Dragonheart Core - Chapter 82: Third Fall

Xénia peered into the dark water below.

The first floor had been child’s play, filled with rats and snakes and other scuttling things without any bite to their bark, and she had marched forward without slowing. The second floor had been less kind but still forgiving; there had been turtles that snapped feet from legs and eels that punished those who went in the waters, but Xénia was not so foolhardy, and she passed through untouched. Those that crossed her path found themselves crossed, limbs torn out of alignment, movement exchanged for agony.

And thus she moved on.

But now the third floor loomed.

With Lluc’s announcement, it was clear the dungeon was young. A few months at worst, maybe weeks at best; as she had ventured inside, she knew it leaned on the older side of her estimate, but still within. There was none of the efficiency within High Lord Thiago’s dungeon, nor the raw brutal power of the Dungeon of Leóro. Still a foal, stumbling on unsteady legs as it figured out how to run, though the power it wielded was far from zero.

She hadn’t let herself make the mistake of hoping, but there was still a twinge in her chest at the reveal it had more than two floors.

Even through the water, she could feel the mana pick up, humming gently against her skin. It was dark but she could see faint figures between the rippling surface, the twist of silver bodies and darker shapes. They looked like fish, which was good. The various insects on the previous floors that had no bones for her to work her mana on had been irritating. She wasn’t overly fond of being irritated.

But when Xénia made it out of this dungeon, she would never have to suffer irritation again.

Because a dungeon core was at stake.

The others were dreamers. They made teams shaped from ideals and pretty words instead of meaning, hoping that hope would carry them through where experience failed. Xénia wasn’t so naïve. She understood how the world worked.

Power came with price. Her face ached, in that old, familiar way, behind her mask.

The others sought the core with the childish, grasping desire for the power it would bring. Perhaps they spared a thought for if the Dread Pirate would simply allow them to take it, and their next thought followed the argument that if the First Mate was the one organizing the raid, then surely Varcís Bilaro approved and sanctioned the attack. That they would be able to claim a dungeon core and merely walk out.

Fools. Dreamers. Idiots.

From the moment Lluc had given his speech beneath the borwood tree, a clock had started. The dungeon had been revealed to the public, proving the rumors true, and now that it was open, it was also watched. People would slide their eyes to its entrance, wonder about the power hidden beneath its stony surface, weigh the danger of potential monsters to the prize of unimaginable treasures. No matter how wary Calarata as a city was, no matter how many desperados who only drank what they prepared and never shook hands lived there, eventually there would be those that took up the sword for themselves.

And in an uncontrollable, untestable situation, eventually there would be someone powerful enough to claim the core.

If she wanted it for herself, she had to get it now.

In the raid, she was merely one face amongst dozens; while her mask was distinctive, adventurers tended to develop physical quirks like papercuts, and she would blend in amongst a crowd of others. She needed that, because she couldn’t remove her mask, not any longer, and her plan required her to fade to the background. There had only been a handful of other high-rank Silvers there, and perhaps that would etch her mask in their memory, but there had been other faces that were both memorable and had a history to them. She had moved fast, stayed away from others, and was now the first to reach the next floor. Speed was of the essence here, and she was out of time to play it safe.

A third floor, one filled with water. Past that, either the core or another floor, which she would have to fight through and quickly; because her plan would be splintering then, and she refused to fail.

Those that claimed dungeon cores were notoriously tight-lipped about the process, the better to keep others from taking it. Even with that, she knew the generalities of what would happen; once she arrived at the final room, there would be two choices.

Either claim the dungeon or claim the core.

In the first, she would bind her will over the core’s and allow the dungeon to continue existing under her command, controlling all that went on inside and how it functioned. Tempting, considering that there was no golden egg as bright or beautiful as owning a dungeon, and if she showed it to the Leóro Kingdom she would claim the entire surrounding territory and the title of High Lady. It was unsurprising that most people went this route.

But in order to get to Leóro, she would have to leave the dungeon, and the only path out took her directly through Calarata.

For as powerful as a dungeon was, it could not defend its master from the Dread Pirate.

So she would be claiming the core.

There was much less known about this process, frightful few people doing it and even less reporting on the process; she had only heard whispers of men with power above their ranking, eyes black and smiles gold. Clearly there was something involved with taking the core into oneself, binding its power to yours, and thus allowing her a chance.

