The triangular entrance to the Lugh-Grange swallowed the distant chime of the bell-fruits, replacing it with a deep, resonant silence that felt older than the sea. The air inside was cool and dry, carrying the faint, dusty scent of crushed chalk and millennia. Before they could cross the threshold, a figure detached itself from the shadow of the massive stone doorframe.
He was an Ogre, but one built on a more relatable, if still imposing, scale—eight feet of barrel-chested, blue-grey solidity. A pair of ivory horns curved from his brow, and a scar pulled his mouth into a permanent, knowing smirk. He wore a vibrant, multi-colored silk vest over a simple tunic dusted with fine white powder, and a crimson cloak was draped dramatically over one shoulder. He pushed off the wall with an exaggerated sigh.
"Took you long enough," Archibald Winn Lima-Sabin declared, his voice a rich, theatrical baritone that bounced off the stone. He spread his arms wide, as if welcoming guests to a party. "We've been waiting for you!"
Marya, Galit, and Jelly froze. Jelly, with a soft bloop, hopped onto Marya's shoulder and hid himself in the collar of her jacket. Marya's expression didn't change, but her golden eyes narrowed, analyzing the man. Galit's neck coiled tighter, his emerald gaze scanning for other threats in the gloom.
Archibald waved a dismissive hand, already turning to walk deeper into the megalith. "Come on, then. The boss is waiting. Don't dawdle, the ambiance is better inside."
Marya's head tilted slightly. "And why should we—"
"You want to see your friends, right?" Archibald called over his shoulder without breaking stride.
Galit stepped forward, his voice low. "And why should we trust—"
Archibald spun on his heel, throwing his hands up in a gesture of exasperated delight. A small cloud of white dust puffed from his sleeves. "Come on! How could we not know? We have your friends. You have the kid, and you have the sword." He nodded toward Nisshoku's hilt at Marya's hip. "You know how this works. Or are you really going to make me spell it out? It's boring."
Galit let out a long, controlled breath. "So you expect us to just trust you and follow you into…" He gestured at the cavernous, dark interior of the Grange. "…whatever this is."
"Trust?" Archibald shook his head, his laugh-lines deepening. "No. Follow? Yes." He held up a finger as Galit opened his mouth again. "We can either move this along, or stand here and play twenty questions. Up to you. But your friends," he pointed a thumb over his shoulder, deeper into the mountain, "are this way. If you want to see them again, you'll need to go in. Otherwise…" He shrugged, the picture of nonchalance.
Marya uncrossed her arms, letting one hand rest casually on the leather-wrapped hilt of Nisshoku. "And what's keeping me from cutting this place down?"
Archibald's smirk widened. "You could! But then the whole structure collapses on top of them. You'd have just wasted everyone's time. Including your own. Tragic, really. All that potential drama, gone in a rubble-fart."
Marya let out a short breath through her nose, almost a laugh. She glanced at Galit. He gave a minimal shrug, his eyes still locked on Archibald. "Did we expect it to go any other way?"
A faint, wry smile touched Marya's lips. She scratched the back of her head, ruffling her dark hair. "I guess not."
"Alright then!" Archibald clapped his hands together with a sound like a cracking slate, releasing a billow of chalk dust. "Now that that's settled! This way, honored guests!" He turned and strode into the darkness.
They followed, their footsteps echoing in a vast, hollow space. Archibald led them not into a chamber, but down a spiraling corridor hewn from the living rock. The walls were not bare. They were covered, floor to distant ceiling, in murals of breathtaking scale and haunting detail, carved and inlaid with some faint, metallic pigment that caught the scant light.
Marya's eyes, sharp with her father's training, moved across the narrative. The art was abstract yet brutal. It showed a shadowy, monolithic silhouette standing amidst twelve smaller, but still heroic, figures. Together, they were depicted overpowering twelve colossal, monstrous beings. The fate of each beast was rendered in stark, symbolic violence: One was swallowed by a giant serpent. Another was trapped within stone that was shown shattering, its fragments scattering across a stylized globe. One was cut into pieces, its remains trapped in a swirling vortex of water. Another was tangled in the roots of a world-tree, forced down into the bowels of the earth. A fifth was hurled into a bottomless pit. A sixth was sliced apart and flung toward a starlit sky.
The mural sequence ended with a chilling panel: each conquered beast lay subdued, with one of the twelve victors standing triumphantly over each one. And in the center of it all stood the original shadowy figure, now holding a sword aloft.
Marya stopped walking.
Her breath caught, not in fear, but in cold, intellectual shock. Her gaze fixed on the sword in the carving. The artist had rendered it with meticulous care: the distinctive hilt, the red jewels set into the guard and pommel, and most tellingly, the black core of the grip, haloed by what was unmistakably depicted as Crystallized Amber.
It was Nisshoku.
A cold ripple passed through her, the pieces of a puzzle she never knew existed hovering just out of reach. Galit stopped beside her, following her line of sight. His sharp intake of breath was audible. "Is that…?"
"I don't know," Marya muttered, her voice flat. Her mind raced, connecting the cursed blade at her back to this ancient tale of deific conquest. The Hitotsume… were there others? Was her sword not just a weapon, but a key, or worse, a trophy?
Archibald's voice echoed from ahead, shattering her reverie. He'd backtracked a few steps and was leaning against the wall, tapping his foot. "Done sightseeing? History's a real page-turner, I know." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Because we are here. The present's waiting, and it's less dusty."
He stood before a towering archway that led not into another corridor, but into a vast, open space. A soft, warm, forge-like glow spilled out, along with the low murmur of voices and the unmistakable, tense aura of powerful beings gathered.
Marya tore her eyes from the mural. The past would have to wait. Her friends were in the present. With a final, unreadable glance at the carved shadow holding her sword, she turned her back on the ancient story and followed Archibald Winn Lima-Sabin into the light.
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