Madark laughed as the two other boys traded insults. The conversation distracted him from the strange scratching sensation in his feet. He had felt it before and wondered what caused these reactions. If perhaps one of the other boys were slipping sharp rocks into his boots.

“You’re a fat bastard.”

“Am not. Just means I’ve got more growing to do. Sure as hell will be bigger than you when I’m older.”

“When you’re older, you’re going to be my cupbearer.”

“Cupbearers are usually women or wards, you halfwit.”

“Well, Madark is both,” the older boy said, turning alongside his companion to face him.

“I’ll remember your words,” Madark countered with a smirk. “I’ve been writing them all down. When I become Commander, I’m going to march my Tier down here and turn all your children into field hands for the First—and your wives into my harem.”

All three boys burst out laughing.

“I ain’t never once seen ya with a pin or a book, Madark. What are you going on about?”

“Well, you don’t even know how to write, Caldri.”

“Future Battlemasters ain’t got no need for a scribe’s pin,” Caldri scoffed, gesturing to Tommlin. “Weapon masters like my father teach us to let heavy steel do the talking and bloodletting or lettering if you catch my meaning. When the First comes down the mountain I’ll paint them that picture.”

“Yes, and when we come, before I make my way down to your hovel Caldri, I’ll be making my first stop at Tommlin’s house for his bride.”

“What do you mean, bride?” Caldri cackled. “Stinklin’ Tommlin over here ain’t ever finding a woman willing to deal with his stench.”

“My what, you bastard?” Tommlin barked, stepping forward. “You wait till we’re out of this damned hole and up in the yard. I’ll put my boot so far up your rear you’ll taste the wee-bits between me toes. They’ll be calling me Stinkfoot for a week, Mister Feetbreath.”

“They already call you Stinkfoot, Stinkbreath.” Madark said with a laugh. “Here comes Stinkin’ Tommlin Stinkfeet, feeting around on his stinky feet—”

“Well, my father would drive one boot into your father’s rear and the other down his throat!” Tommlin shot back.

“The Battlemaster is too busy whoring and drinking to do any of that,” Madark retorted. “He probably can’t even walk up all those bloody steps.”

“Not true! He went out early this morning to fight. He’ll be bringing those bastards’ heads back before sunset.”

“Only reason he was awake was because he was still up drinking with the lads from the night before,” Madark said.

“Aye,” Caldri grinned, “and he’s a lot more vicious when he’s drunk. Those Strand bastards have another thing coming.”

“Aye,” Tommlin agreed, though his tone abruptly turned serious. “What happened in the hall last night, Madark? I was off to bed.”

“I know. I had to sit there watching your fathers wrestle bare-chested as if they were in the throes of passionate lovemaking,” Madark said, trying to keep the mood light.

Caldri laughed loudly at the remark, but Tommlin’s face remained stone-faced. Spotting the shift, Madark suppressed a wince.

“Aye, well,” Madark began, shifting uncomfortably to try to reposition from the scratching, “The house Metrisei came into the hall with the Warlock,” Madark explained. “The Battlemaster had some words, and then he dragged your pa with him to the meeting room. They weren’t in there long—maybe ten minutes—and then they went out to the courtyard. That’s when I think the Metrisei created an alignment. Then the damned Arcanarch himself showed up in the hall. Your pa,” Madark added, looking at Tommlin, “asked for volunteers to look into some small trouble in the north, near the plains. Damn near every hand in that room jumped up—everyone being a bit bored, drunk, and itching for a fight, especially with the Arcanarch standing right there. He took twelve, I think, leaving Captain Lane behind to shut down the party. They left an hour or so later. That’s really all I know.”

“Why did the old uncle come down from the tower for the Sixth, though?” Caldri mused.

“Perhaps the Sixth’s Metrisei was the only one awake to hear the message from the Warlock. I’m not entirely sure.” Madark said.