She hated basing anything on chance. Time had shown her how fickle such a thing could be.

But there was no other option. In the best scenario, claiming the core allowed her to sneak out before anyone noticed that anything was wrong, slipping back through all the floors and disappearing in the chaos. With the power of a dungeon core, she would be able to fight her way through the unnamed jungle, and make her way to Leóro. Maybe they would give her the High Lady position with a core bound to her, even if she didn’t have a dungeon proper, but either way, she would be powerful enough to obtain standing there. In the worst scenario, the dungeon collapsed when she removed the core and thus everyone knew it was her, but with its power by her side she was able to fight her way out.

It wasn’t hope. She didn’t rely on hope.

But both options spoke to a chance for a future.

For too long had Xénia scrounged at the scraps, using her powers as a mere second-rate healer to whatever group offered to pay. No longer. This was her destiny, and she would grab it with bloody, filthy hands if she needed to.

She jumped into the water.

–

Valentulus was truly very close to abandoning his cloak, which should have been a sign of the apocalypse.

But as it turned out, swimming was rather difficult when he was dragging the equivalent of several dozen pounds of wool and feathers behind him. The cloak had already been on a thin edge, considering Calarata was rather warmer than the Wandering Empire and he’d been overheating from his first day in the blasted city, and the blue of his feathered mask did not exactly pair well with ruddy cheeks. But he’d survived that, kept it up alongside his high boots and dyed armour, and then he’d gone and decided to invade a dungeon that had a waterlogged floor.

Terribly inconsiderate. Who did this dungeon think it was?

Well, when he claimed the core and wrangled his control over these floors, the water would be the first thing to go. The floor wasn’t even displeasing to look at, which was annoying; plenty of interesting tunnels snaking off and promising exciting adventures within, algae-light lancing through the water in brilliant shafts, a great forest of amber-gold kelp of some variety that seemed to move a little more than he thought plants necessarily should. Even a few special touches with the godly whirlpool that’d tugged him further into the floor from the first moment he’d jumped into the water, keeping him from just popping back out, and another tunnel that appeared to exit directly into the ocean. Fascinating! For all his exploration of dungeons before, he’d never seen one that had willingly opened another entrance for adventurers to take advantage of. Perhaps that was the reason it had been discovered; simply too idiotic or foolhardy to protect itself.

But either way, he’d be taking things from here.

With a sigh that he unfortunately had to keep in his mouth to avoid losing what air he had, Valentulus reached up and unlatched his cloak, letting the ruffled feathers drift to the sandy ground. Sanguine’s eyes snapped over, hand twitching like she wanted to grab it.

She was terribly loyal like that. For all that he had been the one to free her, Valentulus counted himself the lucky one he’d managed to stumble across her; as his only companion for the years he was supposed to spend wandering and gaining skills before returning to his homeland, she had been the stable presence he rather needed. The southern dryad had never complained as they traveled far and wide, staying at his side with her twin blades, ever watching for danger, ever prepared.

Admittedly, it was hard to be prepared for jumping into an underground lake on the hunt for a magic rock, but she made it work.

Both of them did, really. Once you got strong enough, mundane environments lost their danger—not entirely, of course, there were too many stories of Golds getting overly cocky and quickly paying the price—and even being underwater wasn’t much of a threat. Fragile little human lungs were one thing but Valentulus was Silver, proud and indomitable, and with the mana he could direct to wrap around his lungs he could hold his breath for ten minutes before the vague thought to inhale even hit. Now, to be fair, he would be fighting at a disadvantage—oxygen was rather important to movement, unfortunately, and the mana used on his lungs was mana that he couldn’t use for his gravitas—but simply being underwater did nothing to stop his power.

Sanguine was even better off. Dryads already had odd needs and she was from the tropical south, where environments had the nasty little habit of changing wildly from day to day, and her body was adaptable in response. She’d need to spend a few days shaking off how waterlogged she’d be after this fight, but air wouldn’t be a problem unless they got pinned on this floor.

And considering both of their skills, Valentulus rather doubted that would be an issue.

