The narrow tunnel, barely wide enough for two men abreast, was growing increasingly warm, the raw heat of the mountain seeping through the rough-hewn rock. Old Man Tibera's voice, a low rumble, filled the confined space.
"You have a loose mouth, my boy. That nearly cost you your life back there. The King of Blasphemy does not suffer fools, nor impudence."
Felix sighed.
"Sorry, Old Man Tibera. It just came out." The lie tasted bitter. It wasn't unthinking; it was a genuine reaction to the King's monstrous ambition, a moment where his carefully constructed facade had almost cracked.
Tibera paused, reaching into his coat and drawing out a gnarled, wooden pipe. He meticulously loaded it with a pinch of dried, aromatic herbs, his movements slow and deliberate. A spark flared, then a thin plume of fragrant smoke curled upwards.
"You should wait until we're above ground, Old Man," Felix advised. "It's an enclosed space down here. Not enough clean air for that."
Tibera merely chuckled, a dry, rattling sound, and blew a puff of thick, acrid smoke directly into Felix's face. The scent was cloying, unfamiliar, and immediately exacerbated the dull throb in Felix's head. "Nonsense, my boy. You're not the only one who was rattled by an audience with the King of Blasphemy. Allow an old man his small comforts to get his nerves under control." He took another deep puff, the glowing ember a tiny, malevolent eye in the gloom.
Felix sighed again, a resigned shrug. The smoke was already making him feel lightheaded, a strange disorientation settling over his thoughts. He pushed past the sensation, focusing on the question that had been nagging at him.
"During my time working for Marconni, I learned that 'Tasks' in the criminal underground were normally auctioned off. It was a system designed to ensure efficiency, to prevent rival groups from intercepting each other or causing skirmishes over the same objective. Money wasn't the bid. Instead, one had to auction something to lose. Property, if they had it. If not, even body parts, some going as far as to put their souls on the line until the one most willing and obviously with the most… 'resources' to spare, won the job."
Tibera took another long drag from his pipe, the smoke swirling around his head like a spectral halo.
"Yes, that's true," he rumbled, the words muffled by the smoke. "Even we need to abide by rules and have some order. Otherwise, we'd be no different from animals. It's to ensure that those with the most to lose would get the task. It guaranteed the job was done efficiently and effectively, as failure meant forfeiting all that they had bid. After all, those who are the most dangerous and capable are often those with something to lose, aren't they?" He blew another cloud of smoke, this one even thicker, directly into Felix's face. "You're quite knowledgeable in these areas, Felix. But why do you ask about this now?"
Felix blinked, trying to clear his vision. The smoke was everywhere, clinging to his clothes, filling his lungs, making his thoughts feel sluggish. The migraine was no longer a dull throb; it was a sharp, insistent pounding behind his eyes, but he ignored the sensation, focusing on his words.
"The mysterious circumstances the King of Blasphemy was talking about… it seems like you had a hand in them."
Tibera chuckled, a low, knowing sound. He took another puff, the pipe glowing red.
"I won't accept or deny anything, my boy." He winked, the gesture almost lost in the swirling smoke.
"But you didn't exchange any information with the King about its location. Where are you going to find this 'Vanguard'? It could be in Ezkanur for all you know. Can you really locate it with such scant knowledge?" Felix pressed.
"Because I know where it is. And you're right, it is in Ezkanur," Tibera said, taking out a pocket watch and checking it.
"Huh, really?" Felix asked in surprise.
"Yes, it's with a particularly difficult tribe, but I won't tell how I know this," Tibera said, putting the watch back and taking another puff.
By now, the narrower part of the tunnel was completely filled with Tibera's acrid, cloying smoke. It stung Felix's eyes, made his throat raw, and amplified the throbbing in his head to an unbearable crescendo. His vision swam, the rough walls of the tunnel seeming to undulate.
Tibera's voice cut through the haze, surprisingly clear.
"Tell me, Felix. Are you willing to join me on this task? And perhaps, on any future endeavors?"
Felix thought about it, the question echoing in his smoke-addled mind. He needed to find his team. He needed to warn Kojo. Working with Tibera, delving deeper into the Khaos Nocturni, would undoubtedly provide more opportunities for intel. But it also meant deeper immersion, more exposure to this world of calculated evil. It meant more lies, more compromises. The corruption he felt from the King was still a raw wound, and the subtle dulling of his senses from the smoke was a physical manifestation of the price.
"I must politely decline, Tibera," Felix said, his voice strained.