The space between them fell quiet, their eyes drifting toward the stone floor. The boys then sat, in their own contemplations of what may be going on beyond the stone and lignin walls beyond the crypts. For all of the others around them there were people, in their own small, protected spaces. Vast crowds from the Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Tiers had crammed into the immense, cavernous tombs beneath the Sixth Tier. Row after row of unmarked graves stretched into the gloom, the ancient inscriptions indecipherable or long faded by time. Mostly indecipherable, for the people of Angellen could not read the ancient script left behind by the original inhabitants of the city now known as Shrine. Each tomb had been gutted and emptied long before the Angellens arrived. The Sixth blamed the dwarves for defiling the sanctuary; the Seventh blamed the Dead Devil and his minions. Yet all attempts by the scholars of the AMS guild to uncover definitive proof had proven fruitless.

For now, the subterranean crypts offered safe harbor from the bombardment above, or future bombardments. Though the bombardment had gradually slacked off, the initial strikes against the Third Tier’s Perch—and the sheer weight of the debris raining down—had driven hundreds to seek refuge deep underground, fearing more strikes.

Despite their gruff, often violent nature, the warriors of the Sixth Tier protected their own and offered shelter to anyone who sought it. Before departing north, Captain Lane had instructed those remaining behind to secure their portion of the city and hold the entrances into the catacombs. But that had been more than two hours ago—two hours since the blinding flash of light had consumed the sky above the Well, and two hours before that, when Madark watched the Sixth Tier Commander depart.

High overhead, several more ear-piercing shrieks tore through the air. The noise partly muffled by the catacombs, the echoes bouncing around through the crypts lingered long after the projectiles had passed overhead. Most of the incoming projectiles landed far afield—shattering the open plains, crashing into the abandoned sectors of the Third Tier, or splashing into the sea south of the city. Yet a few still found their marks, dealing catastrophic devastation to the lignin and stone structures alike wherever they fell.

Minor stones were shaken loose in the catacombs above the crypts. No one was hurt from the falling debris, just minor wounds from the stampedes they had caused. Everyone then moved from the open spaces into the more secure tombs of the crypt.

“Man, this sucks!” Caldri groaned.

“You suck,” Tommlin retorted quickly, though his heart wasn’t in it as he went back to kicking pebbles across the stone floor.

“We should be out there fighting those bastards, yeah?” Caldri grumbled. “It was just the Third Tier, ya know? Who really cares. Those bow-witches deserve a little peppering of their own for a change—see how they like arrows falling on their kin.”

Tommlin hesitated, scowling. “Yeah, but they’re attacking our city. And we—” he gestured toward Madark “—we’re held up in here like children, too valuable to get hurt.”

Madark knew the remark was more bluster and frustration than genuine anger. He was too valuable. Too valuable for the Sixth Tier to inadvertently die through negligence or collateral damage, the First Tier, particularly his father, Commander Miron Madrigal would consider retaliation. That may inevitably drag the two dominant Tiers into open warfare once again. Madark understood that clearly.

He also knew that Tommlin, despite being the Battlemaster’s son, wouldn’t be doing any direct fighting until he was older and much larger. The Sixth Tier didn't recognize direct lines of succession; every Battlemaster had to fight and compete against the other weapon masters in the Tier, regardless of whether they wanted the title or not. Every warrior had to prove themselves, and every warrior had a rank.

To join a fighting formation in the Sixth, a young man needed to earn a rank first. Tommlin had yet to defeat, let alone challenge even the lowest-ranked weapon master in the Tier—a grizzled veteran and former Battlemaster himself, from wars past who was missing an eye and an arm. Yet even crippled, the old man could still wield a smaller, yet impressively, oversized piece of iron the Sixth were renowned for with terrifying speed. He was the guard currently standing watch at the front entrance to the crypts, Weapon Master Chur Besbane.