It wasn’t arrogance that said he was powerful. He simply was! The Wandering Empire had started as little more than a traveling band of mercenaries and while it had now grown into a proper country with ideals of expanding, it had never quite abandoned its roots. He was trained like a true warrior since he was very young, and while he was now free to complete his Wandering Years, he had kept the skills as he kept his heritage. Gold was near, he knew. Not close enough he was returning to his homeland to prepare for the transition, but close enough he wasn’t making long term plans.

Sanguine was similar. Still Bronze, but her healing ability had been what had led to him finding her in the first place. An enhancer skill combined of her own mana and her dryadic abilities; as long as she had access to sunlight, all of her injuries would eventually heal. She’d healed broken bones, had burns fall off to reveal new skin, regrown missing limbs. Nothing to help her in battles proper, but there was a reason she’d been the most popular gladiator fighter, for all that dryads were typically non combative. There was nothing as exciting for the savages that had employed her as knowing that as long as they kept from fatal injuries, she would return to the field unscathed.

Soon she would reach Silver, and he couldn’t wait to see what she’d do then.

But for now she stayed at his side, her green skin dappled with old red and her twin daggers held in tight fists, and they prowled as one through the dungeon.

Other adventurers soon joined them on the floor, snot-nosed brats who had only learned how to fight from an urge to fight and not for honour, and they floundered their way through the water. Their abilities were less than useless here, wooden weapons waterlogged and elemental powers squashed by swimming through water; typical. For most children, they selected whatever the flashiest ability they could find resources to train with, and then they were stuck with it, even as it became more and more readily apparent that combat potential didn’t mean potential for every—or even most—situations. Valentulus hadn’t made the same mistake.

His gravitas was extremely, profoundly adaptable—with nary a thought, his mana manifested as invisible hands, stretching from his sides in a bouquet of strength. Lesser creatures found themselves pinned to the ground by forces unknown or with sword strokes dealt with a speed that his form should never have had. It was certainly one of his favourite techniques, and the first time he’d seen the general with it he had decided that would be how his power manifested, even as a boy. It had been a long journey to learn the difficult casting technique, considering the general was uninterested in a child dogging her footsteps, but he’d done it. He always did what he put his mind to.

So Sanguine dealt with the greater crabs with her blades and he used his web of hands to keep the silverheads and silvertooths back, and they moved together to fight the roughwater sharks. Corpse after corpse landed on the sandy ground as they carried on, mana bright and sharp around them, picking their way through a battlefield. One by one, the rest of the adventurers fell away, too weak to continue or needing to surface for air. Valentulus didn’t mind. It was impolite to think about teaming up, really, considering if they both made it past this floor they’d then start fighting to the death over the core.

It was also impolite to say that aloud, so he moved on instead.

Sanguine was more than enough.

The floor was long and irritating, however, and he did have to surface several times himself just to keep in peak form as they swam on, avoiding the kelp forest for its lack of visibility even as the currents tried quite diligently to shove them into the midst; it was only his gravitas that kept him fighting against the tug and pull. Sanguine rooted her feet into the sand and stayed underwater the whole time, though her lips twisted in distaste; for all being a tropical dryad meant she was used to plenty of water, that didn’t mean she enjoyed this much of it.

But temporary discomfort paid off, for the rest of the adventurers had fallen behind by the time they came across the tunnel.

Partially hidden, tucked underneath an undercropping that would have disguised it against the back wall had Valentulus’ eyes not been peeled for anything out of place. It was clearly the entrance to the next floor, the stone walls coming together to form a tunnel that lifted out of the water, narrower than its pair on the other side. Hopefully the fourth floor was dry, because Valentulus didn’t even want to consider what all this traipsing around underwater was doing to the feathered ruff of his mask, but there was another issue.

From above, black eyes stared through the water.

A proper combatant.

Crocodilian in shape, though larger and more armoured, with a tail fitting for a battering ram and jaws with a plentiful collection of fangs. There was something rather exciting about seeing one, though he couldn’t place the exact species—the Wandering Empire had no crocodiles and he’d only seen them in scrolls before, artistic renderings of the shallow water beasts.

And now to fight one!

All three of them were aware of each other now, Sanguine’s eyes dark and assessing, and the crocodile pushed off the shallow ledge it had been languishing on, sliding into the water fully. It was some forty feet long, covered in ridged grey-green scales like platemail, eyes hooded but sharp.

