Saan roamed the depths, following the direction where the water's current was strongest. The Pendant of Saint Lumin glowed faintly, its red threads of light merging with the flickering flame spirit beside them, brightening the murky dark.
"What was that faint presence I felt while I was dormant?" the spirit asked, its voice echoing faintly through the water.
"Tell me more about the first Saint," Saan said, their gaze fixed on a tunnel ahead, where the current pulled more fiercely.
"Well, that's unexpected for you to ask," the spirit flickered. "I don't know much. Saint Lumin said she sacrificed herself for truth. The relic threatened to corrupt all, so she sealed it here, by giving her life."
"Then why seek the relic at all," Saan murmured, "if she believed it could corrupt others?" They drifted closer to the tunnel's mouth, feeling the steady pull inward.
"I've no memory of that. The last I recall, something about a falling-out with another Saint. Saint Lumin said something about 'the house lying'... but why do you ask?"
"Just curious." Saan pressed forward, manipulating the water around them to slow their descent as the tunnel swallowed them.
"What are we doing here? Shouldn't we go back to where Saint Lumin is? Don't tell me you're looking for the relic?" the spirit flickered anxiously.
"I don't need the relic," Saan replied calmly. "I'm looking for an exit."
"But can't you just go back the way you came?"
"It's blocked. And I'd rather not risk breaking through—the whole tunnel might collapse."
"Oh, I see. Thank you for explaining. I thought you were going against our contract, but it's good for both of us if you don't. Now, don't take this as a threat—"
"It's better if you keep quiet."
The water roared louder, drowning out the spirit's fading flicker. Only the rush of the current filled the silence now.
Saan burst through the tunnel's end—the flow reversing suddenly, speeding even faster. They surfaced into a vast cavern, leaving behind the sphere of water that had carried them. The wind barrier around them shimmered faintly as they floated above the rushing stream below.
The cavern was immense, fractured, filled with branching tunnels that led off in every direction. The ground was jagged and broken, the air damp with mist. Saan glanced toward the east, where the water vanished into a dark distance, then began to glide above it, the spirit's light casting long, dancing reflections across the walls.
Above, the sun had reached its zenith.
Glory continued onward through the shimmering heat, her skirt and veil fluttering in the dry wind. In the distance, a town came into view, wavering like a mirage.
"Finally," she murmured.
The town had no walls, much like Sunk Down, nearly identical save for small differences. A warped wooden sign arched over the road, its paint flaked and crusted. The word MIDWAY was carved across it, flanked by two crude symbols, one road leading into mountains, the other into a cavern. The streets beneath were half-buried in sand and cracked with age.
Few people walked there. In the shadows, figures lay slumped with bottles at their sides. Most shops were shut, their signs faded, their windows covered in grime. Carriages passed at speed through the dusty lanes, stirring up clouds of grit that drifted over everything.
Glory passed a building marked Jerry's Rest—smaller than the one in Sunk Down, its sign broken, the neon glass long gone. She slowed for a moment, her eyes tracing it, then shifted suddenly as a voice called out behind her.
"Don't move there, missy."
She turned slightly. Four men emerged from the opposite side of the street, their boots crunching through the sand.
The one in front was built like a bull—broad-shouldered, his head shaved but for a strip of blond stubble. A thick cross-shaped scar ran across his right forearm. Flanking him were a hatchet-faced man with greasy hair, a brute in a filthy poncho, and a fourth man lurking in a long duster, something metallic glinting beneath his coat.
"Well now," the hatchet-faced man rasped with a grin. "Maybe you're a bigger treasure than whatever's in that bag."
"We'll feast tonight," the brute in the poncho laughed, his breath heavy with ale.
Glory sighed, walking forward. "Try me. I've not been satisfied in years." Her tone was calm, almost bored.
"She's not runnin'?" the hatchet-faced one said, surprised.
"I like a woman with a bit of fight," the poncho brute added.
Their leader—the scarred man—stopped suddenly, causing the one behind him to bump into his back.
"Oi, watch it!" the hatchet-faced one barked.
"Why're you stoppin', boss?" asked the brute.
The scarred man narrowed his eyes, studying Glory as she advanced.
"I've a bounty of a thousand bronze coins," he said lightly. "They've bounties too."
"I don't have one." She vanished from sight, then reappeared mid-kick, slamming her heel into the poncho brute's chest. He flew back, crashing into a wall hard enough to crack it.
The scarred man's eyes widened; he gritted his teeth and swept his leg toward hers. Glory sprang upward, twisting midair as her right leg cut toward his head, but he caught her ankle mid-swing.
"What the—" the hatchet-faced man fumbled to take out a knife.
The man in the duster stepped back, hand slipping beneath his coat, eyes locked on her.
The scarred man tried to slam her down, but Glory planted both hands on the ground, shattering the street bricks as she used the momentum to flip backward, tearing free of his grip. The hatchet-faced man lunged at her with a blade.
"Use the toy, Crab!" the scarred man barked.
The man in the duster drew a flintlock. The trigger clicked.
Time seemed to slow. Smoke flashed, a gunshot cracked through the air. Glory twisted aside mid-air; the bullet whizzed between her and the knife-wielder. She landed low, sweeping her leg out—her kick caught the man between the legs, sending him sprawling.
A second shot rang out. She darted aside, the bullet splintering the wall behind her.
"Annoying," she muttered, gaze snapping toward the shooter. With one sharp kick, she sent debris from the broken street flying like shrapnel. The man dodged, rolling to cover.
Suddenly pain flared through her wrist—a knife from the scarred man's boot had struck deep.
She gritted her teeth, kicked him hard in the gut, then again. "How dare you," she hissed, eyes narrowing as she hammered him with another blow. Dust rose around them as the others lay groaning in the street.
When he finally slumped unconscious, she knelt briefly, yanking the knife free. The blade was smeared with a dirty green film. "Damn it."
She reached into her bag, pulling out a black flask marked with a bearded man's logo — Beriny's Multi-Poison Remedy. She uncorked it, sniffed the dark green liquid with clear disgust.
"I hate this," she muttered, drinking. The bitter taste made her wince. She corked it again, tied her wounded wrist with a strip of cloth, and exhaled.
The wind blew softly through the empty street. People peered from doorways and windows—some wary, others whispering to one another.
A ripple of unease passed through them as two figures approached.
A towering man in a fine purple and white striped tunic led the way, his boots crunching against the broken stone. The polished iron plate around his neck caught the sunlight, gleaming with every slow, deliberate step. His eyes—gray and cold—swept across the crowd like a blade, weighing each face, each whisper. There was an air about him that made the onlookers shrink back without a word; authority clung to him like a second skin, quiet but absolute.
Behind him strode another—bare-chested, his skin a map of old scars and burns. A thick, heavy chain coiled over his shoulders like a living thing, links clinking with every movement. From it hung a dark iron pendant—the kind worn by the followers of Yaxsim—its surface etched with curling lines that seemed to shift in the light. His muscles flexed subtly as he walked, each step measured, as if the earth itself might crack beneath him should he choose it.
The murmurs of the townsfolk faltered into silence. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
The man in the striped tunic stopped a few paces from the fallen bodies, his gaze falling upon the woman at the center of it all, the calm in the storm. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, his voice cut through the stillness
"What," his voice low, edged, and deliberate, every word honed like cold steel, "is this a commotion beyond my knowledge?"