The three boys sat together in relative silence, passing the time with a game of pebbles. A single, large rock sat in the center of the flagstones, and each boy took turns tossing smaller stones to see who could land theirs closest.

Because they had been among the first to arrive, their chamber was situated near the top of the vast, linear crypts. Madark wished he had remembered to bring his deck of cards; who knew how long they were going to be trapped down here? He stood up and began pacing the small room. Shifting his weight around seemed to improve his blood flow, offering a brief distraction if not a respite from the annoying, persistent scratching sensation in the soles of his feet.

As the sons of high-ranking leaders, the three boys had been segregated from the general masses crowded into the lower catacombs. Their game was interrupted when the faint echo of approaching voices filtered down the stone corridor.

All three perked up immediately.

“Is that the girls?” Caldri asked, immediately sitting up straight.

Giggles and light chatter grew louder until a beautiful young woman poked her head around the corner of the archway, leaning out at an impossible angle as if hanging horizontally from the wall.

“Surprise!” she announced, prompting a round of chuckles from the boys.

“How’d you do that?” Caldri asked, still laughing.

Vessa stepped into the chamber followed by two other young women in tow: Tallina, who was Tommlin’s younger sister and Rhenna, a shy girl Madark had fancied ever since he was delivered to the Sixth Tier as a ward, replacing his older sister. The first girl to peek around the corner, Vessa, daughter to one of junior Weaponmasters, was a bold and playful youth who never missed an opportunity to stir up trouble and to see her sweetheart, Caldri.

Tommlin shook his head, though a smirk tugged at his lips. “You lasses should be down with the other women below, yeah? In the lower chambers down yonder. We are quite content up here alone.”

“Oh don’t be so harsh, Tomm,” Caldri said.

“Aye, why on earth would we stay down there when you boys are up here having all the fun?” Vessa scoffed playfully, scanning the room and then frowning when she saw the game of pebbles on the floor. She then moved, allowing Caldri to wrap her in a tight, affectionate embrace. “Besides,” she added, casting a sly wink in Madark’s direction, “Rhenna wanted to see you-know-who.”

Madark felt a sudden flush of heat creep up his neck and color his cheeks. Immediately forgetting the uncomfortable, strange scratching in his feet. He quickly looked down at the stone floor, catching Rhenna mimicking the exact act.

Tallina, meanwhile, was in a distinctly foul mood. She had been rousted from bed at dawn and forced out of the Sixth Tier compound in her nightgown, hustled straight into the dark, cold crypts by her mother.

“I hate this place,” Tallina grumbled, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “It’s dirty, cold, and gross.”

“It’s fine,” Tommlin said, offering his sister a gentle nod toward the floor. “Come play pebbles with us.”

“I don’t want to play your stupid games,” she snapped back. “I want to go home.”

Tommlin frowned, looking past her into the corridor. “Where’s Mum?”

“Off somewhere,” Tallina muttered. “I don’t know. She and the other warrior mums are dressing up.”

Dressing up was a well-known euphemism within the Sixth Tier. Though their culture was saturated with hyper-masculine bravado, the women of the Sixth retained traditional feminine roles in daily life—yet every soul who claimed membership in the Tier was expected to fight when the call came. And the women fought with terrifying efficiency. "Dressing up" meant donning heavy plate and bearing steel. Though their weapons were slightly smaller in comparison to the absurd, mountain-forged iron favored by the men, the women of the Sixth were no less formidable in battle. After all, it took strong women to birth strong men.

Madark took a few more paces, stepping slightly away from Rhenna to hide his lingering embarrassment. Neither dared to make direct eye contact.

“Um,” Madark stammered, clearing his throat to break the awkward quiet, “did you guys happen to bring any cards?”

Vessa let out a loud, mocking laugh. “Cards, Madark? Really? Don’t be stupid.”

“What do you mean? I’m pretty good at cards.” Madark said confidently.

“You just like throwing them, Madark. Damaging them to all hell.” Tommlin said with a laugh.