Valentulus was no scholar, particularly not of monsters—his favoured enemies tended to run a little more humanoid—but he couldn’t help but feel like it was… oddly primitive, in a way. Its armour was enormous and layered but almost overly so, some of its movements stiff or limited, and its tail was truly much too large for its body. There was an asymmetrical bump on its nose he couldn’t decipher the swirl of mana around, much less the spirals in its veins, but something tasted vaguely… off about the whole thing.

Maybe he’d take its corpse with him when he left. Surely there had to be some researcher in Calarata who would know what it was.

But that moment wasn’t now, so Valentulus reached out and pulled his mana back to his side, arms spreading from his shoulders like an eagle’s wings. No reason to pull his falchion, considering the water pressure would be enough of an irritant with the longer blade, and his fists would be plenty. Sanguine swam up, unrooting her feet, and there was a swirl of mana as she settled herself against the current. She was strong like that, unyielding; he’d never met anyone quite like her. It pushed him to do better every day.

The bulb on the crocodile’s nose twitched—sensing their mana?—and it charged.

Valentulus and Sanguine immediately threw themselves to opposite sides, kicking off the ground and flattening their bodies to carry the momentum—the crocodile thundered past, its enormous tail slashing at their retreating forms. He reached out with a collection of arms and pulled away from its lashing claws, carrying him up and over; twin punches to its scaled back, just to test its defense against blunt force.

Judging by how it barely glanced at him, it looked like Sanguine would be the one to finish this battle, not him.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t help. Valentulus kicked off the back wall—it was easier to do that than try to swim, not nearly as aquatically skilled as his opponent—and darted overhead, gravitas brimming at his hands.

Sanguine’s eyes flicked to him and then away.

Neither of them needed to speak to fight together, even in the unfamiliar underwater environment. She was looking for an opening, having found a weak point on its body, and he would give it to her.

So when the crocodile looked to her and made as if to charge again, Valentulus layered together several dozen invisible arms and slapped the crocodile right across the eyes.

It flinched back, secondary eyelids pulling up to protect it from further blows; and that moment of blindness was plenty for Sanguine to swim forward, somehow making the motion look graceful despite the floundering, and drag twin blades in the joint between one of its back legs. Then she spun and kicked off its back right as its tail lashed through where she had been.

Water carried weight and the blow didn’t have to connect to push her back, spiraling away in the eddies kicked up from the motion. Valentulus swallowed a curse as their rhythm suffered, dancing back awkwardly in the water, the crocodile focused back on him. He ducked under a lash of its enormous jaws, landed twin punches on its chest as its claws leapt for his legs, and darted to the side.

The current he was still unused to fighting with tugged him in the opposite direction.

Its tail swung for him—Sanguine flung herself forward, ignoring her own safety, but she was too far away—Valentulus exploded into a burst of gravitas as arms curled around him, cradling his head, and protected himself an instant before impact.

Even with all his mana, he was shot backward like a loosed arrow, slamming hard into the limestone wall. Stars popped behind his eyes in the kind of hurt he hadn’t felt since he’d grown from Bronze, but that nostalgia was admittedly lessened by the brutal ache already surfacing in his ribs. Fuck.

Turned out the beast packed a punch.

He’d been hopeful for a good fight after the cave bear on the first floor, and it was looking like he’d get it.

Valentulus ripped himself off the wall, pulling more of his active mana to spiral around his ribs and chest; his lungs were already taking most of the stuff he needed to fight with but breathing wasn’t exactly something he could give up at the moment, and pain was just another distraction. Sanguine flew to his side, eyes wide and wild, but he waved her off. The battle was more important.

She turned back to the crocodile with a snarl.

They blitzed together again, Valentulus keeping his gravitas wrapped around his own fists and Sanguine reserving her holds on her daggers. The crocodile spun but for all it was an aquatic creature, the primitive design of its armour kept it from making the hairpin turns they could, and it wasn’t long before they were scampering over its head, pulling their feet out of the snap of its teeth. Valentulus swept an arm out and shoved its head down, closing its jaws before it could even try for a bite, and then reached deep.

Hundreds of hands manifested just to hold it in place, grabbing at its tail and legs, and for a brief second it was completely still.

Sanguine, teeth bared in an inaudible challenge, kicked off the ground and tore her daggers through its neck on the way up.

