that well-stocked. But I do have a small smoke bomb. Might amplify the noise if it hits a weak spot in the rock."
They exchanged a tense look. It was a gamble—one that could end in disaster if the cavern collapsed for real. But time was running out. Maelrik's chanting grew more intense, and the swirling smoke around the altar seemed to coil tighter, as though forming a shape. The prisoner—likely Reynar—twitched, letting out a muffled groan.
"All right," Arngrim whispered. "Varren, get in position near that column. Aim for a weak spot in the ceiling. Mari and I will be ready to dash in and grab your brother."
Varren nodded, carefully removing a small spherical object from a pouch at his belt. It was wrapped in cloth, presumably to muffle any accidental impact. "Once it goes off, we'll have seconds before they figure out it's not a real collapse. Move fast."
They split up. Varren crept along the ledge to a vantage point behind one of the columns. Mari and Arngrim stayed near the steps, just out of sight. Arngrim's heart hammered so loudly he feared Maelrik might hear it over his own chanting.
He risked a peek. Maelrik's staff glowed faintly, and the black smoke began to coalesce into something vaguely serpentine. Arngrim's blood chilled. A serpent shape? The irony was not lost on him—that the High Priest who persecuted serpent legends would harness a twisted version of that power.
Finally, Varren signaled them with a curt nod. He lit a small fuse on the smoke bomb, then hurled it upward with precise aim. The object struck a crack in the ceiling with a muffled thump—and exploded in a burst of acrid smoke. The cavern shook, dislodging pebbles and dust from above. The columns groaned.
Maelrik's chanting faltered. The knights spun around, alarmed. One of them shouted, "Cave-in?!" as bits of rock rained down. In the confusion, the swirl of black smoke dissipated, leaving the High Priest momentarily disoriented.
"Now," Arngrim hissed to Mari.
They sprinted down the steps. Dust filled the air, stinging Arngrim's eyes, but he pushed forward. The knights were still looking upward, shields raised to protect themselves from falling debris. Mari darted to the prisoner's side, fumbling with the ropes around his wrists and ankles.
Arngrim positioned himself between her and the knights, heart pounding. One knight noticed them and raised his sword, but a chunk of ceiling crashed nearby, forcing him to dodge. The other knight coughed in the swirling dust, stumbling toward Maelrik to shield him.
Mari got the gag off the prisoner's mouth. "Reynar!" she cried, tears choking her voice. "Hold on!"
The young man blinked, dazed. His face was bruised, eyes glassy with pain. But recognition sparked when he saw Mari. "You... you came..."
Arngrim grabbed the ropes around Reynar's wrists, slicing them with a small blade he kept hidden. The dust thickened, and he coughed, eyes watering. "Come on, we have to move!"
A furious bellow echoed through the cavern. Maelrik's voice, laced with rage. "Traitors! Knights, seize them!"
Varren leapt from his hiding spot, bow drawn. He loosed an arrow that skittered off a knight's pauldron, drawing the man's attention away from Arngrim and Mari. The knight snarled and charged Varren, while the other tried to circle behind them.
Maelrik, however, was the real threat. He slammed his staff against the altar, sending a shockwave of dark energy rippling through the chamber. The floor cracked, and Arngrim felt an invisible force hurl him backward. He slammed into a column, pain flaring through his ribs.
"Arngrim!" Mari shouted, trying to support Reynar's weight.
Varren loosed another arrow, forcing the second knight to raise his shield. Maelrik's eyes glowed with an unholy light. "You dare defile the sanctity of this place?" he roared. "You will all be purified by Aurakiel's law!"
Arngrim struggled to his feet, vision swimming. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead.This is too much... They had to escape. He staggered to Mari's side, helping support Reynar, who could barely stand.
Varren fired again, then darted behind a column to avoid the knight's retaliatory slash. "Go!" he shouted. "I'll keep them busy!"
Mari hesitated, tears streaming down her face. "But—"
"Go!" Varren repeated, voice fierce.
Arngrim nodded, jaw clenched. "Come on!" He half-dragged, half-carried Reynar toward the steps. Mari did her best to support her brother on the other side. The dust from the partial cave-in still hung thick in the air, providing some cover. Rocks and debris littered the floor, making every step treacherous.
Behind them, Maelrik's voice thundered again. Another surge of dark energy slammed into a column, shattering it. Chunks of stone crashed down, sending tremors through the cavern. Varren barely avoided being crushed, rolling aside at the last moment.
Arngrim, Mari, and Reynar stumbled up the steps to the ledge. The corridor they'd come from was shrouded in swirling dust, but it was their only path out. "This way!" Arngrim shouted over the din.