Caldri moved to sit and Vessa followed, leaping up and into his waiting arms atop the empty tomb at the center of the chamber.

Madark watched the interaction and envied Caldri, wishing he could do the same with Rhenna.

After an awkward silence, Vessa reached out and punched the nearby Tommlin hard in the shoulder—or as hard as she could manage against a boy his size.

“What was that for, ya witch?” Tommlin barked.

“I dunno. Bored. And you just looked like you needed a good punching. Same with Tallina—she’s been foul all morning.”

“That hit almost made me cry,” Tommlin scoffed, pretending to rub the harmless sting as he flashed a sly grin at Madark. “Don’t go making us look weak in front of the spy now.”

Madark rolled his eyes. “Spy? I already know all the Sixth’s weaknesses.”

“How, Madark? Did your sister spill all the gossip us girls told her already?” Vessa mused.

“No. You fools constantly talking yourselves. Battle this, strength that. It’s all so tiresome. The Fourth Tier probably doesn’t even need spies in Sixth for all of the bragging that happens around here. I don’t know how Medina–” Madark started.

“Aye, Medina. We preferred Medina, didn’t we, Tallie?” Vessa quipped, interrupting Madark as she looked to Tallina for confirmation.

“Sure did. We miss that one no doubt.” Tallina said. “Everyone liked her more. Tommlin sure did, ain’t that right, Tomm?”

Madark and Tommlin shared a tense look. Madark looked suspiciously at Tommlin who now was the one blushing.

“My sister, eh?” Madark said, staring at Tommlin who turned an even deeper shade of red. “Aye, my sister, she was definitely treated better than I’ve been thus far. Shown more friendship and affection, no doubt, while I’ve been giving shirtless, sweaty men wine all night–every night–all the while she never had to be a cupbearer once is what I’ve been hearing, not once.” Madark said, feigning anger, but couldn’t maintain the expression, breaking character and finishing with a smile.

“No. Mother used her as a scribe. Medina was significantly more valuable to us in that role.” Tallina said with an attitude of superiority.

“It’s fine.” Madark said with sarcasm and joviality, “The First will get its revenge one day. I know every entrance, every room, where the casks of wine are, which poisons to use, every weakness—”

“Do ya now? Every weakness?” Tallina asked with a mocking grin and a nudge to Vessa.

“Well, we know a few weaknesses of your own, First Tier spy,” Vessa chimed in from Caldri’s tight embrace. Caldri was busy nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck, but he lifted his head to grin at Rhenna.

“Aye, Rhenna,” Caldri teased, “go sit beside ya boyfriend, calm him down. He’s been pacing since we got in here.”

Madark felt as though he’d swallowed his tongue. All semblance of bravado stripped bare as if he were standing naked in front of the group. Rhenna then offered a nervous laugh and hesitated, but ultimately moved over to sit on the flagstones beside Madark.

“Come on,” Rhenna said softly, glancing up at Madark. “Show me how to play this.” She picked up a pebble and made a pathetic attempt at tossing it toward the target stone.

“Oh, he’ll teach ya,” Caldri laughed. “If Madark’s good at anything, it’s throwing stones and cards, and bearing cups. He ain’t much good at nothin’ else.”

Tommlin roared with laughter. “Aye! He’s no good with a sword, neither, not going to make for much of a commander—though I’m sure he’s a hell of a wine-bearer, judging by how drunk our pa gets.” Tommlin turned to his sister for validation, but Tallina merely scowled.

Madark flushed red, looking down at Rhenna, having missed the chatter. “I would love to show you how—” He stammered, thinking about the possible interactions of holding her delicate hands in demonstrating how to lob the small pebble.

“News!” A cry from below echoed through the passage, and everyone rushed to the archway to listen. “Captain Lane has slain one of the golems!”

Cheers erupted from those peeking out from their pockets of shelter.