Tibera raised an eyebrow, a puff of smoke escaping his lips.
"Why?"
"I… I like where I am now," Felix replied, the words feeling hollow even to his own ears.
Tibera's gaze sharpened, piercing through the smoke.
"Isn't Marconni maltreating you? Wouldn't it be better to leave the side of such a master? I can buy you your freedom, you know."
Felix shook his head, rubbing his temples, the headache a searing pain.
"No. He… he isn't in a position to harm me anymore."
Tibera looked at him thoughtfully, taking another long puff from his pipe.
"That's odd. That man was a sadist. I heard he broke people, men and women, for sport."
"I know," Felix said, his voice barely a whisper, rubbing the scars on his hands which Marconni had pierced with a hook and used to hang him like meat to dry.
"I experienced all that firsthand. But he isn't in a position to harm me again."
Tibera nodded slowly, a knowing glint in his eyes. He exhaled a final, dense cloud of smoke, then tapped the pipe against his palm, extinguishing the ember.
"Very well. I see. I am willing to pay you a very large amount of money, Felix. More than Marconni ever could. Even ensure your siblings live normal lives away from all this."
Felix turned to him, the smoke-induced disorientation making the tunnel spin slightly.
"I am happy for the opportunity to work with my teacher once again, Old Man, but I'll have to decline."
"At least think about it while we're in Aegisforge," Tibera pressed, his voice softer now.
Felix shook his head. "Even given time to consider, I'd still say no."
He managed a faint smile, rubbing his temple.
"We should leave this tunnel, Old Man. The smoke is making me feel… weird."
He turned and walked in front of Tibera, eager to escape the suffocating haze. Tibera followed, his gaze fixed on his former pupil. He sighed, a low, almost mournful sound, and reached into his jacket, drawing out a slender obsidian blade, its polished surface reflecting the faint, distorted light of the cavern.
Back in the deep, oppressive gloom of the underground slave holding, Trice watched, his eyes narrowed, as the thug moved deeper into their pen. His eyes, fixed on Fatima, were predatory, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his face. He took another step closer, his hand reaching out, but Hamza suddenly stood between them.
"What do you mean 'Felix is dead'?" Hamza demanded, his voice a low growl.
The thug scoffed, grabbing Hamza's shoulder and throwing him to the ground with surprising force. Hamza collided with the rough stone floor with a grunt.
"Are you deaf, lizard-man? I mean exactly what I said!" The thug snarled, trying to move around Hamza towards Fatima again.
But Hamza, even from the ground, was quick. His powerful, scaled tail lashed out, wrapping around the man's neck. With a surge of strength, he threw the man against the iron bars of the pen door. He collided with a loud clang, the metal rattling violently. The thug slumped for a moment, then began to get up, enraged, his sickly skin flushing with fury.
Hamza slowly got to his feet and dusted himself.
"Don't come closer," he warned, finally turning his gaze to the thug, his voice low and dangerous.
The guard began to rain profanities, spittle flying from his mouth.
"I'm going to cripple you! Break every bone in your body and make you watch as I torment the others!"
Hamza blinked with the inner eyelids of his reptilian eyes, his expression utterly unmoved by the thug's threats. This further angered the man, who roared and lunged forward. But before he could take another step, a blur of motion, and his head was severed from his body. It flew through the air, slamming into the wall at the back of the cell with a sickening thud, leaving a dark, wet smear.
Blood dripped from a massive, curved sword now held by Bolak, who had entered the cell silently. His aura, usually a dull thrum of brute force, now pulsed with a cold, contained menace, a predatory efficiency that spoke of long experience in violence. He kicked the decapitated body, sending it sprawling.
"I warned you about acting on your own, and ruining the merchandise, fool." He spat on the corpse, a gesture of profound disdain, before stepping over it.
He drew the other sword from his back with his free hand, a twin to the first, and faced the terrified group.
"It's rather unfortunate that you find out this way," Bolak sneered, his voice a low, chilling rumble. His eyes, dark and devoid of warmth, swept over each of them. "You have two options. Either you come quietly and become our slaves for real, or you meet a fate like this piece of shit who just died."
He licked his bloodied blade, then settled into a low, ready stance, his two massive swords gleaming in the dim light. "Personally," he added, a cruel smile stretching his scarred lips, "I'd prefer it if you resisted."
Trice tensed, his feathers bristling. The others slowly got to their feet, facing Bolak. It didn't need special eyes to see that this man was strong. Dangerously strong. The air in the pen crackled with unspoken tension, the scent of fresh blood thick and metallic.