They plunged into the passage, each step a test of balance and will. Reynar gasped in pain, leaning heavily on Mari and Arngrim. Behind them, the echoes of combat resounded—steel clashing, Maelrik's enraged shouts, Varren's desperate attempts to hold them off.
A stab of guilt pierced Arngrim. *We're leaving Varren behind...* But there was no choice. If they stayed, they'd all die—or worse.
At last, they emerged into the smaller crypt chamber, then scrambled back through the broken wall. The faint lichen glow illuminated Mari's tear-streaked face. "We... we can't just—"
"We have to," Arngrim said, voice hoarse. "Varren knew the risks. We have to get Reynar to safety."
She bit her lip, sobbing silently as they navigated the cramped passage. Reynar's breathing was ragged, and he mumbled incoherently, likely in shock. Arngrim feared the injuries he'd sustained might be severe.
When they reached the crypt stairs, they found the iron gate still locked from the outside. Arngrim banged on it with the hilt of his small blade. "Thalia! Open up! It's us!"
A tense moment passed. Then the lock clicked, and the gate swung open. Thalia stood there, candle trembling in her grip. "Gods, you're alive! I heard the crashing—what happened?"
"Maelrik," Arngrim gasped. "He was... performing some dark ritual. Varren stayed behind to distract them."
Thalia's face paled. "Hurry. The knights might already be alerted."
She helped them up the corridor, Reynar's weight slowing them. They emerged into the antechamber, where Thalia guided them to a side door. "This leads to a storage room near the courtyard. You can escape into the alley if you're careful."
Arngrim nodded, chest tight with a swirl of emotions—fear, guilt, relief at finding Mari's brother alive. "Thank you, Thalia. Truly."
She pressed her lips together. "Just go. I'll try to cover your trail. But if the High Priest suspects me..."
Mari grasped Thalia's hand. "We won't forget this."
With Thalia's help, they slipped into the storage room. It was cramped, filled with sacks of grain and casks of wine. The faint light of the courtyard shone through a small window. Arngrim could hear distant shouts—knights roused by the chaos below.
He peered through a gap in the door. The courtyard lay empty except for a single guard standing near the main chapel entrance, scanning the darkness with a torch. They'd have to time their exit carefully.
Mari cradled Reynar's head, murmuring reassurances. His eyes fluttered open briefly, and he managed a weak smile at her. Arngrim felt a surge of relief—at least Reynar was conscious.
Outside, more shouts rang out. The guard in the courtyard turned toward the chapel door, clearly alarmed by the noise echoing from below. He hurried inside, leaving the courtyard unguarded.
"Now!" Arngrim whispered.
He eased the storage room door open, and they hurried across the courtyard. Reynar limped badly, but adrenaline seemed to fuel him. They found a side gate leading to a narrow lane behind the chapel. Once through, Arngrim quietly shut it behind them.
They were back in the open air of Valdrheim's streets. The night was dark, the moon hidden by clouds, but they had no time to linger. Knights could appear at any moment. They needed to get out of town—or at least somewhere safe.
"Let's go to the storehouse," Arngrim said. "It's closer than the eastern pass, and we can tend to Reynar's wounds."
Mari nodded, tears streaking her dusty cheeks. "What about Varren?"
Arngrim clenched his fists. "I don't know... but if we try to go back, we'll be caught. We have to hope he finds a way out."
They moved as fast as they could through the winding streets. The tension in the air had multiplied; every distant shout or flicker of torchlight made Arngrim's heart leap. But fortune—or perhaps some other guiding hand—led them safely back to the blacksmith's yard. They ducked behind the forge and slipped into the storehouse, breathless and trembling.
Arngrim lit the lantern again. Reynar collapsed onto Arngrim's straw pallet, groaning. His clothes were torn, revealing bruises and cuts across his torso. Mari knelt beside him, tears dropping onto his battered face.
"It's okay," she whispered. "You're safe now. We'll find a healer."
Reynar's eyes flicked to Arngrim. "Thank... you..."
Arngrim managed a faint smile. "Rest. We'll figure something out."
A heavy silence settled over them. Outside, distant bells began to toll—a sure sign the church was on high alert. Arngrim sank against a crate, exhaustion washing over him. We made it out... but at what cost?
Mari cradled her brother, sobbing softly. Arngrim felt her grief as keenly as his own. Varren might still be down there, fighting for his life... or worse. And Maelrik—what sort of power was he invoking?
He stared at the flickering lantern flame, recalling the swirl of black smoke coalescing into a serpent shape. The irony gnawed at him. They call me a heretic for having serpent eyes, yet their High Priest wields a serpent's darkness?
Somewhere in the distance, the bells continued to peal, mingling with muffled shouts. The purge would come soon, and the nights ahead would only grow darker. But for now, Arngrim held onto the small victory—they had saved Reynar. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep hope alive.