Madark and his companions exchanged glances.

“A golem?” Madark asked, met only by blank stares and shrugs.

“Medina would know.” Vessa mused.

“Dead Devil! Lane is incredible,” Caldri said, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he looked at Tommlin. “I’ve no idea what a golem is, but it must be a real bastard for them to be shouting about it being dead and all.”

“Aye,” Vessa chimed in. “He’ll probably be Battlemaster again, no doubt.” She flashed Tommlin a sly wink.

Tommlin grunted. “Maybe. My dad beat him once, and he’ll do it again.”

Madark had served the former Battlemaster and now Captain Lane drinks on several occasions. Each time, the warrior had offered a soft, genuine word of thanks to the young ward. While the warriors of the Sixth Tier were generally indifferent toward Madark—given that wards were a common political fixture—Lane was always remarkably courteous, taking his wine with disciplined moderation. He was deeply respected and loved by Sixth Tier warrior, servant, and commoner alike.

On the battlefield, however, his reputation was entirely different. Captain Lane was an absolute weapon, invoking the berserker nature completely. He dominated the Sixth’s annual tournaments, openly daring rivals from other Tiers and guilds to come test their steel. Even though it was widely rumored Captain Lane possessed an artifact weapon, he seldom presented it. At least in Madark’s brief time with the Sixth and their warriors, he had never seen it but very much desired to see the Orsin’s Blade.

“That’s good news, though, right? One of them is dead?” Rhenna asked softly, her words masking her physical action as she inched closer to Madark.

“I guess it depends on how many there–” Madark’s voice caught in his throat for Rhenna had reached out, her fingers possessed of a gentle tremor, purposely brushing Madark’s hand with her own. He looked down in mild astonishment before boldly closing his grip around hers. He had wished for this. Tossed and turned in his bed thinking about this very moment. And here it was. They shared a brief, nervous smile and immediately averted their eyes, though neither let go. It was more pleasant than his dreams could conjure.

As the cheers and general noise along the catacombs subsided and the curious onlookers retreated back into their chambers, the two reluctantly pulled their hands apart, both instantly regretting the loss of that physical contact but too shy to be seen holding hands in front of their friends.

“We’re winning, then?” Tallina asked.

“Of course we’re winning,” Tommlin said, turning back to the group to take one last look down the vast open space of the catacombs. “I’m sure even the First Tier managed to climb down from their precious mountain to lend a hand too. Won't be much longer now. And likely not much glory left for the First considering one of our lads got the first notable kill.”

Madark, still lost in his own thoughts of the first time of holding Rhenna’s hand nodded, not really listening to Tommlin.

Vessa clapped her hands excitedly, catching the lingering awkwardness between Madark and Rhenna. “I know. Oh, I know! Once this is all over, we can take a spread down to the fountain and have a picnic.”

Tommlin scoffed. “A picnic? We’ll eat later. We need to prepare for war. These foreign bastards think they can attack our city? You girls can go on, we men will be training, eh Cal, Maddie? We’re going to fight.”

“Maybe a quick picnic.” Caldri said, pulling the happy girl in for another embrace. Both swaying gently and giggling.

Madark wasn’t so sure about an immediate counter attack. If the city was under siege, his own father had likely rallied the First Tier to fight alongside the Sixth in some capacity for the threat to the city seemed quite severe. Then Madark felt a terrible sensation as the scratching resumed. Flashes of those projectiles that devasted the Third Tier possibly slamming into the Temporal Tower, bringing the whole structure crashing down onto his home, killing his family and soldiers. He pushed aside the terrible thoughts.

“Aye,” Madark said quietly. “We—Well maybe if one of the golems is slain there may be fewer of those missiles?”

“Aye, my father and–” Tommlin turned to Caldri who was grinning widely, “Captain Lane too, will cut them all–”

His response was cut short as a faint, desperate cry echoed up from the catacombs below.

“Slain! Slain dead!”