It snapped instinctually where she had been but she was already gone, tucking her limbs in to let the current carry her further—a massive, bloody gash burned against the side of its neck, scarlet already blooming through the water.

With a hissing, spitting roar that echoed oddly underwater, it broke out of Valentulus’ gravitas and charged for her, eyes wide and furious. She kicked off the nearest wall and went fully upside down, curling up, and shot away from its teeth; Valentulus reached out and snagged her with a spare arm before she could throw herself too far from the fight. The crocodile spun, tail lashing, and charged for the next irritant, which Valentulus supposed was him. No time to dodge; he raised gravitas-enhanced arms and slammed them both on the bridge of its snout.

Its jaws slammed closed just a second early, inches from his face, and the shockwave buffeted him back in a burst of water; Sanguine’s attention snapped over, already kicking off the ground to catch him before he hit the wall again, arms extended. Her eyes were fixed on him.

Not behind her.

Because for all the crocodile had missed, she had turned her back.

He flung a hand out, desperate, and his gravitas caught the underside of its mouth; its fangs slammed into each other with a sickening crack that echoed across the water, blood spurting from its gums, bite turned back on itself. Its tail thrashed.

But its claws still moved, long and sharp and biting, and tore through.

Sanguine froze, still reaching for him. He saw the white of her ribs, green skin no longer dappled with red but covered, daggers drifting from limp fingers. She fell.

Valentulus screamed.

Water poured into his throat as he abandoned the mana in his lungs, ripping at every scrap he had left, dragging mana in from his surroundings, tearing and cutting and rending–

His gravitas slammed into the crocodile with all the weight of a mountain, dozens and hundreds and thousands of invisible hands forcing it down. Water boiled as raw mana sparked to life, centered around his hands as he reached forward, propelled to match, and swam to its side. It thrashed, jaws open and slavering, eyes starving for more blood than it had already spilled; but hands by the thousands kept it still, kept it down, and Valentulus reached forward. He dug his fingers into the cut Sanguine had opened on its neck, wormed between the thick scales and sinew, and felt every invisible hand conjoin with his, power alongside physical, mana like a roiling storm as he reached in and pulled.

His gravitas rang like a bell as he tore the monster’s head off.

Nearly all of his hands immediately dissolved, no longer enough mana to maintain them, and the exhaustion tore jagged fangs through his awareness. Blood hazed before him, half from the creature and half from his own eyes and nose, thoughts heavy and mind stuffed full of clouds. He watched its corpse twitch once before drifting to the sandy ground, jaws splayed and eyes empty.

It was dead. He’d killed it.

Valentulus didn’t care.

The last of his surviving gravitas pulled him forward, lungs fluttering and black spots in the corners of his eyes, but he ignored that in favour of gathering Sanguine’s limp form into his arms. Every other creature had fled from his display or been ripped apart, and the way was clear for his invisible arms to pull him up, through the tunnel the crocodile had been guarding, and deposit them on the ledge. The fourth floor lurked past it, the prize he’d been so eager to reach.

Sanguine smiled up at him. Her eyes were calm despite the pain, blood pouring between the arms she’d wrapped around herself in an attempt to stifle the bleeding, but with no sunlight and no time for her healing abilities to come into play, it meant little. Neither of them were uncouth children, untrained and untested in proper battles. She had been a gladiator and he a warrior of the Wandering Empire. This was hardly the first time they’d encountered an injury like this, and they both knew what it meant.

So she smiled at him, head lolling back, moss splaying around her head like a forest floor. “Thank you,” she managed, and he knew it was an answer to something he’d done long ago, buying her freedom from the gladiator ring that had stained her green skin red and lost her connection to her ancestral forest. “It was an honour to serve.”

Their old call and response—you serve no one—rose to his tongue, but it didn’t feel right, not this time.

“You were the best,” he said instead. “And there was no one like you.”

Her smile softened, reaching her eyes, and then she was gone.

–

Gonçal did not consider himself a terribly paranoid man.

There was still paranoia, because he was a nightmarketer who regularly captured monsters and traded them with the type of people that wanted monsters, but he wasn’t the type to flinch away from shadows and curl his lip at strangers. He was a trader; he dealt with odd people and odder habits, picking apart motivations over smiles and casual conversation. He kept monsters in cages that would kill him if they ever sprung their lock and juggled crystals with enough mana to level cities, and he had to be observant enough to manage that all. So when he felt that urge to tense, he was able to piece together why he felt that way, and then it wans’t paranoia but proper situational awareness.