The voice was muffled, but the words carried clearly enough. Everyone in the small chamber froze, exchanging wide-eyed looks. Each knew what they had heard, but no one wanted to voice what it meant.

“Another golem?” Caldri asked, but the tone of this cry was mournful.

“Wh—” Tommlin stammered, his speech halting. “What did he say?”

“Cut down! Slain! Oh, hells! Eight preserve us!”

“What the hell is he on about?” Caldri demanded. Lowering Vessa to the ground, he strode to the archway to get a better read on the dark crypt below. Tommlin pressed close behind, nearly running him over.

“Stay inside your damned shelters!” came the thunderous roar of Weaponmaster Besbane.

“Weaponmaster!” Tommlin shouted down the long, wide stairs. “What did he say?”

Muffled chatter continued below for a tense moment before falling silent as the sound of another volley drifted off in the distance.

“Dammit, Weaponmaster, what happened?”

“The Battlemaster was slain, boy! The reserves are in retreat!”

The weaponmaster’s words struck harder than any projectile launched at the city. Madark watched as his rival turned friend began to tremble—first subtly, then violently.

A deathly quiet fell over the catacombs, broken only by the distant wailing of infants in the lower levels. Then the silence was shattered completely by Tallina’s heartbroken scream as the truth took hold: her father was dead.

Tommlin took a shaky step out of the archway, then another. “I need—” he choked out. “I need to go fight.”

Caldri and Madark both lunged forward, grabbing his arms, wrestling with the larger boy into the platform outside, but the larger boy effortlessly shoved them off, nearly causing Caldri to tumble down the stone stairs.

“You will stay in your damned chamber, boy!” Besbane’s voice bellowed up the stairwell. “The people need strength right now! Show that strength!”

“No! I’m going out—”

Madark and Caldri tackled him at once, wrestling to pull him back inside. Driven out of his mind with grief, Tommlin threw a wild punch that caught Madark squarely in the face, headbutted Caldri, and launched him backward with a heavy kick. He broke free and lunged for the threshold again, but Vessa stepped directly into the archway, blocking his path.

“Stop, Tommlin!” she commanded, her tone softening into a desperate plea. “Stop, I beg you. Tallina needs you right now. Your sister needs you.” She gestured toward the corner, where the girl had curled into a ball in Rhenna’s arms, weeping uncontrollably.

Madark wiped his face as blood fell freely onto the flagstones, the coppery taste of iron filling his mouth. He looked back at Tallina and thought of his own sister, praying she was safe.

Tommlin stared at Madark, his eyes wild and bloodshot, before suddenly pulling him into a tight, desperate hug.

“I’m sorry, brothers,” Tommlin sobbed. “I’m sorry...”

He reached out and yanked Caldri harshly into the embrace as well. “I’m sorry, brothers,” he wept. Vessa stepped forward, wrapping her arms around all three of them.

Madark felt deeply uncomfortable watching his blood stain the back of Vessa’s dress in the embrace, but his true distress came from a sudden, terrifying sensation washing over him. The tight squeeze and the surge of emotion made his head spin. Unable to take it, he broke away from the embrace, stumbled over the scattered pebbles, and fell backward, nearly crashing into Rhenna.

“Shit, Madark, I’m sorry!” Tommlin gasped, wiping his eyes. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No... it’s alright,” Madark said, trying to control his breathing. The punch had certainly hurt and Madark feared his nose was going to forever be crooked after such a wallop, but there was something more distressing happening.

The sensation surged through him more intensely than ever—a violent, crawling itch tearing through his legs and lower back.

“Dammit, Tommlin!” Rhenna yelled, glaring at the slain Battlemaster's son. “Look at him! You hurt him real bad!”

“No,” Madark managed to gasp out, clutching at his legs as he squirmed on the ground. “It’s not that.”

Down in the corridor, an unfamiliar voice shrieked in terror:

“Devil be damned! There’s another Warlock in the sky! There’s another Warlock in the sky!”

Madark recalled the chatter he’d overheard before being shuffled off: the first Warlock had been pointing directly at the Perch when the blinding light struck. The Warlocks were guiding the projectiles.

Then came the dreaded whistle—a high-pitched whine that cut through the air, sharper and louder than before. The group scrambled to cover their ears as a violent impact rocked the chamber. The shockwave threw everyone off their feet, slamming them against the walls. Another crack followed, then another. The ground bucked chaotically. Madark lunged for Rhenna, pulling her close into a protective embrace as their bodies bounced across the hard stone.

When the violent shaking finally ceased, blood smeared the floor. Madark frantically checked Rhenna. She was covered in crimson, but as he wiped his eyes, he realized she was unhurt for the most part. The blood was entirely his own, flowing heavily from his nose and facial wounds.

“You’re bleeding—a lot,” she whispered, staring at his shirt, now saturated in bright red.

A wet, gurgling cough broke through the quiet. Madark and Rhenna turned to see Tallina pinned against the wall. The massive stone lid of the tomb had shifted, trapping her lower body against the masonry.

“Madark!” Tommlin cried, his voice breaking. “Help me, please, Madark! Help me move this!”

Madark tried to rise to his knees, but he was frozen by the display unfolding before him. Rigid, spectral shapes were emerging from the stone floor. Long, thin, and razor-sharp, they looked at first like blades of ghostly grass sprouting through the rock—too uniform, too unnatural. As Madark stared down in horror, he realized the agonizing itch in his feet was coming from these exact forms, scratching at him. They left no physical mark, but there was pain. A great deal of pain. As if each scratch was ripping from out of him.

Rhenna let out a scream so raw Madark thought another volley was approaching. She could see them too, they all could: spectral blades sprouting directly from the stone followed by–toes–feet with long translucent talons at their tips. Madark grabbed her wrist as she hopped frantically from foot to foot, crying out in pain.

“They’re hurting! Oh, they hurt, Madark!”

Madark’s heart hammered against his ribs. Tommlin looked back at him pleadingly, his eyes darting between the ghost-talons, Madark, and Tommlin’s trapped sister.

“Please, Madark, help me!” Tommlin begged.

Madark quickly scooped Rhenna up and placed her inside of the open tomb for the lid had been slid off while the shaking had wedged itself against the wall, with Tallina pinched and pressed up vertically against the wall.

Both boys scrambled to opposite sides of the heavy slab and shoved with everything they had. Tallina screamed as the movement compressed her torso, coughing blood across the face of the stone between both boys.

“Caldri! We need you!” Madark yelled toward the gloom. “Caldri!”

“He’s dead, Madark!” Tommlin growled, a terrifying, monstrous rage tearing through his voice. “He’s dead!”

Madark followed Tommlin’s gaze and froze. In the corner, Vessa sat weeping silently, cradling the shattered remains of Caldri’s head in her lap. But then she stood up, dropping what was left of Caldri’s head, gore in her hands as the spectral feet began assailling her.

Tears spilled down Madark's cheeks as he met Tommlin’s eyes. In that moment, he witnessed the legendary blood magic of the Sixth Tier ignite within the boy. Fueled by a terrifying berserker fury, Tommlin seemed to expand, his muscles swelling with unnatural power standing much taller and broader, looking very much like a berserker of the Sixth Tier in all but youthful face. The massive stone slab groaned and began to shift. Tallina let out a shallow sigh of relief as Madark poured every remaining ounce of his strength into pushing alongside him.

Then, the terrible whistling began once more.

Madark, Rhenna, Tommlin, and Tallina exchanged a final, hopeless look.

“No!” Tommlin roared over the mounting noise, returning to his work. “We can’t quit!”

But no amount of strength could withstand the incoming strikes—the impacts falling directly over the catacombs once again.