But as he swam through the third floor of the mystery dungeon, every nerve was pinging, and he didn’t know why.

Some of it was clearly danger; he’d already had to shred his way through schools of silverheads ignited in the raid-frenzy. Silver as he was, he still struggled in aquatic combat, and after the third time one of the little bastards had punched through his claws and landed a hit somewhere soft, he’d switched from his previous strategy and hung close to the walls of the floor. Let the other adventurers pouring into the water handle the bigger threats. It wasn’t like he had any way of capturing live specimens that lived on this floor; his mana-enhanced chains were better served on monsters from higher floors, where he could safely entrap them and drag them back to the Silent Market without having to figure out a way to keep them in water. And he would be taking them home.

For all that corpses and materials and relics sold well, there was nothing quite like live monsters.

So for now, he slunk around the third floor, mana circulating through his lungs to keep him from needing to come up for air. An exhausting tactic, considering that his body still very much needed oxygen and this was only a temporary fix, but doable. Nearly everyone in Calarata could do it, a helpful thing for a city where tropical storms could politely deposit the ocean on their heads, but that didn’t mean it still wouldn’t weaken them. If he made a push for the fourth floor, he’d be working with a disadvantage.

But even with all that, it didn’t explain why he was so paranoid. The emotions he felt went far beyond just invading a new dungeon, with untested threats and monsters; because while he was keeping his head on a swivel and his claws unsheathed, his attention kept darting back to his chest, where his mana coiled and trembled uncomfortably. It sensed something.

He just didn’t know what.

Gonçal didn’t like not knowing things.

The frustration built until a shadow passed overhead.

Not for the first time, he cursed that this damned floor was underwater; his clothes billowed around him as he tried to jump back, legs kicking to push him away from the bloodline kelp forest and closer to the wall, fists raised and claws extended.

He saw it and felt his stomach drop. It was fucking enormous, three times his height, and built like a mountain itself; all bony plates of armour covering every bit of skin, including pieces that angled around its mouth like fucking fangs that a fish should not have, eyes a furious, burning red and hungry.

Alright. New monster that he didn’t recognize—which, why, he made a point to learn every monster no matter how small the chance he’d encounter one and this thing was pretty fucking distinct—and he was on its home turf. Enormous and impossibly dense, heavily armoured against anything even resembling physical attacks, bearing down on him like the charge from an avalanche. No time to think—Gonçal pulled up his mana in a massive, spiraling position behind his eyes, anything for a quick analysis before he had to rely on his ancestry to fight, searching for any weakness he could exploit–

The thing paused.

Gonçal didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth; he darted back awkwardly in the water, mana flashing through his eyes as he forced them open wider. Bony armour but with seams and fittings, cracks he could attack. Large fins but seemingly too much weight, struggling to stay upright, presumably a charge attacker, fangs like a guillotine. And deeper inside, the pale swirl of its mana, sitting docile as though–

As though–

Its mana.

Gonçal had been a nightmarketer for a very, very long time, ever since his mentor had picked him up like another piece for his exotic collection and found a decent brain alongside the ancestry, and he had only seen mana like this twice before. One in the story he dared not remember, and the other–

The other in his own chest.

Oh, he breathed, bubbles trickling out of his mouth.

He’d wondered why he hadn’t recognized the creature; it had been easy to handwave the trees on the second floor as some mangrove evolution he hadn’t heard of and the crocodile in the same boat, some dungeon bullshittery, but he could no longer do the same now that he was close, feeling the energy in both him and this monster rebound and react.

Because it was ancient.

It was from the Old World.

The scales around his eyes and neck felt suddenly tight, nerves he had long-since learned to swallow rising up his spine; it was only his mentor’s lessons that kept him stable, meeting the monster’s red eyes without flinching, for all that its armoured fangs flashed in the dim algae-light.

It circled him, seemingly unwilling to stop moving, its bulk dragging it down even as the currents pushed it forward. The raw hunger in its gaze hadn’t left but there was a competitor, a dark curiosity spurring it to continue investigating him even as it clearly wished to take his head off. He, very carefully, didn’t react as it swam around him. His throat was tight.

Gonçal wasn’t from the Old World, not like this thing. But he was close. The mana in his veins sang in the presence of another, a mirror’s reflection, and he imagined that the creature could feel it as well. Not brothers but kindred; and in Aiqith, where precious few things were properly Old, he imagined it felt comfortable. Nostalgic, in a way, even if both of them lived here now.

The monster finished its examination and stared at him for just a second longer. It was hungry, starving for action, fangs bared and ready to tear.

It turned and swam away to search for other prey.

Well.

Time to leave, he thought, a little faintly. Most of his reasons for coming here were profit and power; the Silent Market liked exotics more than anything, and there was simply no better place to find unique beasties than a dungeon. He was confident enough in his ancestry and abilities to make it through, and given as he wasn’t idiotic enough to shoot for the core proper with so many other people around, he knew he could collect whatever struck his fancy while other fools punched a hole through the defenses. So far, it had all been going perfectly.

But if the dungeon was awakening things of the Old World, then Gonçal didn’t have the firepower necessary to keep exploring, and that monster was a pretty good sign he’d already pushed his luck as it was. It was only unfounded good fortune that it had been that beast to discover him first, and even more so that it had honoured their shared bloodline rather than just ripping him to shreds. Because he wasn’t an aquatic fighter; if that thing had wanted to kill him, he’d be dead.

So. Time to leave.

He pushed off the bottom, silt spiraling around his legs; the bloodline kelp wavered as he passed, tendrils reaching out in a facsimile of a current to grab at him, hungry to reclaim the few pieces he’d already tucked into his pockets. But Gonçal would be a goddamn moron not to prepare for the rather common threat in Calaratan waters and so he just slipped away, switching his kicking pattern until he was past the forest, rising through trembling waters. Silverheads and silvertooths alike swarmed nearby, blood-frenzy and ravenous, but whatever poor saps had engaged the fledgling sea serpent behind him were taking all of the attention.

For all Gonçal was used to being the center of attention, with his position in the Silent Market and his ancient ancestry, he was quite content to slip by now.

He breached the surface with a gasp, lungs heaving gratefully, and he floundered for a second before his eyes adjusted—the ledge back up to the second floor was a mere hundred feet away, algae-light burning overhead and mist slithering over the kicked up waves. He’d haul his way back, collect samples of anything that had even half a point of interest, and then he’d wait to see what came from the full invasion. Depending on who captured the core, it could either stay open for future excursions or it’d be ripped open.

The quiet part of him that echoed with age-old teeth wondered if the core would even be captured.

But that was a question for a later day. This mission was nearly a failure, only a few claimed bits that wouldn’t attract attention from any of the people with the pockets to really matter, though he knew he could pawn off everything he collected without too much trouble. Information, too, about the Old World monster and other beasties inside, though knowledge of creatures didn’t sell as well as the actual thing. It still stung, though. It had been a long time since Gonçal had returned without at least one diamond from his missions.

He had only swam halfway back to the ledge when he noticed it.

There was a god’s magic here, a boon from some watery deity that kicked up currents and whirlpools, though he couldn’t place the taste of stone-teeth and crushing depths in the back of his throat. But for all that, there was something more; because for all that whirlpools created currents, they didn’t make mist.

And there was mist, spiraling over the water’s surface.

Beyond that, he caught the barest glimpse of a canine form, only a few feet in size, sprinting over the waves and trailing clouds in its wake.

A wisp.

Anything of an elemental line was fantastically rare; the sheer mana needed to form one meant they were hard to find and even harder to encounter, saying that they could disappear with nary more than a thought.

But maybe this one had gotten too used to living on a floor with the only inhabitants living below the water; it had no predators to fear, not here, not that wisps typically had anything hunting them. There were precious few creatures willing to go against a living incarnate being of pure power.

Which was why they were prized beyond belief.

Gonçal was suddenly very, very aware of the carved piece of quartz in a pouch by his side, the one he had been planning to fill with pure mana as a final souvenir from the dungeon. It wouldn’t be identical to what he would need here, but it was pretty close, and Gonçal had made a career out of making impossible situations work.

Well. He hadn’t gotten into the Silent Market by being safe.

Maybe he had time for one more prize.